Long Velocity Poems
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Riding a roller coaster
Propelled by life’s velocity
Governed by instincts and thought
Driven by an urge to emerge victorious
Sentience deadened to conscience
Flitting thus from desire to desire
We built an imaginary script
Of narrow ego identity
Some conquests won
We saw not unshed tears
Of mute weaker souls wasted
Owing to our callous, feral savagery
Likewise, we encountered defeat
Whereupon we steadied heart
Resolving to rise once again
Imagining ego as the doer
Our face in the mirror
Reflected pride and conceit
Beggars too began looking away
Recognising our cold, hard countenance
So it chanced to pass that by grace
One day we chose to look within
Shocked to see soul shrivelled
Lonely in our bleeding heart
We stopped the flow of time
Frozen for what seemed eternity
Crying out silently into the vast void
Wishing to be healed and feel complete
A divine voice instantly responded
Asking if our resolve was strong
To walk the talk as affirmed
In thought, word and deed
The path simple and direct
Liken it to a hop-on hop-off bus
We hop off the ego bus and choose love
Shifting consciousness from head to heart
Voice of conscience grew stronger
We dwelt not on material gain
Shifting into mindfulness
A stillness continuum
Yet love that is imbibed
Takes time for assimilation
But what matters time any more
To the one who has since vaporised
In timeless time ensconced in bliss
Empowered by a magnetic pulse
Which we may give any name
Kundalini or The Holy Spirit
Baptised in the stream
Twice born, we yet lived on
Our soul within, one with oneness
Seeing now earth life as but a lucid dream
Wherein we are being breathed by God
As He does for all sentient life forms
To fulfil our soul’s smallest wish
Now aligned with love alone
Now we do honestly confess
We know not what scriptures say
All we affirm from our life experience
Is that once we align with God’s love impulse
For each step we take, He leaps forward
Gathering us in His warm embrace
Lighting the lamp of love within
Darkness then is no more
20-January-2022
Repent and Believe Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Poem inspired by the contest prompt: 1 John 1:9 KJV - If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
Humanoids …
Machine people, we have them at our disposal.
I envy these soul less creatures for they as Angels
do not feel any kind of pain.
Our robot, Ed Burkye is a French guy,
the machine person, although
I do not feel comfortable
with strange person in my home,
rolling in my direction ready to serve.
Now, I will have to endure them in the spaceship.
Ethical as always, hopefully unable to kill.
With them, we will build democracy,
where people are no longer subject
to the will of governments.
Every life counts, all galaxies struggle for life
to witness its beauty, smartness and force.
Nature must is existence.
Conscious machines, great abstracted –
in unconscious state they travel.
These machine people can travel
through millions of years to distant galaxies,
cloning themselves on the way,
some for pleasure, some for business.
They are naturalists, artists or sick with politics.
“No criteria for bacteria,”
and even in multitudes they must strive
to be better, to be greater without lust,
but with power and perfection beyond trust.
They are interrupted
by the communiqué from Celestial Command.
The voice is heard as from the loud speaker.
Gentlemen do not forget,
our purpose is to colonize
with the broader one to expand
the torch of life to other Galaxies.
Conquest of the universe for all humanity,
which of course we represent.
Here three of them: Boson, Raptus and Polonius
are about to board the rocket for liftoff to Mars.
Boson to Raptus and Polonius as they walk to the rocket:
Soon, inexplicable Mars, empty as barren Earthly Moon
and the space above us, cold and lonely,
obscure place will be our home for long.
They entered the rocket.
After the door had closed,-
they took their positions.
Boson started the rocket engine,
allowing liquid hydrogen to enter it.
Fuel was ignited and clouds of smoke
forcefully burst outside.
Inside of the rocket was shaking with huge vibrations,
cosmonauts were sitting as on a volcano.
The rocket with tremendous force had been lifted
and flew into space accelerating,
entering orbital spaceflight,
until it reached escape velocity
at about eleven kilometers per second.
There is no distinction between top and bottom
and weightlessness presented challenges
to their organisms:
cardio-vascular, inner ears’ pains,
weakness of psyche and severe illusions…
I
A queue to a doorway
No-one knows what´s
On sale there
It could be washing powder
Almonds or diamonds
You think this was some
Yesterday
Look out your
Ghost smeared
Window
This is now
II
Throw stones at the
Motorcade
The pin pricked
Giant will barely
Pause
At banners & petitions
Faded pendants
Worthless paper
Riding out for a
Losing battle
Looking to a broken sky
For some Mon´s Angel
Less an army
More a mob
To the castle!
To the castle!
With flaming
Molotov
You awake in darkness
Hopeful
So many crusades
Begin in dreams
III
Tobolski late summer
With blankets for curtains
Tapestry dust
Stirred into
Koptyski forest soil
The former holy
The highest
Dragged
Splintered
Made human
Or less
IV
Each new dawning day
Spins us up to escape velocity
To be spat out to unthinking stars
Made passive by the weight of reason & history
We stare out into the rain
Believing wolves rule beyond the clearing
Elsewhere there is dancing
Cruise ships leave a wake of
Halved grapefruits
Shirts and skirts worn once
Gilded, seamless they glide
Oblivious to the hidden knife
The newspaper wrapped revolver
Passed under the café table
At the platform´s edge
All are equal to the justice
Of the approaching train
V
Red Emma
Red Emma
Won´t you send Berkman over
With a satchel full
Of dynamite
On a Chicago bound
Train
VI
Part six
In which
I dig a hole
To bury past dreams
And convictions
I brain-grew
At a factory lathe
Always knowing
There was escape
A high window climb
And as any fool knows
The fresh-turned soil
Of any deep hole
Can be easy seen
From the public road
VII
My advice to you
Young devil-cared rebel
Why don´t you climb on the roof
While your parents are sleeping
Try & flag down a passing
Black star liner
The busted sewer pipe
Has flooded the basement
Wet pages spin like lily pads
Stashed furniture corpse-bloats
Full boxes mush-mold
Time is tight
Young devil-cared pilgrim
Take with you only
What your pockets can hold
VIII
Among the defeated
Slack faces on rusted fairground rides
Among the defeated
Eating smoke rain mocked
Among the defeated
Careless cigarettes burn umbrella holes
Among the defeated
Landlocked padlocked frozen out
IX
Don´t
try a handstand
Your coins will
Fall out
X
Under the tar
The chariot ruts
A Golem
Is stirring.
To be a polylepis tree you gotta know
You're a polylepis tree & this knowing
Cements by being a polylepis tree,
Knowing between diagrammatic cracks
Fork'd already info knowing during descent.
Mud run through alpine meadow. Rubberized
Crunch on ruddy paths, rucksacks looped,
Deltoids, silly sound serious bulge spine
Ached before leaning away to swallow,
Sepia bark holding his musculature;
Paparazzi march out crimped edges
Of fungi, sussed then left together.
Glottal ribbing. Skeumorph thread
Discs, spades, b-side timpani under eaves.
Copper sheaves, wine burning in cups
Thickening until dark brown oozes
At a lesser velocity, blown eardrum,
Given the climaxes of greater viscosity—
Green epiphytic ferns stitch airy
Misconceptions (soil, root), the drawing in,
& expulsion, the search for a golden
Arboreal rat. A tunnel-maker
Said to be densely populated in woods
Near-gone to potato farms, cattle,
The absent lecture, then, on survival plastic
Spool of thread glued to the back
Drawn in a thin white line, followed
For ur-experiment, hundreds of feet
Climb up the lateral limb, down, dug under
Grass, tunneled, then over miniature crick,
Through nodule floor-sponge, a wetland,
A watershed for a whole valley, to grass
Again, below, finding elaborate nests but
The rat escaped, the sinewy string left.
A choreography misses it, an instinct
Closest but dull, so a blind sight in high
Sun, a canopy growing at itself not up,
Sift, shrift, the want to lay down before
Night freezes the water inside the air.
A return at night to the espeletia, giants
Sunflowers shocked by moon, switch-backs,
Doing Zs, squared, cubed to the tenth clouds
Departing, something horribly there not
Constellation no not a galaxy those are
Not things let them not be where’s the
Name laying in the grass, alpine creekline
Eschatological curvature, mutter, murmur,
A yellowing light flung, the cold how they
Open little air, the screaming sleeve, there!
Of not-this this, in it, out it, here & away,
Something recalled, what a string, rat,
What ways you move, only that body,
No containers for the humans so the sea
Could get that travel-manic blue, sworn
To make another moon of it, another go,
Unfixable, in need of fixing, air adjust,
An alkalinity expectant, a Sulphur rain,
Chattering cargo setting fire to night.
A tale of two twins ...
Kit: That sure was a mean swing, Dottie. You knocked it out of the park. You’re the Sultana of Swat. I love the way you ‘round the bases doing your cute duckie trot. I love how you stand on home plate, kissing off the booing fans with your sour whispering asinine talk. You sho’ can swat high nonsense spitballs a lot.
Dot: Aw shucks, Kit, you Putin a smile on my face. But it ain’t me really. I just do what you coached me to do. Follow your lead like a good sibling pup pet is suppose to. I can’t help but wag the pig tale. Everybody knows that bare bosom greed sells. Now sis, you know I never vote swing and miss. I just love lip-crushing abetted ayes. Sending those lying spitball kisses flying high. But half-truthfully, girl I love the wet way you dry hurl. Such vomit velocity ... sending that propaganda puke spinning thru the air with such speed. You’re so lassie Vladdie bad amazing.
Kit: Yeah, twin ... we in a beleagued of our own. We don’t never do no wrong, at least none that we personally have to disown. And the Lady Bolshevik tag-team pocket profits are gonna stay kompromat strong. As long as the I-scream flag vendors keep selling the popular patriotic yellow snow cones. I love hearing the synthesized, trumpy anthem blaring sound, when the seventh-inning ruble donation rally hats are being passed around. It jacks me up, to the Nth lobby Molotov degree. My oligarch strong arm do a Siberian burn meddle poll vault sales pitch; delivered decibel stealth low, and so slow curve icily.
Dot: Serve ‘em up good, twin. Twist the grin like Papa Lenin said: “Never let a capitalist sucker get a free lick. Always snatch the purse from a paper chasing hick. Always foxy scoop the golden laid eggs from a sleeping, loose-liberty chick.” All bad things come in good corrupt Communist time. This czar fate injustice demands. I love the smell of democracy peanuts roasting in the ballot stands. I love hot, dog day debate fry cries doing the mustard squirt dance. So beleaguered and bland. I love the pretzel, fixed victory feel of cash register chance. I love being the pink champagne torch lady wearing no morality pants. Slyly, safely sliding home, skirt up ... silver tongue tush fanning kicked diamond sand. Giving a darkside-of-the-moon kiss to the loser Americans.
Carlos Bousono’s poem : Recordando a pastora imperio
for Damaso Alonso
(Poem published in the collection : Metaphora del desafuero, 1988, and dedicated
to Damaso Alonso, who exerted on Carlos Bousono an avowed influence and
patronage, concludes my own present tribute to the Maître. I confess I had not
read Bousono’s poems – I may have glanced at a couple of poems when I first
bought the Espasa-Calpe anthology some years ago – before I began translating
them on October 16, 2013.)
I have always thought that in the state of sudden immobility
of the immemorial dancer of flamenco the entire dance
is concentrated of a sudden in this posture
of an instant,
under the weight of centuries,
all of its foregoing agitation,
in such a way as in its absolute fixation is to be found
its passing and its minute ad mysterious simulation :
the flight of sea gulls over the sea, their avid and sudden swoop
onto the prey,
and she herself, the flamenco dancer herself, becomes in that instant,
like the form most refined and pure
of such an incomprehensible paradox : velocity and paralisation,
becoming more dense in the procès
between Aquiles and parsimony,
or the tortoise and despair…
No, there is no différence,
because to differentiate hère is to make a descent,
while here there is but an ascent.
And has the flamenco dancer understood suddenly
that to make a move
is an intolerable imperfection
for whoever aspires to the most arduous achievement,
to the supreme compromise with the fire in the beyond
and the surprise, sacred and full of rejoicing between
the fresh flames,
a compromise, then,
with the truth of the highest form of living,
and so the dancer of flamenco
remained for this reason without moving
in a difficult equilibrium
to see if that position, without touching it,
in not moving any of the pièces,
without turning a page, without causing the hinges to friction,
could by chance last, keep enduring there,
on the razor’s edge,
maintain itself on the head of a pin’s unlikely verticality,
balance itself on tip-toes, without breathing, each instant
succeeding the other,
on the verge of the abysm itself,
earth and boulders coming loose,
and one after another in succession, and in succession…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
1/16/21
Pure silence or the sound of wind chimes
Willing to do anything to save their own hides
People still committing horrific crimes
During low and high tide
It's been one hell of a roller coaster ride
A whirlwind inside my mind
All these rhymes
Days and nights spent getting sky high
It's seeming like a sign of the times
I say I'm fine, but I'm not alright
Always feels like
I get nowhere when I climb
No matter how hard I try
Can't even look me in my eyes
Quick to assume I'm telling lies
Wasn't the first and won't be the last goodbye
If you let it, quickly time will pass you by
I was reaching the skies
Then taking dives
Achieving nearly every prize
Or living among the mosquitoes and flies
I had many lows and even more highs
I've been a fool, but I'm still wise
You better recognize
And realize
I still get butterflies
While I'm living life, trying to survive
Seeing the moon's glow or watching the Sunrise
Sometimes
It hurts
Feels like I'm cursed
Still I delve and search
Across the Earth
Too many perverts
And jerks
Continue to lurk
Meanwhile snakes out to usurp
As well as nearly every other twerp
Which is why I stay alert
Similar to Captain Kirk
Ready to put in work
First things first
To me it doesn't matter if you did or didn't go to church
For what it's worth
Better or worse
Before I'm in a hearse
And the dirt
I've still got an insatiable hunger and thirst
I know there'll be no effect or a ripple that can domino
Time will tell if we truly are or are not alone
I got to go
And roam
Across the globe
I want to know
From here to way beyond the Galapagos
As well as Guantanamo
Humble and Heroic, doing the impossible
Paying homage and occasionally saying 'Geronimo!'
Feeling like Socrates
Don't need apologies
Traveling across the seas
And on lands fraught with trees
Constantly
Saw what others would not believe
And am going to continue the odyssey
Traveling vertically and horizontally
Staying still or moving with velocity
As folks hold on to animosity
Forever unable to display camaraderie
Not focused on such novelties
People with good and bad qualities
The same can be said for policies
I remain an anomaly
With my own methodology
And ferocity
Holding on solidly
While remaining an oddity
The horse is galloping down the road with a story that is untold; the horse is galloping down the road with a saddle on its back and a book tucked underneath with a message that is deep. I have been thinking for days how to make an artificial snowball with a dozen mullet fish stuffed inside and a hundred rifles buried in its side.
It is racing down the track with all the energy it has got; it is going around in circles looking around for the oracle. Its temperament and speed are wrapped up together and the elegance with which it moves have left many people confused.
It stands gracefully at the corner waiting for the whistle to blow to begin the multi million-dollar show. Many people have placed bet on it because its legs are strong and swift, its speed is unmatched and its strategy is unwrapped. It has never let the audience down, it has given them more than a hundred thousand pounds, the young stallion is what they call it, its body is so fit.
See them lining up over there and feeling out the track, they are measuring the corners, and making notes of every turns and the valley that has been burnt, the horses are moving round in groups showing off their fine rubber boots, I can see the anxiety in their eyes and a miracle coming out of the sky; the track is getting warm and you must meet me before dawn.
Here comes the jockey and he is looking really happy, he is short and slim and he is just coming from the Gym. He carries a subtle smile and bag pack on his back loaded with horse pie, he made a graceful offer. He is stretching his legs around the track and examines every dot. He rolled a ball on the corner and lies in on the curves and lines and does five pushes up. He went in his horse and practices a marathon race around the track.
The horses are galloping on the track, wearing a jacket and a felt hat; it looked quite relaxed in the swelter heat covering distance in seconds that is usually hard to compete. I have never seen a horse so bold and the mystery that it holds, it has feet of fire and anything it touches it gives your heart’s desire. I am working on the team to accomplish my dreams; let’s get ready for the final leg of the show before you pack up and go. My horse shoe is back so place that giant cup in my lap.
STROKIN’ – A QUARTET ABOUT AGING GRACEFULLY(?)
Strokin’: Hauling ass and working at it!
STROKIN’: PART ONE
THE SPRINTER
The aging Olympian ran a swift anchor leg
burning the first turn, striding the backstretch
like a big cat on the chase, the natural embodiment
of power, speed and grace
Once a man “without rhythm” in his own neighborhood,
he laid down a 400 that was syncopated soul through the
demanding white lines on a black cinder track on a
Saturday afternoon
And on the graveyard turn he burst into the lead
roaring out of that pack like the dark rolling thunder of a
sudden summer storm ripping hard through the skies with
the reckless velocity of a hot natural light
And sustaining his sprint as if driven by the drums and the
palpable passion of some tribal ensemble, he crossed the
finish line having anchored his team with the rhythmic
exuberance of delivering God’s word in an African Mass,
his obsidian body the sculpture of motion by the art of
desire, the smile on his face like the fire of the sun,
like the purest of joys for a race that’s been won!
The cognoscenti in the stands
said the old dude had been strokin’!
STROKIN’: PART TWO
THE OARSMAN
He was better than most, had 30 years
on the river, rowed with his mind, got the
body to follow, pulled his oars through the water
like a big balding barbarian building a bad
reputation for a winter of boasting, adding one
last feat to a legend in place
The sinuous geology of the post-glacial valley
and the thick working muscles of the tall, aging
oarsman were parallel motifs in a riverscape poem
for an autumn afternoon full of low-angle sunlight
and multi-colored leaves that painted the wide river
with diamonds that sparkled in a reflected
blue sky, the surface of the water like liquid
stained glass
Beyond the stone bridge, he left the young men
behind, found an internal power that surged like the
rapids in the rugged upland gorges of the river that
he rowed and the photo at the finish was a big
strapping guy in a sleek racing shell pulling hard
against the years on the shifting mosaics
of a big-city river flowing south
toward the sea!
The aficionados on the banks
said the old man had been strokin’!
A big white did pace the ute,
no noise it made, what sort of a brute?
it must still be there it never left,
next thing i knew we had a coppers arrest,
We seem to have lost memory of the
lights leaving?
...1974 Mystery Light....
So we drove on the Moonie Highway,
Between Dalby and St George,
It was fairly late at night,
dark timber all we saw,
(its all gone now the timber, and the big dry came )
A great white light appeared beside us,
In the treetops, beside the road,
It was completely soundless,
Stayed beside us, brightly showed,
So we tried speeding up,
And we tried slowing down,
But it followed as we led,
One hundred mile from town,
So I said to Wayne give me the rifle,
I'll put a bullet in it soon,
But they wouldn't let me shoot it,
It was bigger than the moon,
I asked Mark and Wayne, but they didn't see it go,
But we never saw it wander, the bloody so and so?
Next thing we were arrested,
Like stunned mullets? in the dark,
By a copper in a singlet wearing thongs, (out hunting in his own car?)
a bright spark?
He'd look at you while talking,
With his head half turned away..................(WAS HE AN ALIEN?.)...
Booked our Mark for speeding,
Drunken copper all I'd say?
Don Johnson
Chris D. Aechtner
Contest Name Another Chance To Swing
Mackey (nee Dean) Brummell
My cousin Don's wife had an experience about that same time, with the
big white light following her and the kids home, not far away north on
the St George Mitchell road....
She had to get the kids to open gates and was nervous of this thing
that followed them.....
Her son Keith 10 years later was out Roo shooting in the night
with a local St George man
and they saw the light too,(much the same area)
the passenger refused to leave the car to
open gates on the Station property they were shooting on,
the light changed direction and
eventually left them at high velocity...
I did me an hypno regression on the missing time, got the picture.
I saw a flying saucer cross the road at a few hundred feet, could see panels
on the underside of it, saw a light beam transfix my cousin, saw his red hair with a gold curl in the light and the bright blue shorts i had forgotten he wore that day.
Interesting to me!
Don Johnson