___________________________________________________________
As I sat ...
in slight immersion
amongst a pond
of varied sprites
depth rippling tryst
trend simple reeds
in distance fair
partitioned pure
claimed by three
spartans affair
the mere sight of me
sacrificed precious lamb
midst circle of life
selective attends
their genteel swim
o'er cupped fingers
a ringless hand
begs of pleasure
this glorious realm
enriched am I
steeply blessed
the rewards of privilege
the shallow benefits
their minutia smiles
in that pond
... as I sat.
The grand cosmos gifts us
With both mystery and discovery.
While the intellect grows with more
Questions, by an insistent curiosity.
If one follows the graphics of science,
Depicting the remnants of time and space.
We might find galactic stews brewing, in a
Temporal tube that seems to lead to no place.
Yet while we can see an ongoing expansion,
Our own neighborhood seems infinitely small.
As we appear in a sliver of this time cone,
Where grand movements dictate the next fall.
Through all of this cosmic radiation,
Our lives witness the passage of time.
And while we struggle among the minutia,
An elusive big picture evades any crime.
Three socks that match
….Two that don’t
Ever refreshing to my being
As the dew that fell on Hermon
Bringing new life to the seared psyche
of this particular earthly vermin
Designed to be made in your image
I regularly miss the mark
Treating this momentous opportunity
as little more than a lark
What is your favorite color? It seems it might be green.
All encompassing springing to life
In scene after scene after scene
I have wasted what you graciously offered
I see this clearly now with aged eyes
To know you and to love you an unfolding
Eternal surprise
Caught up in the minutia of being
I allowed myself to lose sight
With the time that remains me take these scales
From my eyes relieve me please of this plight
Evergreen life giving you have always
been and always you will be
Bring life anew to these dried bones
to rejoice for all seeing to see
Thank you for allowing this audience with you
YOU who made all things
Strike each day my hearts chord
undampered by me fully ring
Mew
rumbles
inside fur
concentrating
cat’s caboodle - the tickling of her nose
the stunning green eye and blue butterfly
minutia
momentum
of her
breath
9/7/2020
Eve Roper’s Double Tetractys 2
Photo #3
howmanysyllables.com
Have we rebuilt the tower of Babel
With weary words of wireless babble?
Do somnolent thoughts surf synapses
On tidal waves of vacuous verbs?
So tasteless, as baseless, and faceless
Secret voices clamor, “I am here”
In clusters of blabbing barnacles
Encrusted, agape, to the Internet.
Watchers, spectators doing little,
Chasing minutia ever fresh.
Turned into products; privacy shed
In a passive world of dungeon dead.
Endlessly griping over offense!
A cacophony of words intense.
If brevity is the soul of wit
How many tweets will create a twit?
Silence Is Golden
Written: by Miracle Man
3/15/2020
Some willingly parse words and minutia look past,
the smaller details just never appear to matter.
While stepping on others feelings each time they lambaste,
they constantly fill a room with unwanted chatter.
“silences make the real conversation between friends.
Not the saying but the never needing to say is what counts”
Margaret Lee Runbeck
a large unidentifiable creature
was washed up bloody on the beach
and a four km long circular structure was spotted
slowly crawling across the ocean floor
elliptical bases held up by pillars
are resting underwater outside the coasts
and there are pyramids lurking
beneath the Bermuda triangle
there's something that has to know
her deep secret will eat us up,
play with our minds, and teach us to find
the paraphernalia and minutia of our own bodies--
of our own world--
before we cross the water
and see ourselves as powerful giants
who can conquer the elements.
and the men with their helmets
are in awe of their own actions
as they set up the trussing
like she never created it first
her deep secret will eat them up
and leave them bloody on the beach
her deep secret will eat us up
Bury my heart in trivia.
Keep my mind stuck in minutia.
The dam internet's a sham,
designed to drive man,
off the road into distraction.
Keep me from knowing what is right,
directed by detours to spite,
the dam internet's a scam
designed to drive man,
off the road into distraction.
Instant knowledge gains attention,
knowledge without wit or wisdom.
Human touch replaced by a mouse,
human feelings contained, in house.
conversation within glass fibers.
Real replaced by sad virtuals.
We keep the mass hunger sated.
We keep thinking minds muted.
Bread and circus work to perfection,
novelties make roadkill of traditions.
Real streets contain violence, racism, and malice,
while we genocidists, well protected
and free are now off on a spree
down cyber route six sixty-six.
Is this simply a lone luddite's lament,
or someone's conscious coherent comment?
I no longer know, reduced as I am,
to hitchhiking through mist on a mantra.
The dam internet's a sham,
designed to drive man
off the road into distraction.
Crystal-like
It is sad to be a limpid snowflake
look up and millions are falling down
and they are all around just like you.
On the ground littered with snow,
Hard trampled cold snow
From solitary beautiful and crystalline
to a minutia in a frozen landscape.
If lucky you can land on top of a wooden pool
and hope the weather will hold.
You will blow down from your perch, become one of them
and later reduced to slush
He had blue eyes,
and each time I passed,
they pierced me.
I notice the details.
An odd thing I do.
Fixating on the minutia and wondering.
He wore robes.
The one under, white.
The one on top, blue.
Praying,
in a garden,
before a stone.
Bathed in white light.
Pleading to his Father above.
I imagine he must have said,
"Please Man! Let this drag pass from me."
While Peter slept.
It had a gold leaf frame with 3-D effect.
I assumed to enhance his misery,
and titillate me,
in style.
My Grandparents kept it on the wall.
Outside the one bathroom
Where the light switch shocked if you weren't careful.
Where Grandfather kept whiskey under the sink,
and I would sneak,
to try it.
On Sunday afternoons.
Past those sermons on Hell.
And how so are we,
damned to be there.
I wondered, would he have liked a shot?
That guy with the blue eyes.
In the gold leaf frame.
To calm the jitters.
Before taking center stage.
E.G. Maynard.
46 & 2.
3.
invisible to all, she sits and she talks to
no one in particular, only the
voices in her head respond to her chatter
is she really invisible?
she has so much to say but no one hears her
is she really invisible? no one
bothers with her, they just walk on by
lost in their own languishing thoughts
everyone ignores her as they go about their day
long ago she was like them, not
aware of anyone, mired in the minutia of
day to day life, but now she lives as the invisible lady
yearning for a life now gone, lucid only in her mind
Whisper Of Your Soul
(Soul Listens On A Whisper)
Murmurs soft are sensed, mimic nature, diaphanous clouds spread wide
Settle softer than a translucent butterfly on spring light snow
It is the moon flirting in ebullience, fog rising on a thin film on winds side
Lifting skirts or is it veils? Unknown in this muted light of whispers glow
Mist rolls across the bog, pulls along reluctant virgin night
By golden glow, that holds the sky in humble hush, abeyance in a trance
Tracking down the birth of morning, bursting full of light
Barely able to mutter the words, “the light of day”, the endless dance
You feel the vibrant tones, fold over meadows as you go
A vestigial tiny vessel of a virgin’s secret opens here
Chasing dark away along the marsh with pounding heart to know
The open glen is near, fills up in brilliant colors clear
Soft luscious sounds fall silent on the morning air and then
Listen, it whispers on the minutia of the moment something true
Holds on to quiet in the silent glen
Waiting on a whisper Imbued with truth, soft thoughts of you
Created on 12/16/14 for “Whisper Of Your Soul” Poetry Contest Sponsored by Gail Angel Doyle
So Why Be Filled with Sorrow?
Instead of with sorrow, read my poems tomorrow
And a whole book of them may be able to borrow
Which I never started and haven't written yet
So will have to go to PoetrySoup on the internet.
All of my poems many people want to read
To fill some certain cravings and a need
Provide peace, quiet, comfort and to satisfy
And desire to read poems until day you die.
Poems are like fine shredded fruit in ambrosia
Not many piles of junk obtained from minutia
People will sit in chairs and then prop up feet
Read my marvelous poems which can't be beat.
Of others when you read my poems in spite
Should you be highly educated and an erudite?
Or maybe it really was me who was teasing
When I said my poems are perfectly pleasing.
You are now overly nourished and finally full
On my pleasant poems plug please don't pull
If poems are too long and no one satisfies
I can start trimming and cutting down to size.
James Hankering Around Horn
Retired Veteran
Category of this was listed as humorous which it might be to me.
MINUTIA OF THE MOMENT
Material things seem to be there
Seconds away
By the way
They become solid rocks
As time performs
Smaller functions
Around the obvious
Clocks move by
In trivial circles
And unsavory company
Go unnoticed
Focused on the notion of swallowed nothing
Always there
If only in memory
Vastness fashions a concept of tangibility
And takes us under…..advisement…..under consideration
The observable existence calms
With so few spaces to fill in
The minutia of the moment
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