Long Referential Poems
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If God is something that you think,
It is only a process that you drink;
Wittgenstein's answer of yes and no,
Does only referential justification show.
Societal concepts are never jokes,
But at other people make pokes;
They're straight with direct meaning,
So have an implied, absolute feeling.
David Lehman said Wittgenstein,
Was quoted by dons as sane,
And I just think he restated that,
Language is within society, fact.
God is not physical in any way,
'Cos ontology can't have it's say;
It can't describe the dais God,
Using predicate logic most odd.
But all things are describable,
And sets with no God table,
So we can easily conclude,
That he is just us being rude.
Reference: Wittgensteins Ladder by David Lehman
It seems I can’t escape this plot, this telling of the tell;
a mandatory element is a first-person write.
Just don’t make me the villain of this sordid villanelle.
I much prefer to narrate from deep down within my shell;
I like to lurk in shadows and remain tucked out of sight.
Alas, I can’t escape this plot, this telling of the tell.
It’s not that I’ve got much to hide; that’s one I can dispel.
But making much about oneself: a war I’ve had to fight.
Just don’t make me the villain of this sordid villanelle.
I’d rather paint a masterpiece or cast a magic spell
With heroes bold and brave and strong, with maidens fair and slight.
Alas, I can’t escape this plot, this telling of the tell.
Or tales about redemption from the fiery pit of hell
with pastures green to rest one’s head on clear and starry nights…
Just don’t make me the villain of this sordid villanelle.
And so, dear reader, though I strain to bring you in as well,
I hope you can forgive a man’s self-referential plight.
Alas, I can’t escape this plot, this telling of the tell;
just don’t make me the villain of this sordid villanelle.
----------
for the First Person Villanelle Poetry Contest
sponsored by L Milton Hankins
written on 08/26/2022
.
Never looking up to see the sky
A "Robin's eggshell" color
Nor noticing or appreciating
The sun's golden hue
As it rose each day
Only seeing, breathing, feeling work~
Labor intensive work~
Capturing each thought
Holding bondage each breath
As each long hot day passed
Turning into years of misery
Early in the morning about the breaking of dawn
"Backed by a choir of ten thousand crickets"
Their voices mixed in with the music "reached up to touch heaven with a song"
Their heads bowed looking at the cotton crop
That held them prisoners for a lifetime
Wondering if, if there was any hope of redemption
Since they were tied to the land in bondage to scrape out a livin'
What is the rest of the story for it is unfinished 'til this day
"Closer" by Chris Aechtner
"Robin's Eggshell"
"Cotton Pickin' Paradise" by Tim Ryerson
"Backed by a choir of ten thousand crickets"
"Reaching up to touch heaven with a song"
Sponor: Debbie Guzzi
Contest: Referential
I based it somewhat on my parents telling about how they worked as children in the cotton fields, corn patches, gardens, etc. Then they left the farm and went to the cotton mills and some of the descendence from these two families rose above the poverty of both places..There was one doctor, one Lt. Colonel in the Coast Guard, and many more occupations scattered thorough out families that came from that poverty situation..
The youth, wearing only boxer shorts,
is gazing with a sense of awe
at the small square object in his hand.
A smartphone!
It has a screen; it also has a camera.
Its lens has captured a mirror
with the boy within its frame,
gazing upon, contemplating,
perhaps admiring, even,
the screen of a phone that now is holding
an image of himself in the frame of the mirror
holding the object that has captured it
within the frame of the screen.
We see this image as
we wander social media,
where the picture of the boy
in the mirror in the camera,
which he gazes down upon
with awe, as if it were
an alien artefact,
is there for us to ponder.
The image has stolen his attention;
it has captured and confined him,
fascinated and entranced him.
He has fallen into a shimmering pool,
self-referential, gazing at itself.
It is another land.
Dinner was over an hour ago
Counters wiped clean, dishes are washed and dried
I hold my glass up to the light like a color slide,
and see the world, warped, and blurred through the half glass of rosy wine
It makes everything seem clearer, somehow, and sobers my mind
From our long silhouettes, we sit on the lawn, and gaze to the mountains,
talking quietly, and sipping the pink charodonnay
Dark of the shade seems to drink up the light of day
Summer carols being sung by two mourning doves,
are accompanied by a choir of crickets in the dewy grass
calling for reverence in honor of a dying sun
Soft voices are lifted in still air
The pink light seems to paralyze time.
We have found kindness here,
and somehow the grueling trials of the year
seem smaller than they did yesterday
Now the day turns toward the darkness
and we have rid our taste of the dry and bitter dust
of everything that has been said and done
The north wind shakes the trees
and the last leaf that clung so fast and tight
releases its grip, and disappears into the dusk
We shall never need to see where it lands
for we are forbidden strangers to the dark
Let us remain friends with the light
Let us unclench our old resistance
And after we have finished the last drop of wine
we will turn, and go inside
and thank our stars
for the pungent taste
that yet lingers
on our tongues
in case
we might
need
proof
that some years will harvest a bitter taste....
and
some
years
will
harvest
a
crop
blessed
by
the
sun
_____________________________________
For Deb's Contest: "Referential"
reference: Chris Aechtner's Poem: unclench fists
The Universe is the only self-referential reality
in the phenomenal world.
It is the only text
without context.
Thomas Berry
And yet
could no the same
be said of time
as text
without spatial context?
And could this universality of time as text
also become our co-gravitating unity
through co-arising diversity
of spaciating polypathic context?
Octavia Butler
defined God
as Change.
Time changes
or is eternally timeless;
a dead vacuous universal text
swelling and contracting
changes within timeless time
through eternally imaginable context.
If this Universe is God's text
without further context,
then this co-emerging race through time's distinctions
prefacing Earth's voiceless extinctions
proves time's full infinite eternity
contextualizes nothing more or less complete
than timeless here
as now,
Remembering time's near completion
without date
or finite ego-measurement;
lacking too-reductive calculations,
deductive text within-
without inductive sacred context
for God's Left and Right
YangForm through YinFunction
Universe as Sacred Change
Way
Truth
Trust
Life
Love
Grace
EcoPolitical NonDual DiPolar Karma
Restorative Yang EcoJustice with YinYin-WinWin Peace.
I enjoyed wrapping my mind around his words
Stretching my thinking
At times coming unglued
Reaching towards oblivion
While keeping my feet in multiple worlds
Standing on sinking ground
While leaning on granites precious solidity
The substance of imaginations inconsistencies
Tugging on the heart strings of a well played heart
Wondering along the pathway of dreams long held at arms length
Hoping to understand
Taking that backward look while moving forward and upward
Words are his gift
Dropped like psychedelic bombs
Ripping at the fabric of convention
Pain wrapped in sheepskin
Joy pushed through pencils point
Leaving me in awe
Dancing and stretching along
Bouncing against his liquid walls
Till I come out the other side
Understanding
Landing
Blessed
More than I was before
Yet part of myself
Stays behind
Trying to catch my breath
Dedicated to Drake
Submitted to Debbie's Guzzi's Referential Contest
"Closer" By Chris Aechtner reminded me of Drakes Work
and Drakes unusual word combinations thus inspiring
the above piece.
A trochee,
Dum-da,
is used by a poet
tho' very few know it;
a tro-chee is
self-referential.
An iamb,
da-Dum,
to confuse or amuse
or generally abuse;
pronounced i-amb,
is instead a trochee.
A spondee,
Dum-Dum,
is like a black hole;
somewhat hokey,
pronounced spon-dee,
is always a trochee.
A dactyl,
Dum-da-da,
like the anapest
from Budapest,
pronounced dac-tyl,
is also trochee.
And an anapest,
da-da-Dum,
as I understand,
in another fun factyl,
pronounced an-a-pest,
is a dactyl!