Long Peculiarities Poems
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Your foibles,
the characteristically odd ways
of your individual life appearance,
its mannerisms
your behavioral peculiarities,
and picadilloes,
will all fall away by and by.
What eventually will be left
is this alien species that bears your name.
You have died a thousand times already,
every feature of your character
has been replaced or modified
many times.
Your physicality
rinsed and recycled through
an ever-turning time machine.
Even now, the way you walk, and talk
is at the mercy and behest of a universal tide
and its shifting dunes.
The dead confirm the dead,
what never lived must pass away,
it was all a game of death
that soon will lead to the everlasting,
but not yet,
all is a work in progress,
until then
the Universe of All That Is
experiences itself as
you,
you playing hide and seek
with what you truly are.
~ Frost
by
design
~ delicate,
crafted in the night,
dainty — like lacy handiwork
~ inspirational, like twisted wire, a story told —
details meted out behind heaven’s door, with peculiarities that we adore
~ O
please
inspect
windowpane
crystalline effects ~
~ seraphic white silver and gold —
the finest craftsmanship, twisted with Eden’s treasure ~
filigree beads of angelic hoary-breath, reminders of the invisible God
~ Rime
clings
to soil,
inspired world —
embraced by cold hands ~
fragile tendrils spread like ivy,
intricate cherubic smithing — like spider webbing,
subtleties sensational, O how it sparkles ~ seasonal diamondiferous earth
1/24/2018
The Magic Of Three
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
Fibonacci (8 lines) x 3 = 24 lines(pattern- 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 syllables)
(with nudity optional)
Not another effort from "The Left"s bleating masses, but the sparkily aristocracy of cerebral-celebritys; their binary-duality sweeping earth-wise.
I don't object to the subject necessarily. All Hell Breaks-Loose sometimes For Heaven's Sake too.
Good thing they left a muggle's shoreline to toe-upon, the scurrilous waves banging against their new-found providential-truths.
The prophet Pirsig¹ tells us that Objects already, are Long Out Of Fashion.
Boxing God, like the beauty of Helena, will hone the cutters - to thoes left in and those left to broom; to make we Canaanites turn butcher upon each other.
Never to build too high or run too fast to catch god with his pants down and given fair warning about our culinary peculiarities too. Some will eat anything that doesn't immediately bite-back.
'All hail the Silver-Skins' OR 'Byte This'
. . . next evolutionary iteration; to learn the purpose of, or espy our elusive "ground-of-being"; our ridiculous tree-shucked planet's ridiculous "Fruit" for our Salvations'; Deaths'-Champion's Return² ( whose sand-clock urn must have broken).
Obviously, we earthlings have lingered too long.
Now the moon's prayer goes [ up? ]
to keep us from her pristine approaches:
O' god of the moon-glow - Blow 'em Away
________________________
Notes:
1. " Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance" & " Lila" [ "Good" is a noun". - Robert Pirsig ]
2. See the "Abrahamic Faiths
BEYOND CONSCIOUSNESS
a clustered
dlsplay
simultaneously
longstanding
theme
partially
subjective
anatomy
embellished
resplendent
in
purity
flamboyant
meticulous
appealing
pastime
in
an
ostentatious
interplay
exemplified
illuminated
& irresistible
solated
offset
patterned
cryptic
ouevres
evoking
exhilaration
relaxing
seemingly
constructive
a talisman
replica
with
peculiarities
progressive
enigmatic
astonishingly
amassed
wielding
glimmering
in
a true
conversation
piece
The Old Man Mistakes His Home
my eyes espy
follow the old man
as he makes his way
into the Taco Bell
my interest wanes of Tacos
piques at the old man's peculiarities
or is mine in question, too?
it's early morning
worms have risen
on a fisherman's hook somewhere
near ...
traffic and pedestrians a blur
but i see the old man sharp
... sharp as a cookie fallen
he hesitates at the front doorway
and looks at the keys in his hands
blinking, focusing on which key goes where
undoubtedly his mind playing tricks on him
he does the unthinkable
he puts his house key
into the Taco Bell key slot
panics
turns his phantom key
as if opening his house door lock
then turns five shades of red
making a beet proud
... then realizing where he's at
he looks around
he sees me watching
I tried looking away
but I have no facade
only puzzlement
and analytical tendencies
... to the old man's credit
he enters the restaurant
places his order, albeit shaken
two coffees, two breakfast burritos
I watched with bated breath
I empathize with the old man's plight
... yet in my mind's eye I think
Is this me down the road?
I hope not, yet there are signs
...huh? huh?
my hearing has become worse with age,
especially within the last year
connie pachecho
4/12/17
Turn around! Turn around!
In perpetual spin memories abound.
One gown, long to the ground.
Antique white - quite profound.
A mother’s right to sow seeds.
A holy Father’s to yank weeds.
Snowbound virginal waist.
No legs, the hem was chaste.
Turn around! Turn around!
In perpetual spin memories abound.
Took the dress out for a formal spin.
Line dances would break her in.
Innocence with natural beige and blush.
Looks like a bride; there is no rush.
A mother’s right to sow seeds.
A holy Father’s to yank weeds.
Thrice used for the thrifty -
sceptical mightn’t find nifty.
One gown, long to the ground.
Antique white - quite profound.
She, the dress, looks like a bride -
the prom goer would confide.
Turn around! Turn around!
In perpetual spin memories abound.
The cake topper would be baby’s breath.
A mother would provide before its death.
The death of the gown buried in drawer,
found and tried on at least once more.
In secret, her daughter found and dressed.
Who knows if she was impressed -
however looking forward, she’d pick out
her very own ankle-covered knockout.
One gown, long to the ground.
Antique white - quite profound.
Only today, I discovered similarities -
a mother’s and daughter’s peculiarities.
Turn around! Turn around!
In perpetual spin memories abound.
5/17/2023
Sponsor: Brian Strand
The causes of World War I,
factors such as political,
territorial
NATIONALISM,
and economic competition,
BENEFITS,
and not to let it ocur,
the breakdown of the balance of power
SUPERIORITY
as well as a series of diplomatic clashes
PRIDE
The causes of World War II
strong currents of revanchism in German politics,
PRIDE;
the worldwide economic crisis,
BENEFITS,
many people lost faith in democracy
and countries across the world
turned to authoritarian regimes,
and their ambitious and aggressive domestic and foreign policies
NATIONALISM
To those three peculiarities – NATIONALISM, PRIDE, BENEFITS,
we should also add two more today – OVER POPULATION that the earth cannot feed,
and CLIMATE CHANGE
What do you think the causes of World War III will be?
Well, no need to be a prophet to say what will happen
Now all those outcomes are visible in our time
Nevertheless,
The only thing that we want is
to live all around the world in peace
how can we manage to do that?
In the way one of the greatest leaders in history,
Mustafa Kemal ATATÜRK said
“PEACE AT HOME, PEACE IN THE WORLD”
Self analysis
& motive
imultiple functions
erupt
tradition
chiselled
in reality
distorted
by self perception
folds of skin
furrowed brows
surround
the anatomy of eyes
indentations &
peculiarities
crystallised forever
by self-awareness
in the existential
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand |
Inside-Out with all the psycho-babble.
Multifaceted melange - merry and melancholy.
My pen’s prophetic,
authentic,
inadequate.
Hazel eyes that ponder divinity:
See the world.
See God through the world.
See the people.
Empathize with earthly beings.
Fall to my knees.
Seek inspiration.
Grab it with gusto.
Don’t wait for the brain to catch up.
I observe the peculiarities in my familiar space.
I often hide behind the blinds.
Occasions, work, and friends -
push me out into the serendipitous sun and clouds.
Clench books on dusty shelves.
Throw them into a shopping cart -
they’re all free.
Attempt to organize floaters -
those iotas, that crystallize,
to form a complete thought.
Exhaustive concordance of my travels -
violets, forget-me-knots, tulips,
and fear and sorrow
The viscous web of grandiose heights -
zip lines, edge of mountains, glacier treks.
Falling...falling back on my knees.
Confident? Conceited?
A poet - that’s me.
And ideas materialize -
with family and strangers,
life and death.
The affectation of emotion, pondered.
Like a journalist, I report roller-coaster happenings.
You see, I used to merely have an emotion,
get comfortable in its chair.
Now I play with it,
craft my joy or despair.
The mirror cracks -
my reflection
as I grow wizened,
with a chromatic symphony
of mystique.
...or It's good to be the king!
What was't made King Cole
Such a merry old soul
As he sucked on his pipe,
And he supped from his bowl,
And he fiddled around
With three young court musicians?
And what was the role
Of his missus, Queen Cole?
Was she under a table
With a lad from the stable
Who was told he'd be able
To upgrade his position?
These royal highnesses
Were not known for their shynesses,
But more for their quaint peculiarities.
The queen drank from a chalice
That was shaped like a phallus,
While he labored away
Doing king things all day
In a black lace brassière
And a pink negligée.
But their subjects adored
Such eccentric vulgarities.
Now, getting back to the king,
That sweet silly old thing,
Here's how his story played out.
He had good years aplenty,
Then at three score and twenty,
He finally retired
And expired of the gout.