Day before Thanksgiving
Working
From the frame of my upstairs window
Trees stripped bare
The sky and grass blue and white as a glacier
A big antlered buck
Chases a doe on the gold cobble of my front yard
The furnace
Vent
Materializes in the morning drapes
A bat billows to my window
Clings to the screen
Clicks and screams from his raisin mouth
To this mosquito net
Its wings spread like a charcoal web
Eyes popping for a sip of coffee
A sizzle of bacon
Please
Could you cover up the sun and bring back summer?
I can see in my mind
Its mind
As I sit here
Clinging to my own screen
Screaming
Twiddling my thumbs
Typing an e mail
To the freezing wind.
Flowered man has a real name maybe
but none of us has every known it
We all call him the flowered man
he has lived on our block for years
we never see him in the winter
he materializes in April and disappears in July
He is followed by butterflies
they know him in ways we never will
maybe because they are kinder than us
Or maybe because he is not real
part of my imagination
I am not sure if anyone else sees him
adventuresome kitty cat
materializes at other edge of my driveway
brave to venture in this dog-infested yard
mostly white with caramel face and tail
she stops and stares
startled I am there
because I am silent
I make no moves
the pony dogs are no where in sight
God must be on this creatures side
neither shows up
I know they are out here somewhere
do they not smell or sense this interloper?
she prances up the hill toward the street
I imagine the dogs will give chase
Seconds later they chase each other back to me
from the other side of the house
that cat must have some powerful guardian angels
O search not for a rare applause,
Beware, life is a thankless stage—
It's vain, a loud uproar to cause
On this voyage of pilgrimage,
A puppet you are, caught in cage.
Vain to think you’re a great actor,
You know the plot, nor script nor end,
Watch out, Fate’s a poor director,
As clown, no great role shall ye land,
As puppet, pulled by unknown hand.
________________________________
Musings | 05.09.2015| Quintain
Poet’s note: We might think we are great actors, while in truth we are no more than clowns in the eyes of a spoilsport called Fate, Fortune, or Destiny. Man is then no more than a clown who hopes to hear applause on life’s stage that proves a vague hope, a mirage. For, life offers no programme; the director of the stage-play gives no script; the destiny provides no prompt. And still, he must perform in hope for an applause that seldom materializes.
The pole is slick
there's a smell emanating from the toilets
body odor and a thick male musk in the smoky air.
I'm not here to gawp at the dancer
just bar tend.
The floor is sticky, the glasses dirty,
the canned music sleazy.
It's not a classy joint.
Nobody tips, not many drink,
the head of the skinny manager
materializes from around a drape.
The head wants me to clean off the tables.
I get my coat
walk out into the clean snow,
wash-out the muck behind my eyes
with handwipes.
Many claim to see her there with her knees up under her chin, her arms are delicately cradling her head as she dreams of his returning again
She is shrouded by the warmth of the fog off the ocean as it holds her tight, and it’s hard to see the tears that she has cried by the lanterns dim light
He didn’t die tragically, and she lies here just waiting for her turn to come, he left her broken and confused after he told her they were done
She comes here every night to remember the inflection of his voice, the touch of his embrace, and she materializes his vision into being by just remembering his sweet face
She pretends that he is holding her as she grips herself so tight, and she rests her head on his imaginary heart believing he is there but there is no one in sight
The only fault in this tainted memory, is that she can no longer hear the sound of his heart beating for her that way it once did so sweet
So, she abandons her post at the waters edge for the night, and she blows a kiss into the wind praying that he will come for her tomorrow and make all that is wrong in her empty world right.
Unfold my vision,
close my eyes,
all almost the same...
Constant mixing,
effervescence of voices
and colors... almost convulsion!
Amalgamation between
turmoil and meekness...
Revolutions and peace...
Every day materializes...
This world,
not yet
harmonized... !
Poetry is intended for restlessness,
too much sweetness drives away poetry...
You can be pregnant with ideas,
stocked with what is benefit and write
emotionally without stoppage,
but the unusual metaphor is missing...
to the one that outlines the poetry...
Behold, the singing of joyful countries
it's sad...
The singing of sad countries is content...
There then lies the poetry that reflects
what the soul does not sight...
Poetry is not sympathetic text
in pretty words that appear
always full of emotions... and with
melodramatic sweetness... lack the
high-sounding that the Greeks call Beauty,
when the imagery that materializes the mystery is lacking,
only through metaphor or metonymy,
it subverts the original meaning,
gaining in breadth and beauty...
That and poem with poetry...
The word has to come dressed as a party
the poetry is dressed in the real fantasy
that the figure of speech contains...
Poetry is immaterial...!
Ethereal magic in the nursery is notoriously afoot
Gauzy sheer white curtains held back by invisible hand
Silence of the evening brings star light into the window
Feeling Anne’s present as wolf cat sleeps in this soulful land
Nursery as she left it over ninety years ago in a storm
As she traveled to heaven as an eight-year old girl
I feel a spiritual presence in the air tonight. She’s warm.
Can almost see her halo, wings, and tiny yellow curl.
Anne left our family suddenly,, she was taken away by flu.
Her parents were stricken with grief, my mother told me.
She materializes in front of me, and possibly others too.
She is here tonight, at peace, this little princess wee.
Wolf cat is curled in the bed, snoring soundly now.
No longer upset by her comings and goings in this room.
I am older, wiser also, at the age of almost seventy.
I will probably be joining my angelic aunt pretty soon.
Name the higher power that you know
If you can even find her
Remove yourself from every pain
Granted that is possible
Show your face in every room
Even though you’re crying
No more arguing right and wrong
But all you know is fighting
You’ll continue to question and worry
And cry out that God hates sinners
If you never pause and realize quickly
Happiness will elude you
But searching for God is religion too
And healing wounds is victory
Feeling lost you still appear
And courage materializes
For there is only value in the process
Because this is all we have
Pure comfort in the progress
Outlives the unattainable
The Last Spike
Helios orb peers cautiously
with guarded optimism
through cracker-slatted clouds
as Thor's divine implement
shatters the morning stillness with the clap of a sonic boom
Mere mortals assigned Herculean tasks
trill a gospel cadence,
their labors heralded as glistening ribbons stretch yon and hither,
a tribute to their genius
and their genesis
Now, as the celestial cotillion materializes
in the ebony overhang
the spinning Mother bids 'Adieu'
as the last rough-hewn iron phallus
penetrates the porus creosote-drenched flesh
with a tempered satisfaction
known only to Gods.........
And those men who will be.
("Hell On Wheels" final episode)
(Another very old, slightly tweaked, piece from childhood)
"Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still..."
T.S. Eliot, "Ash Wednesday"
When, drop by drop, slice by slice,
the wine and bread, body and blood,
are totally consumed -- when Unknown's
fantasies smash against the rock of Truth --
when medicine ball heads are obsolete
and emancipation's dream materializes,
when the age of majority is attained,
and playthings are put away in Mind's attic --
foibles and fables stored with childhood mementos --
then; perhaps then!
A poem, like death-was
unpredictable. You wait for it,
it does not come.
Then you drag a corpse
on stones to find its home
which never materializes.
You give me a hurt. I
become mute. Very shy
to accept the verbatim.
How different we are
in alikeness. I touch you in twilight
of life to become one.
And from daily life
I gather the pain, to print
the version of tomorrow.
Satish Verma
The gravity above bends all curvature.
Rusty creases smooch the downpouring nectar,
leaving hints of shaky aches here and there.
More of it can split smiles and slit tears.
Nails intrude into the forbidden territory.
Drill repeatedly to fill air in, get gas out--
until no substance is not depleted.
Why stuff nothing to inflate the shell?
The washing machine spins berserk,
flopping the entrails into some somersaults.
Chemical reactions unwilling to take their time off.
Sparkles flared bubbles into troubles.
A brisk smack rescinds any signs of oomph.
The breeze materializes itself into blasts of fireworks--
strips of hair whirled into a pirouette,
rotating an infinite ninty degrees on the wasted one.
As the fog materializes
Some birds sing songs of love
The Mockingbird sits fluffed quiet
Coo, Coo floats from the Dove
One lone buzzard soars in the fog
Dampness coats plants and trees
Waterdroplets form, hang; waiting,
Water the earth for free
Tiny buds and leaves appear
They long to display gems
Soon all will open wide those buds
Atop those strong green stems
Soon butterflies will appear
and gently stroke each bloom
Their gentle wings circulate air
Arrive in Europe soon
What kind of weather will those strokes
create?_Mild or severe
Will they bring gentle breezes there
And sweet air perfumed
Finis'
If a butterfly gently strokes its wings
in America, the molecules it stirs can
profoundly effect the weather in
Europe!!That is a fact..It is called
the butterfly effect..
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