(center)Visions grow
out of our imaginations like vines.
We want to excavate a bare-knuckled past
with the jaw bones of concussed elks.
A cold moonlight carves them still.
They are the blunt teeth of a low wailing sky,
the works of a hand-crushed faith
far beyond the ken,
of we curious and depthless delvers.
We who stand now non-plussed,
our minds turned around
these mute megaliths
as if we were stone thoughts
upon a grinding lathe
searching
for any distant sense
of - why
while myopically questioning
the source of our
softly rooted selves.(center)
Categories:
myopically, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Cold air breeze flowing over the shore, as an lifesaver floats on the glistening water illuminated by the sun, most memorable during the day as many above have fun
Frightened of the ferocious sea-beings, admiring the calm, but unaware that the center of attention could all be placed in your palm,
Lurking beneath the blue, a scaled blue tail unseeable from the surface,
Hides the dark hues that is seen in the trenches as worthless
What is hidden in one’s heart could never be imposed,
With false memory and prevalent words under the sea cannot be disposed
Rather it stays at its peace surrounded by creatures living within,
Living among its terrible ocean trenches submerged with a spin
Eyes deep as the sea darkened with ecstasy,
That it’ll propel your gaiety through lunacy in glee,
Whirred through unbreathable currents which you’ll myopically see
Such a creature below is redundant for two hands to be.
Categories:
myopically, 10th grade, poetry, sea,
Form: Bio
I ponder whose hands concertina time.
Sometimes my brain wakes up 40 years younger
for a few moments I am vital,
perfectly formed and a smile for every eye.
Other times though, I arrive in the world
already clawing at my coffin lid.
I'm riding a double-decker London bus,
there's a girl beside me
and she is rubbing the inside of my thighs
while she talks of Kafka.
Now I'm in a train, liver-spotted hands
trembling, as I myopically read a book
about bloody Kafka;
I am gonna have to read some of his stuff one day.
It’s another morning,
and I am hill running with my 10 year old son.
Breathless we get to the top
he is laughing and I am winded.
Now I recall Kafka's book, 'The Metamorphosis',
still don't have to read it,
I understand perfectly well
that the hands of time
are always squeezing us into what we were
by what we became.
Categories:
myopically, poetry,
Form: Free verse
I wake up with her,
check myself,
eyes creaking like blind stars.
She’s strange, she’s yesterday,
I remember us the week before;
wonder if tomorrow
will fade us both out completely.
We don’t get to know them -
the wives I mean.
Living together we grow
too myopically tangled, and the vows,
the wild love with a facsimilia of what
we thought they were,
the sharing of a frowsy bed,
a grody toilet,
the live-in tales of indifferent playwrights.
We forget to know them
and forget that we never really did.
An ex-wife chides me in my sleep now,
but occasionally I dream of erotic sex with her.
If she had not assumed that she knew me well,
we might be still turning around a togetherness
like hands on a clock, instead of just
doing this body-mike thing to each other.
I am up making coffee.
She comes into the kitchen
deliberately brushing her hip
against mine…nothing strange about that,
but I do wonder if sometimes
she thinks I am someone else.
Categories:
myopically, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The yellow and black caterpillar
concertina’s around my wrist.
Around and around my wrist it trundles
on those stumpy limb nubbins
neither veering left or right.
It’s a creature unaware of distance
and so must constantly search
for nearness.
Wherever its fuzzy head leads
that is its world, only the nearby
is myopically absorbed.
I pluck it up from its lonely trek,
place it onto a mulberry bush,
The slinky pauses,
then commences to chomp
through a dark green leaf –
another world to ingest
yet more nearness to convert
into yellow and black grubbiness.
One day, distance will call to its
tunnel vision,
it will burst apart,
as if it were a dark star
rent asunder.
The far flung will open
under a dizziness of wings -
both greeting and farewell
merging into one topsy-turvy
last flutter of glory.
Categories:
myopically, poetry,
Form: Free verse
It’s often said that Man is very smart.
His cleverness is quite remarkable.
His brain, a rather special body part
Is hardly capable of being dull.
He never calculates and meditates
His every thought and actions. Never fails
To please himself no matter what it takes.
He always seems to overlook details
The ones that mean the most to you and me.
He doesn’t give a fig about the Earth,
It’s woes and fragileness. He often sees
The problems myopically. His mirth
Unfounded, still neglecter of warnings:
Our life-styles are causing global warming
Categories:
myopically,
Form: Sonnet