Seasonal flows are flowing
in sequence to a seasonal
warmth
A satellite hoovers like
a distant cloud
in an atmosphere which is neither
might not support
or which has not been seen in many days
microbial species within the salty brines of
Jezero's Crater
talks of yesterdays
the only planet in the solar
system to be inhabited by
robots
facting and gathering
while scientist do there part
Parts per million
the itchy hands of
prospectors
found Hematite
to awaken the greed of man
the desire to extract and own
makes rocket maker say
yes we can
they consort and collaborate
to create a suitible
place to exsist
Mars the planet closet
in size
there might be large
Gold feilds
Why those clammy hands of lasting grief
For an owner of a handkerchief?
Then, you are a forgetful kind,
Who few things keep in mind.
A full right I have to know
Or fully annoyed I shall grow
The last careless contact by your hand
Now, about to unleash microbial harm.
Why not often The Disinfectant
By you thought rather exorbitant?
A clogged left nostril you’re picking
And my fingers I’d be licking
After your palms against mine sticking
And in the end a time bomb ticking?
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
Ancient is he, yet as fresh as tomorrow,
in green ponds he fishes for sunlight.
He plumps grassy pillows,
quilts nests for the slumbering and slippery,
gardens all the dewy meadows.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He sweeps the muddy tracks
of iron caterpillars.
Bears tell him
of how things are going
in the suburbs,
in swimming pools and trash cans,
There must be a treaty.
Kits and coyote love him,
whistle-Pigs trumpet his approach.
Ducks quack his many sermons,
may shotguns always misfire.
He is a preacher,
a teacher to tic and turtle,
a bosky fellow, not a straw man,
or a hollow but verdant,
a green man for me and thee
harken now to his leafy lingo
for tomorrow he may be only a scarecrow
in a long ravaged field.
Floaters crisscross blinking eyes.
After a brief scientific analysis
it is concluded that an invasion of minute
alien spacecraft has occurred.
An optician assures:
these aberrant phenomena are perfectly normal
for a non-perfect being.
Unverified estimates of an unknown illness;
projections of billions of invasive germs follow,
tank-like organisms working overtime
to smash through flesh and plasma
reigning shock-shells of dissolution
onto peace loving white knights.
It is to be hoped that microbial
barbaric and brawny hosts
of avenging bacteria will soon
assault these malignant besiegers
from the rear. Surprise attacks
from all sides
until the munching, mad
germs in their pointy Prussian war helmets are
subdued, but it’s touch and go
it can turn out either way.
The day is spent ignoring
simple explanations of ocular spots
knowing for certain only infected spacecraft
can possibly maneuver like that.
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of yellow, metal Caterpillar’s.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
He moves under tree shadows,
if there are no tree shadows
he takes a bus.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the Green Man,
he is not a straw man,
or a hollow man –
he is green
at least for now.
Have we ceded our stewardship
allowed a systemic sepsis to spread
acquiesced to the benign malaise
of Death’s directing finger?
Spending billions to cure diseases
caused by poverty’s pestilence
arming ourselves against an assault
of mutating microbial minds
Offering triage to the fatality
of futility’s folly
bandaging life’s severed limbs
sound biting our souls.
Who took the village?
©8/1/2019
Sound of Silence Poetry Contest
John Hamilton sponsor
A. tumefaciens in your soil?
If you’re a dicot, you’re in deep
Older plants can live right through it,
But fruit production gets rather weak
Younger buds are susceptible
When cut or chewed or scraped
Once infected, plants start leaning,
Crushed by the tumor that it makes
When it comes to prevention,
It’s all in the farmer’s hands
But once you’ve been infected,
There’s no hope for you, my friend…
Perhaps you should release a toxin
That mimics its own stress hormones
Or evolve to switch your signaling
And grow stronger, non-conjugatable walls?
Your life may be coming to an end,
But for now, I recommend...
Use essential ions like essential oils!
DNA keep tightly coiled
Secrete some chemicals to increase
Protection against microbial disease
microbe infections...
we are ninety percent them...
some are called disease...
termed brain conditions...
paradigms that we behave...
doing this...or that...
symbols are the script...
from words to hologram dreams...
that sketch a present...
war and peace visions...
just chemical driven dreams...
ruling mental waves...
mental aggressions...
too are microbial-dreams...
we wait...a savior...
a microbe infest...
disease to pacify war...
with quieter dreams...
stan sand
As I stare at this blank canvas
I wonder what to create
Should I write what I feel
I ponder if anyone can relate
Art in the form of words
There is no canvas that goes unheard
As I reach deep inside my mind
Gauging what's my biggest crime
I would have to say it's art
Now follow closely because this will get dark
Don't get lost in the shadow of my arch
There is no sun where the sun don't shine
I hope you listening close because that was a punch line
Art comes in many forms
I try to create outside of the norm
I was pronounced different from the day I was born
Now don't get torn
This is not sympathetic art
This is real raw lay out your heart
I make a puzzle out of my words
I like using synonyms antonyms and verbs
Not a shattered illusion
But a microbial infusion
Tell me can you follow
A canvas so hollow
Bruised at its outer edge
Heart still beating
But inside it's dead
Yet you can't help but stare
Would you buy it?
I bet you won't .. I dare
I nearly trod on it
a deposit on the grass
the remains of a meal
pulled apart.
Little bones and pieces
of life lost
devoured
by whoever
an owl perhaps
but now spread
on the turf
for beetles
and flies -
microbial nutrients.
Creations story
displayed.
We float in spheres of loneliness
On pancake-branes so numerous.
Viewing down a sky-bound 'scape,
A microbial colony of working ape.
Trying to better our genetic canvass --
Or, devolving into primitive madness.
Schizophrenic species of love and hate
That builds, creates and burns to berate.
Our children the elders must engage,
To cool the world of its bubbling rage....
Nothing supersedes health maintenance;
Thus, the evolution of instinctive defiance --
Save for man and his brainy protuberance,
Which clouds the r-complex beneficence
With infinite, self-centered arrogance, meanwhile,
Nothing supersedes health maintenance.
Dino-birds navigate with magnetic reliance,
And sickness is fought without aid, in silence --
Save for man and his brainy protuberance.
Detached from colonies of microbial sentience,
Oblivious as we consume and covet experience,
Nothing supersedes health maintenance.
Where six-legged ancients toil with exuberance,
Even cub-killing toms can't escape consequence --
Save for man and his brainy protuberance.
While parasites devour with horrific preponderance,
Why must we mimic their cold appliance; knowing,
Nothing supersedes health maintenance --
Save for man and his brainy protuberance.
My little room...my four walls.
I sit in one of the four corners--
Like an embryonic sac, lifeless in a state of non existence...
Embellishing in the silence as I travel the deserts—of a dusty mind.
I now switch corners... deja vu, the walls are closeting in
Everything is the same except smaller—oh such a hell
To ponder without thought...a holographic Holocaust
A devouring reality.
Each corner of the four walls a prismatic prison...
A convoluted construct—my four walls of the apocalypse
I switch corners again...I see foreverness
An Asylum refuge-sheltering my layering lies.
What am I?...a pensive reject, a pondering fool,
A thoughtless thought... a disconnect of an ancient memory...
I get to the last corner...I see a speck of a thought
A microbial element within the diminishing walls...
Four Walls-contest
Feb.24.2016 ^WW^
Microbial love
knocking your door too hard
to create new life
(c) Anindya Mohan Tagore (Bobby)
Of ancient shrines
Of Ancient shrines rise Prometheus
where buttressed walls crumble in the minds eye
we take our dance of cosmic chance
Colder shades then open seas in praise of life we seek
we leave it to microbial dust and enrich the mind
in symbolic rhyme
Where beauty walks a shadows edge dissolved in empty space
back to the garden of nature an age of innocence is born
like wounded faun we’ve weathered storm and awaken the
minds of men
Supernova vortexes evolve in double helix spirals of the solar wind
from protozoan revolutions
we are stardust once again
and universes are we
where up is down and in is out and all of us set free
Related Poems