On a life-boat passing through Time, making its way to the island of timely order(s).
Surrounded by death/decay and birth/unmanifested on the other side.
Surfing/Suffering on the waves of Time.
Maybe tonight.
The meaning of words change all the Time.
Unable to find meaning if not rooted in Time.
Counting up or counting down either way you are keeping Time.
Yet taking the Time to Time Time.
If Life is a zero sum game, what's the shortest interval that you have achieved this at?
Millennia, centuries, years, days or seconds ? M-C-IIIVIV-i-d?
Letting go generates space and time thus centering oneself in the present moment.
With precision and ease as in any clockmaker's watch.
The Sands of Time scatter as the hourglass shatters, turning to sand over Time.
Yet Time will keep its own Time.
Unless blocked by these very particles of sand.
Even though the books in the library are buried.
My spoken words will echo throughout Time.
Yet keep running out of sync in this fast changing world.
Acceptable losses by aiding incoherence.
As I await my Trial by Numbers.
The honey bee let on my leg,
sensing he knew the power
of my hand. But also sensed
I he knew, the character of this
man -- he could stroll and buzz
as he liked, his calculation right --
He could stroll and buzz plainly
in sight -- equal curiosity, in our own
ways equal velocity, though neither
expressed notion to sting nor flee,
equally alive, contemplating the other's
hive.
Beside the white oaks of the king's ferry
the heavenly princess resists control,
swatting sand flies off of her acacia crown
Night eyes will not hide a spotted sun
its oenomel translating
Tira's blessings in thorn mimosas,
vistas of aphotic and alabaster stripes,
fingerprints of virtue and violence;
—
Opposites attract
I can't look away
I
fluttering patterns
wear the beauty crown
into the garden of the wilting roses.
greeting the thorns
with an aura of bliss
that disarms them
as they pass.
Zero is One, One is Two, Two is Four.
As in Platonic solids, there is no One or Two.
If Zero is void and Four is a cube.
If Zero is a circle and Four is a square.
If unity is the glue that connects Zero to Four.
Zero won Two.
One too Four.
The pyramid is absolved from this group.
The triangle is absolved from this group.
Two dot form a line, not knowing the pleasure of a absolved triangle.
I carry monopoly money.
It's not bright or shiny.
When I go to the gift shop.
They ask me, where is my plastic?
A dollar today is not worth the dollar of tomorrow.
And its exponential decay gives me so much sorrow.
I miss the good old days of where I could trade my trade.
For milk, eggs, flour, and sugar, honey.
Now I scrap from the bottom of the barrel.
Just for sh*t and giggles.
What's on my mind is the new kind of money.
But I would rather have love come to me naturally.
As long as the sun will rise and set in between the crescent moon.
I can’t be
sharing
my body
with you
who’s now a shallow pool
though the room is offices
I can hear them panting now
his saliva wet every bedsheet
he’s your boss
your CEO
I’m quite
resistant
to reform
proposals
watch my wristwatch
and what time is it
I cannot not tell you
though this is partly sunny
each laughter from the room
is that document
in a time of war
the evidence is happiness
we are deaf near the wall
… do you love me, woman
it is cloudy in this street
as that sandalwood perfume
stretching between our arms
here everything of it is gone
with the floods and good
you are the only tree left behind
and love is the dewdrops
even the axe that cuts them
into pieces, remains a noble soul
falling slowly from the last leaf
to the bare ground of mire
somewhere in the mist behind the bridge
a brain is smouldering with the request
to return this soul
to its former position
and retains its fragrance
in the trap, unaccompanied
thinking about a lover is sweeter than kissing
because love is not feeling
and I cherish that moment in itself
when I am alone but through a subsequent passage
that’s why I illustrate
your perfume filling the dig we create
woman, do you still love me
I’m one of the connexions, though really why
it should be, after all, is none so apparent
your body is a cloth I wear
in this cold weather I’m
struggling with my broken left leg…
I come from a place with Mahogany trees,
With bowers of fragrant flowers surrounded by bees,
I come from a land where within it- culture and language differ,
Still humanity and brotherhood is what we prefer.
I come from a place where the poor are fed,
A place where throughout the host's house the guests are led,
A place where love and humanity is filled,
Where towers of care, trust and hope in our hearts we do build.
The world is somehow a pomegranate
Every individual of us in it is the seeds
Having stayed similar to juicy tastes
Holding together long yawning for grace
Dreaming to germinate in the spring breeze
And to grow up and stand tall in the soil
Blooming virtually and quietly in the Sun-rays
And to appeal the amethyst for your please
Oh, lord! You'd be proud of thee for all
For so many myths, you leave there to face
And so many choices given alike in blind dates
(etymology of a surname: Larcombe)
somewhere in the deepest dark of Somerset,
was a secret cumb, I know of not yet
where ancients did note
that many a Larke would wing,
for food,
to brood,
and sing
in those times a cumb was understated
with trees aplenty in it's forest,
where insects
unabated,
invite the Larke
fated
to dance with them as their guest.
as such, much gratiated,
the Larke engages in a courtship thrill,
throwing it's voice to dating,
in hope of mating,
and is satiated
by the success of its trill.
then men came to this place,
farming and deforesting,
such that the Larke could not sing,
leaving only space and doom,
and yet men called themselves
"of the Larke Cumb"
'tis still a mystery, where this might be,
twixt tarmac, concrete, or brick maybe,
but it sealed the Larke' s fate,
closing it's garden gate,
as such, was a sad sick twist really
two-legged ants dart
around & through
a holographic city
overcome by
an illusion of order
overwhelmed by
a terrestrial constellation
under cacophonous con(de)struction
six-legged ants dutifully
transport breadcrumbs to tiny
chasms in the mottled dirt
where cool dark silence
briefly mollifies
a holographic planet
under careless (de)construction
From a little sapling to a tree,
He grows, he grows to be,
Stuck to its roots still,
Can’t go anywhere, can’t be free,
Stuck in the soil,
His own not allowing him to go,
He just sits there, where he sadly grows
Across the track, a rail yard worker
big innocent bear of a guy, beer
belly, embraces his girl. She’s
a conductor, comes up to that belly,
reaches arms not quite around
his back. They separate and embrace
three times while the train prepares
for departure.
Across the aisle,
a mother and son. Lights out, change engines,
they play Mercy. Squeeze fingers until one
cries mercy. The son still too small
to seriously challenge his young, athletic
mom. Ask and answer questions, laugh
and cry mercy, she draws and he colors
the features.
Unless a society
expects its fate to be better than its past,
it will strive to make its present
immutable as possible.
Optimism is a way of exploring failure.
It says there is no law of nature
or supernatural decree preventing progress.
Nearly all failures, and all successes, are in
our future.
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