Long Remainders Poems
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Dion is Quiet
Their marriage had left a demineralized matrix or was it the other way around
Possibly feminine revenge for her own mid-life crisis gone hard in denial
Where once had been gems precious crystals and finely grained rock seams
A desolate womb of silence scooped the last remainders of once happy times
Dion challenged the burden and rolled the ragged stone up a steep void in vain
‘Could have should have would have’ followed the sysyphean slope of gravity
Claimed diogenean wisdom and honestly told Alexandra to get out of his orbit
Soaked up his sun and blocked the faded memories of her once shining beauty
He mentioned undying love but received an evil eye as reward for the promise
Pointed a lantern of reason and feeling towards the overgrown path of love but
Was rewarded by a risorius grimace in-scripted onto a stone wall of vile wrath
Gave her the benefit of doubt and displaced his self-preservation with surrender
The years have passed and after a protracted spell of understanding her venom
Rationalizing analysing interpreting and making lame excuses for her behaviour
Long after he found new hope and happiness that surpasses his wildest dreams
Dion wonders whether silence is only a golden reminder of who’s hurting whom
Surely politeness shows certain respect and sentient beings deserve all regard
Karma wishes for consideration chakras need to develop and a still lotus flower
Is worth more than a thousand torn roses as a fig of new growth is quietly sweet
And yet raw truth demands her to hear what a calculating creep she had become
20th April 2019
Sometimes Left equals Right,
like day equivocates night,
wondrously but rarely,
awesomely, because almost never,
like a fully mysterious solar eclipse,
revolutionary, because not slow-grown evolutionary,
the Earth says Hello!
Personally and politically,
romantically and academically,
lovingly and yet wisely prudent,
economically with ecological empowering light.
But, usually
historically
multiculturally
polypathically
ecotherapeutically
Business as Cooperatively
not capitalistically uberYanged,
more like a healthy ecoforest Usual
and not so much an evangelical colony
of nationalistic supremacy
shouting No! God Owns You!
You owe our WesternWhite God allegiance
as we have made God in our most patriotic patriarchal
LeftBrain punishing nationalistic voice
for retributive cultural RightWing vengeance!
Marginal remainders refine LeftBrain analysis
to hear echoes of Not Yet,
perhaps not even in this enraptured egocentric lifetime
Too BusinessAsUsual seldom
we also hear RightBrain passion
belonging songs of ecotherapeutic outside voices
speaking sacred whispers, chirps, scolds, surf, winds
of all past and future
Advents
Predicting and threatening 2020
revolutionary Yes! Here is Now
Space is TimeSquared consciousness
Yang is Yin 4D temporal flow
PolyNomial is PolyPhonic language
seasonal rhythmused experience
EcoResilient politics of YesPower
is also EgoResonant Theology
of +1 = (-,-)0 PolyPathic BiCameral Revolutions
for Yes! = NotNot Yet
unto healthy perpetuity...
Some good morning StarShines,
this GreenBlue Earth echoes
and cheers
ultra non-violent Hello!
Climaxing 2020 healthy wealth time
with organically enlightening
romantic bodies
of patriarchal historical evolutions
within music matriarchal revolving revolutions.
Make me man as soon as my youngster
knowingly receives their very last coddle.
The unconditional love curdles from
your loving mother’s teat.
Make it matter despite what you moo to cattle.
Prod the brittle; the previously dilly-dallied say,
“Tagalongs, hogtied stowaway freeloaders with
the trade inside loading and shipping containers.”
Longtime division produced its remainders.
A cove far off the oceans cost.
A cove in a periwinkle sea,
frothing with a bacterial foam
whipping up these sweet
whipped creamed treats
and other delights.
A fondant atop it all
till the klutz ruination
curses cause clusters of
curse wordings together,
finding their bindings.
Shame soaks the rag that wiped away
a distressed and disastrous look upon face.
Words impact with a continuous compound fracture
under the masterful tongue's dismantling of the
peace talks upheld on the other hand.
I see, and fear, a trumpian landscape,
usually, and more casually, outside any safe inside sanctuary.
Infrequent glances inside windstorms
and rivers of underground currents
surreptitiously culture shape
mold
transform vertically visual landscapes,
motherlands of ecotherapy above, outside
forests and deserts,
Earth's inside
farms and gardens, windblown
oceans and continents in-between violent storms
and ego-magnetic rabid inside voices
from underground aquifers
reappropriating information originally borrowed
from outside sacred spaces
Now over-invested in big WhiteHouses for patriarchal elites
purchasing trumpian ego-greedy competitions
to conquer physical elective losses
with mentally unhealthy unbalancing wins
against SuperEgo's timeless ultra-violet, climate
Green Gaia/Diana Goddess, client
Holy Matriarchal Spirit, common
EarthSoul's ZeroZone, everyday
whatever within healthy core
LeftBrain label you prefer, bling
because of early childhood market language
and competitive culture, nurturing
neurological and psychological development.
EarthSouls learns more in an outside voices hour
observing our trumpian landscapes within
and without
than would be possible in a humane domesticated lifetime
of ignoring what neither God nor Goddess could love,
Absence of prime WinWin creative relationship
robustly ultra-violet not not light
ecstatically deep resilient color speaking
non-trumpian resonance, positive energy
multiculturally peopled
and polyculturally populated, democracy
within merging bilateral inside-outside health, integrity
in religious liberal loving consciousness
with multicultural soul-conserving unconsciousness
of cognitively dissonant trumpian winds
and cold, wet winter estuaries, hope
terrorizing elite polynomial faith
in irrational left without right
unloved remainders.
Mathematics used to be called Arithmetic.
I was the last one to know they had renamed it.
I was in sixth grade, and furious when I discovered no one had told me.
Addition. Okay. No problem.
Subtraction. A bit trickier, more of a stretch, but doable.
Multiplication. For some reason, I adored it!
And word problems. Oh ,yes, more please! Loved them.
Division. Not so excited; they took too long and remainders seemed dumb.
Pre-algebra. X plus three equals 5. Okay, that one’s easy but then you
add all those parenthesis and more and more letters, and it gets crazy.
Geometry was a foreign language I simply did not want to ever see again.
I did not understand any of it, and would like to never speak of it again.
Statistics. I had to pass it to graduate with my degree. Just choke me now.
And choke me hard enough that I do not have to do it tomorrow.
I knew I would never use it, and guess what? I never have.
A book out from the library
Occasionally holds
A paper with a message
Or a list within its folds.
The borrower who left it
May have used it as a mark,
Reminding her whence in the tale
She needs to disembark.
I’m used to such remainders
But today I was surprised
To take note of someone’s writing
In a place that mystified.
On the last page of my writing book
(Which I am now approaching)
There’s an inked-in cell phone number
On my private space encroaching.
Above it are some letters
But they do not spell a name.
Did someone write this in the store
From which this journal came?
Of course, I never noticed it;
The book appeared brand-new
And really, what’s the difference?
There is nothing I can do.
I had the thought, though, what if I
Picked up the phone to dial
That number waiting there? I won’t,
But oh, that makes me smile!
Long before decimals ruled our measures, twelve kept appearing.
in fingers, trade, astronomy, calendars, measures and the marketplace.
Dozenal thinkers sought numbers that divided without awkward remainders,
Making everyday fractions simpler to reckon, share, and understand.
Twelve divides where ten so often leaves a remainder.
Halves, thirds, and quarters settle cleanly into their places.
Nature turns through circles, seasons, moons, and branching symmetries,
So twelve feels less imposed, more symmetrical along the way.
Our clock already whispers twelve around its familiar face.
Yet it makes the same slow journey twice every day.
Let one complete revolution become one complete earthly day.
Midnight begins at zero, while six becomes High Noon.
Each new hour now contains two hours we once knew.
One hundred and twenty familiar minutes passing at familiar speed.
Minutes keep their sixty seconds; nothing smaller needs changing.
Only the hour stretches wider across the turning day.
But counting one hundred and twenty, needs an awkward third digit.
So Dozenal notation gives those minutes two neat places.
After nine come 'X' for ten, then barred eleven (11),
Then ten means twelve, and counting quietly carries onward.
Thus half-way through an hour appears simply as fifty,
Thirty familiar minutes become twenty-six on the display.
At thirteen forty-five (1345), the new clock reads six eighty-nine (6:89).
Strange briefly, until the pattern becomes a better, simpler language.
Twelve-over-zero '12/0' stands apart, a sign rather than arithmetic.
Midnight wears twelve's old coat while beginning again at zero.
No morning 'am' suffix, nor afternoon 'pm' suffix, dividing each day.
The clock hand tells where we stand within one revolution each day.
We keep our minutes, seconds, habits, meals and appointments.
But give the whole day one continuous, undivided journey.
Fewer conventions remain, while useful divisions become much easier,
And time, in time, may simply make more sense, one fine day.
some may remember the
long past remainders of old
early twentieth century years
wars and depressions wracked
cultures to the ground and people
shared with poor hungry strangers
most workers were of a manual education
with poor language and academic skills that
reflected a whole society stressed for decades
now times are different rules and regulations
to preserve profitable new consumer social norms
and also the illusion that the early days are over.....
well - stress is still with us - so
canada's one dollar coin -loon symbol- brands it as the 'loonie' andt
the two dollar coin has morphed its name to be the 'twoonie' thus
walking into a store or paying a bill can be seen a loonie toon-ed adventure
stan sand
The NY EBS
There is talk of war.
There is rumor and propaganda.
There is concern and worry.
No one wants to die.
No one wants to die,
for no reason at all.
Where is the positive
in that death,
the "heroic" story... ?
There is none, and will never
be any, except the misery, and pain
without gain for any man, or woman... alive.
Commercials on the air,
New York despair,
put your head down, to the ground...
as you hear the pound, pound, pound!
While you are there...
pray for one another,
and before your last breath include
peace among and for ALL!
Duck and cover in the 50s
seems like child's play now.
All the players are all grown up.
They have become big fish too,
in their small freshwater ponds
scattered around the world.
Size matters because a splash felt there,
will be felt here, before the end of days.
No one will escape.
There are no survivors,
only the remainders,
on their knees before God.
Asking not for mercy,
as they know it is far beyond that point,
racking up the number they killed.
Asking instead for grace, in desperation,
before the nations fall to the dogs.
The remainders retreated into
the granite chest of the mountain.
Waded through the icy vagueness of life-
Crossing the Siamese catwalk.
Over the opaqueness of death.
Scratched, battered and scarred...
They reached the eternal overlook.
Peering into the great expanse.
Where worthless wars were fought.
For the sake of salt, oil, religion, and land.
To test weaponry that makes glass from the sand.
On plains where babies were born to be orphaned.
Young women ravaged over and over again...
Young men promised robes of satin but given bloody rags.
The remainders sipped from the pond of the asp.
Nibbling the bones of a black lotus sun.
Despite the infinite signs and miracles.
The prophecies and teachings of Holy men.
A million visions from the Shamen.
All but a precious few refused to listen.
To merciful lessons that time had given.
Within the petals of a lavender genesis.
They'd thought only of themselves.
Within the metal veil of Armageddon.
The warring wicked tumbled straight into hell.