Long Dotting Poems
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The Peterson Directed Handwriting System...
Tis beyond the depth and scope
of this electronic post,
and author, what triggers deliverance
housing bounty full memory absorbance,
yet no matter how many
heat sinks plumb cognizance,
most ordinary happenstance
often dredge up old nettlesome
rusty mettlesome names
of teachers forbearance
nearly half century ago
recalled in a flash,
and helped birth this poetic instance
break open literary
piece de resistance,
yet I will make
no subsequent reference
albeit once, about Peterson Handwriting
non cursively typed poem
filled with nonsensical abundance
dashed off viz seat
of my squarepants
typed, via strong arm lance
meant tubby considered pure entertainment,
so...,this rhyme merely hints
at cerebral imbalance
as minor rave and rants,
culled from convenient
20/20 hindsight stance,
while this quiet as bobbing sponge
minutely straddled across
space time continuum expanse,
and (analogously, invisibly,
plus quixotically perched circumstance
amidst wide webbed worldly metaphysical,
intellectual, and existential kants),
yet unable to disguise me
porous (poor ass) student advance
barely getting promoted,
cuz sigh re: Seine ed lee
imaged myself prince charming
to frolic and prance,
and dreamt about being in France,
when teacher called on me,
I immediately (whistled like
a little teapot) appearance,
whereby steam issued
out chrome dome
(scanned hull – i.e. numb
skull) affixed on
short and stout genetic grants,
which noggin always
(automatically) looked askance,
while me got alphabetically seated
from grades three to six
(mrs wells, mister stout,
missus shaner, and
miss rinderle respectively)
with absolute zero exuberance
(at Henry Kline
Boyer Elementary School,
I just recalled aforementioned
randomly accessed memory by chance
casually rifling thru
memory bank, freelance
sing, while pissing
away time performing,
"I gotta urinate dance,"
thus rendering painstaking years
perfecting penmanship style
(reference poem title)
executed with Liberace flamboyance,
whereat yours truly obsessively and
compulsively excelled at
duplicating signature compliance
plus crossing T's and
dotting I's with rapacious
perfectly ruled slants.
most instances when i initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly,
and madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby a generic home
er run (hitting) mill
(on the floss sing false teeth)
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy Joe,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
(Egg heads, merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst of tangential thread populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena,
I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate
coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to sperm cells
fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. Ho
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining tour de force
whereat fingers of the lefthand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expended leaves (of grass)
finds me Walt sing whit man nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.
Artists are not so different,
at times glossing over truth,
hiding beneath a sheen --
some extra linseed goes
a long way...
What is this cry for realism?!
Picasso sought deeper meaning
via grotesque breasts~ elongated
elephant snout limbs -- perhaps believing that
the human tale needed elevation, himself
turned off by surface vistas; his squares and
points dulled by well turned chips, projected
missile-scraps flying from Leonardo's festive lathe of
tantalizing symmetries --
We marvel equally at
Dali's vaulted extremes, teetering balance --
a bleeding martyr of old Faith; despite all his
fiend distortions, imagined glorification~
dear, yet mere echoes, stills from the sable of
an unrequited Christian brush --
So...is the poet so different?
The Metaphysical digs, tunnels,
(anthropomorphic God)
chambers and catacombs to romp
about -- secretly displacing what
would otherwise be a straightforward
pleasant lyrical walk -- We
confound paint and words
presenting two types of portrait
of the same elusive image
the greater decipher, if there is
one to be had, will never be the
product of personal tribulation,
but the spirit behind, within, carefully
feathering, dotting and dashing
each of man's extended biographies --
a dance of human veils....
Of humanity's many members,
of smoky mountains standing in the clouds,
of the heavens You sprinkled with an infinity
of stars,
and valleys of the goodness of crops and
the moonlit magnolia trees,
oceans, lakes, rivers, and streams came to
life from You.
Of the joy of birds at the feeder,
I love You first.
My Jesus, my Christ,
the bats whoosh out of their caves
at twilight in their hunting of insects,
my grandchildren play on summer's lawns
with buttercups dotting the expanse,
whilst autumn stirs in his slumber,
as the days age more for me,
I love You first.
You're my morning star,
my evening comfort,
I adore You most sweetly,
You came for me when others didn't,
to rescue me from the hurt and the
mourning for the earth and her people,
her animals,
as hatred, as wars, as pollution
mars her glorious face,
I love You first.
You, Dearest Redeemer, Deliverer,
sent some of Your angels to watch
over us-
in frosted nights,
and in spring's awaited rebirth.
Truest One,
my heart in reverence to You,
I love You, always first. ~
Of all the memorials I've come across
Acknowledging heartbreak and sorrow and loss,
The stolperstein dotting the streets of Berlin
Have reminded me most of what shouldn't have been.
These bricks made of brass are the work of one man*
Who, as part of a project, came up with a plan
To commemorate victims the Nazis had taken
Away from their homes, where their lives were forsaken.
In English, the "stumbling stones," as they're called,
Are carefully crafted and later installed
In front of the buildings where Jews did reside
And were forcibly moved though they pleaded and cried.
Each brick (there are thousands) has name, age and date
Of the person who lived there and suffered the fate
Of a horrible torturous lead-in to death;
Inscribed, too, are camps where they took their last breath.
Memorial sculptures and artworks abound
Wherever a Holocaust victim's been found
But to me, these brass bricks are the most poignant yet
And an image I know I will never forget.
*Guenther Demnig
I don’t miss you
I miss letting go of myself
While someone else holds
What I can’t lift
I miss how connecting fingers
felt like dotting constellations
I miss the whispers of intimacy
That only spoke in silence
Silenced my heart because my mind got too loud
Your passive aggressive too proud
Go ahead and take a bow
My sorries always throw flowers to the actor
And I'm tired of being a side character
for your trauma
I'm not saying I'm a bed of roses either
But I'm trying to keep my pocket full of posies
I've talked to death more than I ever wanted to
So this time I choose you, yes the man
That didn't know lessons would hurt this bad
That boy whose teaching himself
Dreams feel impossible before they float
I don't want to float down here
The boy in me is sad but not defeated
The man has learned to plant
Everyone has their season so make sure you check the weather
Whether you reap or sow be watchful
I was broken but I refuse to stay cracked
In
Packed walls that don’t exist
I miss
Me
The part that I let go of
It’s hard to get a hold of
Him
Neglect collects just the same
And with interest when you feed it love
If working twice as hard means I can kiss hope
Then I’ll gladly die for growth
Prune the parts of me that don't listen to the sun
I miss
The man who was still becoming
I need to sit him back on the window seal
So he knows window pain doesn't
Always hurt
Perspective jerk
Seasoning my life to match the
Flavor of my personality
Gratitude comes gradually
So stop moving out of season
Pause and Breathe
Before the moment leaves
This is me perfectly imperfect
Leaning on God for my peace
p.s. this is my release…
Cross has many meanings and symbols in everyday life
It can be described as a facial expression of distaste or strife
To cross someone, a person hurts others for their own sake
A Cross is also known as the place Jesus died for us on the stake
Many people wear cross pendants, they are seen worldwide
“To Cross” can also be a bridge or road to travel to reach the other side
Cross can be patterns to follow to make some clothes or knit
Cross stitch was seen as a popular craft from the eighties, often in a kit
Cross can be a grade school memory of crossing your t’s and dotting your i’s
Cross reminds me of hot cross buns, their taste and smell are such a high
2/27/19
Cross-Your interpretation Contest
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
(my acknowledgement
to the loose canon of Robert Frost)
An above average snowfall
heavily swathed sage heather
followed by substantial unusual rainfall
punctuated months before, during and
after the growing season
delivered one of the
most hearty crop yields
in living memory
within the generations of men
of this (or any neighboring)
Norwegian bachelor farmer
long time residents
feeling like the sole housekeeper
of Lake Woebegone,
who can remember
the Edenic pasture with reluctance
raw bits and pieces mending wall
experiencing crushing childhood's end
weathered by their parents,
who as kids themselves
(during the worst
fear full Depression
in thee United States of America)
when countless farmers forced
by circumstance declared bankruptcy
locked out of hearth and home
no recourse 'cept to sell rural legacy...
family property deeds
(traced back to original settlers)
contrasts sharply with
plentiful, crucial, and
over abundant annual
precipitation, whereby these vestiges
of rural quaint lifestyle
awash with expansive lush cornfields,
whose silk like tassels
synchronously undulate
(sparsely dotting pastoral landscape),
blistered, calloused, and damned,
whether weathered by blizzards,
or pounded with powerful (one...two)
top notch pugilistic punch
topographical scars permanently earmark,
where Ole man winter relentlessly socked
or Mother Nature slammed a wall of water
saturating freshly mown hay,
which pungent odor
belied teeming flora and fauna
(albeit many organisms nearly invisible)
yet keenly observable to hawk eye,
also tempting black crows
to carrion camping
while a flock of seagulls
swoop down upon unsuspecting
school of fish,
and/or scurrying varmints.
Not for nothing
does the light prick my eyes,
a thirst for walking shoes
tightens ankle bones
that parachute out of an inner attic
landing awkwardly into the open throats
of sneakers
still clutching their tendons.
Out from under a dim tented roof
the world is overrun with Asterix's
small confusing marks
that suggest footnotes and disclaimers,
warnings that you should not
take anything as actually actual.
Seriously sober, * I ditch the thought
of turning back,
now the landscape is tripping,
trees are hugging small birds tenderly.
Owls are tugging at dark clouds
moving them through
bright windows of sky.
The world has become a child's coloring book.
It is truly amazing how some mornings*
will keep you insane for a short while
allotting you just enough time
to recall, that you are not yet verified,
that you're n Asterix,
a disclaimer.
never dotting half-open eyes,
never declaring your fixed reality
because
the world keeps editing its meaning,
there are always more footnotes to add. *
On this side of Oregon is North Carolina
Pacific and Atlantic Oceans hold tight between
Cup the land full of trees and minerals called rocks
Mountains really, in their own right
The Mississippi River cuts like a scar
From north to south not sure which shore
To claim a side to or right to flow from
But Oregon knows that left is correct
And North Carolina is slow to follow
Trees have lost the ability to walk
So they race from place to place in place
Hide in the shadows of mistakes
Dotting the landscape as they stand in peace
Drinking in sunlight, sorrows and showers
Leaning more towards the left coast
Liberal enough to be cut down
With the rest of us in our sleep