Long Perpetuation Poems
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Bodhisattvas turn airflow into flames,
water into Earth
as Jesus turned baptismal waters
into blood red rivers
of warm nutritious wine.
Bodhisattvas,
like Messiah prophets and saints,
long for
belong to
the baptismal political economy
of cooperative ecotherapeutic waters,
as yin flows air MidWay notnot pathological
through Yang's Great Transitional flames
ecstatically leaping,
empowerment "hungry"
for air's co-arising health-optimizing
embrace
as ReGeneration
balance evolving waves
of neuro-conscious language
logos thoughts
deeper mythos feelings
inviting ecological ethos.
When our political voices become too didactic
we listen wiser for more lyrically cooperative outputs
with denser harmonics,
singing and dancing in
bilateral resonant appositionals
polycultures
polypaths
optimally nurturing ego/eco-health perpetuation,
regenerative yang/yin dipolarity
of deep wealth EarthTribe.
While these singers and dancers
disconcert their way
maintaining (0)-investment PlaceHolder mentations,
SpaceTime Unitarian-Integral Occupation,
unbiassed polypathic attention
to neuro/eco-systemic ethics
and shared bipartisan norms
and co-invested political cooperative values
Natural communion economies of cooperation with Other
v competition for sufficient compassionate time
to heal threats to politically dense wealth outcomes
These are all held in Common Symbolic Messages
as invitations to positive individual freedom development
of positive values
with nutritionally regenerative purpose
emerging future Bodhisattva Co-ReGenerators
Composed of past,
and disposed toward future, healthy love
of neuro/eco-passionate balancing
fractal mind enlightenment
and dialectical body empowerment
Where red flame
of dawn's Earth matriarchal warning
meets red fears
of long dark-swept patriarchal past.
Spoke to a cloud today –
the usual conversation
about shape and size,
lows and highs...whether
my need to tote a handy, spring
loaded umbrella...or a better chance
to go without pants, dance
on the beach ~ showing off
thighs, widening sockets
of older generational eyes – he
told me of clouds who gather and
threaten, causing ships to leap into
salty lather, sailors beware!
take battened-down care! – schools
of fishes diving to ocean depths
they share, with ancient vessels (and sewage),
a seafloor covered with sandy
coinage – a diver's delight; when
stormed into sight –
more subjects of our chatter
and debates, were those of tides
and tectonic plates; also of bony-splatter:
living shrapnel, from a well aimed cannon-ball
against a wooden hull, or artillery shell,
man's modern perpetuation, of that never
settling, always heartening seafarer's knell –
I went on to ask, if in all his travels, had
he ever seen anything truly divine?
Like an angel passing...or a saucer
flying...perhaps some mythical dragon
soaring, trying to lasso down a tasty
moon ~ bring him brightly closer,
doing some dragon flips, salivating
for cheesie fondue lips....
The Tenth Muse
Restless spirit of imagination sending daily inspirations
No procrastination for her assignations;
Sees every clue in her investigations – 20/20 education
Tomatoes on freeway ramps variation – daisies in sidewalk perpetuation –
Sunflowers in desert’s appreciation – no gardens – miracles of propagation;
Sees her nine sisters in bright constellations – catches their light in appreciation;
Earthbound muse for words illustration -knows no boundaries - no nation;
Building verses and lyrics for preservation – Oh the sweetest of sensations;
Sometimes, when not looking, takes a vacation – postcards to home with interpretations –
Hoping she’s close in a “stay-cation” – just resting my pen in preparation
When blankness engulfs in contemplation – leading to verses from meditation;
No naps or nonsense in this situation when my muse calls – come with no hesitation!
Stomping her foot in desperation demanding poems as just compensation;
Perhaps a little adoration draws her back to remedy this alliteration;
Bringing some vindication for her exasperation
Best friend, mentor of fascination, her reassuring presence relieves stagnation!
A magnification of her personification!
7-29-20
Contest: Muse N/A
# of lines - 17
Perhaps, I wish not to be so
important? -- to go unbeknownst...by both
God and the devil – to fall between the
cracks, of their seemingly endless, bitter war:
Of The Glorious Garden, and~ The Dastard Fall --
(One created me,
without my consultation...the other,
manipulates me, for his own evil
usurpation -- )
Alas, I must trust in some greater
plan, an unwilling participant, in the
age-old battle, between Light and Dark,
Me~ a want-to-be, Neutral Man….
(First of all, this is a poem, a story, a point of view.
Do I believe most of this? Very Little. Why then was
it written? Hoping to stimulate conversation. Conversation,
for no other reason than, this type of mental gymnastics
selfishly interests me. I do not believe that men, humanity,
are neutral participants in anything. We create all conflict,
through misuse of Free Will. What do I believe? No good
and loving God would create a world, where the tiger
must tear apart the smaller lamb in order to exist, nor would
He create human beings that must feed on other species
and things in order to survive. Prosper. What a laugh!
No All Loving God, which I firmly believe our God is,
would create, conceive of a being, like ourselves, with the
potential for error -- He, knowing some of us would
error, therefore, also created a hell – and then would condemn those
fallen to suffer fiery torment for eternity. It is unthinkable for
a truly rational, fair mind to consider such a thing. We do it
all ourselves, keep the perpetuation going, due to, the God Given,
All Powerful, continued corruption of our Free Will.)
Oft I ponder the impulse to endure,
As I stare into the eyes of a turtle.
Start from egg bones that they are,
A part of their shelled home structure.
Them, all in a crutch, breakout as a bale,
Outlast their plight, cross a beach, they hightail,
Sights life from above that swoops down in a dive,
For they too, like them, must also survive.
The impacts continues, of their small compact life,
As they waddle for now, they will tip toe when older,
But when they are at sea, they glide with their flippers,
Yet even to that end, perpetuation of strife.
Semblance my thoughts, of rivals beyond a framed entity
The expanse in an ocean of life, and of its brief, eternity.
Memories
Memories of, come on the wings of shadowy, rainbow coloured experiences we hang on,
to the hands of Father Time, as he carries on, while all else – history – is long gone.
Memory ticks off each moment, sends them on their way into the darkness,
for some, into everlasting perpetuation of shear starkness .
The face of Father Time winks, he blinks and reflects with every turn
all that we once knew, or went through – maybe ?, still yearn
for, yet we ocassionally realize that the face of Old, Father Time,
is but a mirror, reflecting what – for some – was once so sublime.
Memories guide some into what was surly a crime.
Memories for others, take them into the poetry of rhyme.
Memories for some, lock them up, will not let them be.
Memories for the rest, have always kept them free.
Memories, sometimes are willing to let you see
that one’s life has been a great sea
of many coloured experiences to cherish,
each moment of them to relish.
B. J. “A” 2
October 31st, 2012
Fragments by sensitivities become apparent by love,
vital shapes granted by graces in treasure of.
The larger reality of truth and will unfold,
revealing elegant mysteries behold.
Conscious grace as soul of society,
cultivated perspective empathy.
Echoing memories by that touch,
grace and fate at eternal now so much.
Superior dynamic pivotal emanates,
infinitesimal aspects sublime radiates.
Preceded intentional perpetuation,
matter by spirit and grace of sensation.
Perseverance by atonement,
merciful texture in obedient refinement.
Lives in fate walks on grace,
divine inevitable maze.
Every cordel tells something
I don't count at that time
because i haven't done it yet
I did not learn how to rhyme ...
It was because I look for a theme
may be the moan of the emu
or sing of the nightingale
fish without hook for thew ...
So as it’s not twine
can i write the paper
without fear of making mistakes
without censoring me. yet ....
What I did was sextile
broken into seven feet
I'm not much versed in it
it's not cordel style ..
I'm Full of thirsty
I have heart pain,
I don't wish to cry
but of much distress I can die
as bull of nowhere land
nostalgia for my hinterland ...!
PS
Cordel are leaflets containing popular poems, displayed for sale hanging from ropes or string, which gave rise to the name.
Cordel is also the dissemination of art, popular traditions and local authors and is invaluable in maintaining local identities and regional literary traditions, contributing to the perpetuation of Brazilian folklore.
darkness, like Jonah
held in the belly of the whale,
the end of a world;
closed-in time in dark spaces -
gives one, a hell of a time to think
in the belly of the whale
grew a whole world,
longer than 3 days and 3 nights,
the construction took finesse
and dare one say, a gauche fearlessness
to unravel that ball of light
eject it out of her universe
like a supernova,
like a titian haired prodigy,
far from easy, ostentum
to accumulate the life of it all
extend the regeneration in kind,
of a generational call -
each time an infant cries,
the occupant in an infant is re-borne;
they say, it will take
3 days and 3 nights -
to destroy it all -
the end of an unprepared
naive world -
who keeps tabs on the betting
of it all, the end of a world?
there’s always 2 sides to a game -
the dimensions, levels all endless,
split and perplex;
in your arms today, gone tomorrow,
the love and the purpose stolen,
the end of a world -
the cycle sometimes broken -
yet the perpetuation of life,
for all its worth -
continues,
light and dark
some more light,
some more dark,
some sit on the fence
in the middle, in-between;
the end of a world?
they say shooting nuclear rockets
into the Moon’s shadow
could be a valid reason
to collect unknown dark matter -
dark matter resides in us all -
why target the Moon and the Sun,
when we have bountiful supplies
within us all, human, here in this world?
all Jonahs, at some point, we are -
inside the belly of the whale
the internal infernal wars
of us all,
perhaps she thinks ...
she should cry like Jonah,
hmmn, not anymore buster, not anymore
she’s had a life time
to think on it all,
mull it all over -
more and more
the rise and the fall,
but, she doesn’t cry anymore
the philosophy
the mathematics
of the metaphysical
revolution takes over -
the futile banality of it all;
ostentum
the occurrences,
foreshadowing future events
borne from the belly of a whale
the ostentum,
goes about freely, now
watched from afar,
by the love of another,
uneclipsed,
in her own world
like a child
watched by a loving mother
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Rapacious Itch
It felt things coming,
The undeniable bottom feeder reality,
Where thought had no credulity,
Where irrational emoting ruled,
Void of mind’s prep,
Blind of light’s revealing purpose.
Such remained
This well-rehearsed and produced
Pulp life infestation.
It remembered…
Once many clambered to the marble steps,
Where dreams born of teachings
Promised delivery of reward.
But today…
All that is found
Is perpetuation of schoolyard practices,
Where bullying,
Mocking,
And “my dick is bigger than your dick” war-cries
Intimidate life’s playground with slippery slopes.
Down 5th Avenue,
Up Park Avenue,
The viral contaminants parlay their wears,
A far more contagious disease than Ebola.
And it knows…
Unlike a possible cure for a biological virus,
This consumerism equation seems without solution,
Given little of non-material worth remains
Visible on the species’ blackboard mess.
Today’s squirming parade of absence
Is dominated by the pounding of urban-warrior chests,
Of Armani jackets atop unlaced “made-to-look-raunchy” boots,
Ken Doll fantasies courting the strut of Barbie Doll dreams
Clicking attention with stiletto heels
Beneath ripped shorter than short-short insecurity.
On it spreads,
Past the Wall Street reviewing stands,
Where unlike the fickle nature of society’s infection,
Market makers understand a fever’s ups and downs,
Vulnerability’s capricious norm endorsing today’s
Debauchery fashion to Trump-taste,
Loudness to drown out worthy music,
Shock to shatter the true awe of discovery,
And the drowning of excellence
As it continues its desperate clinging,
All while mediocrity’s narcissistic sell-off
Creates another closing-bell windfall.
The pestilence holds firm its lock on discernment’s immune system,
Mutating daily into a mind-shrinking captivity,
A synaptic virulence rapidly rendering this once simple discomfort
Into an insatiable itch that will never realize its pursuit of “Ah!”.