Hypothesis:
What is an ego anyways
Are we born with it
And from the moment we have the willpower
we’re tasked with muting it
Or does it grow from experiences of rejection
Fed by whom?
Is it intrinsically preserving,
Extrinsically repelling…
For the sake of avoiding philosophical debate
Let’s say we have an agreed upon theory
Experiment:
I’d like to think my ego dissolved
The moment my mother dropped me
From her arms before I ever had a chance to challenge Piaget’s concept of object permanence
And when I plummeted to reality
I landed upon the selfless idea
That if their need for affirmation
Could supersede my need for survival
Then I could keep from ever falling so tragically again
Analysis:
And though ego death happens in silence
It’s showboating that sustains ego life
Suppose one without the death
could never question their impulses.
Without an initial fall
The ego can’t even see it’s own reflection
MORE MEDIOCRITY
Targets can be quantitative
But then, enough may be enough
Despite one being creative
Targets can be quantitative
What happened to qualitative
There’s plenty of adequate stuff
Targets can be quantitative
But then, enough may be enough
quellulent quotatudes
quantify quirky, quiet
qualitative quibbling
quailing questionnaires.
Quietude gives rise to
quandaries, inquiries,
quintessential musings,
quemeful meditations,
qualitative praises,
quantitative goals and
questions unquenchable.
5-22-2021
Q Pleiades
Qualitative
And quantitative
Self appraisal
Humorously casual
Of our stillness quotient
Moment to moment ...
First the qualitative
The depth meditative
Thoughts & body still
By non-self will
Imbibing the love energy
Of current divine in synergy
Is uplifting
Consciousness enhancing
And yet but the beginning
Of our journey enlightening
Then going in deeper
The ascension steeper
Requires dissolution
Total annihilation
Of the self, voluntarily
Choice made choicelessly
Being, becoming, in oneness
The That Awareness
Next, the quantitative
A matter contemplative
Being the response time taken
By our consciousness when shaken
To return to equilibrium
From egoism fearsome
When the external
Stirs the internal
The ripples disturbing our calm
Are cause for observational alarm
In that our reflex response
Imagined to be divine ensconced
Is fragile
From anxiety to smile
The time we take
To forsake
Narrowness & contraction
Back to Oneness & expansion
Is the quantitative scale
Of the way on earth we sail
03-November-2020
Any plans for the coming year?
Being a lonely child at heart
Can take me back from the start
Dear Lord, let me make things clear.
Enough is enough. No more sorrows
Fear, fights, foes. They are so shallow
Grant me one wish. That’s all I need
Happy New Year by the way.
I wish for brighter days
Joy, Love, my career, bliss. Indeed
Kindness is all I wish for
Luck, logic, laughter and much more…
Mastering my memories is a gift
Not presents, sweets or something I can buy
Ok, you really want to know why?
Presents last quickly. Memories do not
Qualitative research is more like it
Regarding how to spend time with your mates
Some blokes simply scream for useless stuff
Therefore, their wish would not be granted,
Ugly witches would have their thoughts haunted,
Vicious masterminds would always bluff
When they call their own bluff on Christmas.
Should xylophones be played during Mass?
Yes or no? Seems to be a good question.
Zoning out now. I’m going to sleep
The theoretical physicist asked,
Why do all nomials
act like binomials?
The elegant mathematician responded,
Why do all positives
equal double negatives?
The long-winded politician commented,
Why do all politically empowering answers
encourage
1. patriarchal wealth economist
to respond with paradoxical
not not health
0. satisfactory feminist questions
To support bilaterally balancing
quantum qualitative
universal healthy space
LeftThought
and unitarian safe time
RightFelt
panentheistic ecology?
Green currency
currently has a capital city way
of ungreening pastures,
dying waters,
spoiling mother lands,
decapitating valleys of red-flowing death,
fears of divested death,
war-torn unvictory gardens,
childhood dreams of peace
and nightmares
of capital-infested war machines,
robots,
goose-stepping soldiers
bearing automated black and white rifles,
either death or life,
you or me,
mutually ungreen
disempowered,
While cooperative
deep qualitative
memories of Earth, pre-capitalized,
and healthy ego wealth
playing ecological green win/win
nurtures greener theological pastures,
and cooperative self-government of grace
restoring living ecosystemic waters
of justice,
MotherEarth flows uncapitalized nutrients
dark and light
wane and waxing childhood lucid dreams
no greener than just right.
Good and bad are truisms…
a qualitative masquerade
Ideology trumping feeling
—in flashes of joy and pain
(Las Vegas: January 23, 2016)
God has made our life for a timely qualitative change,
steadiness under stress has to be in relative range.
We come into the world
one by one, one by one
one time we go-one by one
but what foot prints do you leave
as a mark of life lived?
Some leave no foot prints
others- half foot prints
still others- rough foot prints
some- ones wind steals quickly
It is a mark of duty
to humanity in life lived
to leave behind after departure
foot prints that generations
and generations after generations
use to guide human existence
Foot prints that shouts silently
in hearts of humanity
that ideal life one lives
is life for others- not self
achievement of things
not material, not disputable
but the intangible goods
the qualitative goods
universally desired
by every living soul
and those that depart
rhythmic structure of a verse
study of metre prosody
patterns of syllables of types
stressed syllables at regular interval
qualitative
long short short dactyl
long long spondee in dead classics
alexandrine twelve syllables in french
five characters in chinese all rules then
people had lot of time to spare
sequence of feet is a metre too
stressed and unstressed like people
five iambic feet are iambic pentameter
paradise lost and sonnets
trochee is stressed unstressed reverse of iamb then
spondee anapest dactyl amphibrach pyrrhic
metric cousins
iamb in two anapest in three common modern english
unrhymed iambic penta is blank verse
bill and milton liked it rhymed pair of lines in
iambic is heroic couplet now for humor
Captive of creative-writing programs,
It is specialized job of small groups,
Handy to a few these frantic anagrams
Poetry sadly belongs to sub groups.
We have credited professional poets,
Creative writing teachers at all stage
Composing computer- created poems
Creating illusion of the Golden Age.
These professional poets have secured
Their own niches in academic world,
Like jackals, cry over the milk allured
Over dried-up well they uselessly snarled.
Success assured by work quantitative
Snubbing the work if not qualitative.
+++++++
June 19, 2014
Form: Contemporary Sonnet
Rhyme Scheme: abab cdcd efef gg
Ram Mehta
Eighth Place Win
Contest : Contest No. 9 by P.D.
Don’t you hate it when the offense goes three and out?
As far as the team goes, it leaves me with qualitative doubt.
Victory does not seem to be in the cards
when the team has three downs, and can’t move the ball ten yards.
There are many plays where they can either pass or run.
However, they can’t get it together and go undone.
Four quarters go by, and they can’t get a single score.
Many fans like myself are finding this game a bore.
All hail to thee love, your swave "eh" intrigues me.
Your embattlements stack like wet cordwood
upon the pile of used newspapers in my outhouse,
making the use of a corn cob most appealing.
I feel the need of purification, rejuvenation by fire.
Like holding a match under your out stretched eyelid
or maybe, just maybe sweeter, a cold sore
on the inside of your lip; so neat on a dinner date.
At least these things are real.
The lip has to heal, which it can do even if left alone.
Not like made-up words which have no direction,
no qualitative analysis, and no meaning
in the perceived circumstance or illustration.
Just made-up words which fit a line,
and you call it poetry?
You schmooze a line of B. S. at the reader,
in trite cliché and rusted phrasal tone,
riding the pretense of the sublime
and you call that poetry?
But then geezzz...? what can you expect
from someone whose only goal
is to piss someone off?
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