I watched awe-struck as God painted the sky today.
On a bright ice-blue canvas he splashed a silver-grey hue.
By joining his breath with the works of his brush strokes
he formed pictures of dragon, dog and kangaroo.
Then he blew them apart to float through the ether
and dissipate slowly in the depths of the void.
I contemplate time and the past that's retreated
faded and lost, like the clouds seemingly destroyed.
My vision is drawn to a small receptacle
that holds the ashes of the dusty clothes you wore.
While here in this cold world of manifest secrets
my heart knows a fear I will see you no more.
Then I remember sights of the heavens at night
when cloaking sun's brightness can no longer conceal
another world comprising millions of candles
lighting directions, other places to reveal.
And I realize that all is not as it seems.
Things may be invisible but nothing is gone.
And like the day's artwork of God's lustrous painting,
we simply change form, blend with creation, move on.
Something very transcending about art --
my poison, Poetry! I think of the pen
or keyboard as a wand. I wave and the
images of my mind appear, mystically
in the framework of a composition --
they do, sort of, materialize out of nowhere;
often not intending to write. Then, possessed
a spirit substance gushes from depths of fertile
consciousness! A place I fain where demons
and angels are at constant Chess. I merely
a receptacle for their vehement rivalry. The grace
of God, my goblet shape – they pour in and
out of me...when my session done, a rinse...and
ready to go again.
There is a brain
and there is the Mind,
not necessarily the
same -- one the vehicle
one the fuel
one the receptacle
one the essence
one the apparent reality
and one the metaphysical
seem --
as Poe said, perhaps
really all "A dream within
a dream" --
it took quite a while
for us to acclimatise
to throb of magnetism
incessantly cascading within
we are now acceptant
and heart is receptive
to the perennial pulse
of God’s wondrous heartbeat
ego having been burnt
in the fire of divine bliss
our hollowed out form
Is a receptacle for soma nectar
there is no one here
save soul presence
witnessing in delight
beauty of the dance underway
Mister Cat adjusted his spectacles,
Upon his nasal receptacle,
As he spoke to his kittens three.
Why must you climb the one tree
In Widow Calico's prim front yard?
You know there are trees out back
Without fear of a sneak thwap attack
From Widow Calico's trusty broom.
Now you must play in your room,
While I placate the old shrew
With a fresh pot of mousy stew!
Oh Monchielle of Love
thou fittest me like glove
inside His palm, His child,
aiming up like a dove
of love, truthful and wild.
Oh Monchielle of Love
unnotched from up above
ye knowest when to heal,
without the earthly shove
of sheltered, human creel.
Oh Monchielle of Love
your written word thereof
tells me I am worthy
Thou shalt be my ringdove
in my lonesome journey
Oh Monchielle of Love
receptacle of love
pannikin of my soul
thou fittest me like glove
cored inside, heaven's cove.
Whilst pensive and serene
and seated on the loo
contentedly having
my morning number two
my serenity was shaken
torn asunder
by a massive mistake
a terrible blunder
someone had installed a new toilet-roll
hopelessly bungling this very simple op
the paper, oh horror of horrors
was not being fed from over the top
as quick as a flash
not missing a beat
I swopped it around to feed as it should
restoring my serenity with this simple feat
business now concluded
with a nod of approval I watched it unroll
but, this glaring absurdity
had taken its toll
with hands properly washed
and soap in its receptacle, right side up
I saw something else that had my nerves all ajangle
another absurdity whose jig was now up
the towel on its rail
was not folded in two
but haphazardly bunched
and hanging askew
drying my hands
I folded it neatly as it will be on show
then hung it back up
ends equidistant from the tiled floor below
leaving the bathroom a tad overwrought
I immediately felt my sanity slipping
with a nice cup of tea and some toast on my mind
my senses were assailed by the kitchen tap dripping.
Prophesies by seers may be derided and prophets may be lampooned. But time may prove them right" By Poet.
There was none to listen to him.
His words were like:
-A cry in the wilderness
that broke and shattered on woody trunks.
-The howl of a lone wolf
that rose in the dead of the night.
-The cry of an infant
that told the world, it was hungry.
-The cacophony of discordant orchestra
that left a jarring effect on the listeners.
His words sounded meaningless,
to a world that spoke a different tongue.
With no receptacle, his words like heated waters
evanesced into vapour and billowed upwards,
like coils of smoke to freeze into clouds.
One day it rained down,
quite unexpected…….
with thunder and lightning!
It was never my intent to collect the creepy crawlers
but I couldn't make myself swat them with a broom.
I thought they might be useful one day, on brawlers
who make trouble, like aphids on roses in bloom.
So, the meshed bag became the receptacle I used
to keep them alive. One by one, I joined them together
but fed them daily. Of spider abuse I'd not be accused!
I watched them interact in the prison tied with a tether.
There was no fighting among them when there were three
Respectfully, they kept their distance in separate corners
even when I threw in a fly, a moth and a tiny dead flea.
I wondered if they died, would there have been mourners?
It seems arachnids could teach humans a lesson in humanity
When my bag began to move on its own, I knew it was time
to set them free. You may question my sanity and the inanity
of releasing the creatures but keeping them would be a crime.
Where would they best be turned loose in one fell swoop?
The rose garden! Infested with pests on which they'd feast!
I opened the bag carefully and they marched as a troop,
conquering heroes of the Rose War, each bug eyed beast!
NATURE IN FLOWER...
R O S E !
Before the flower,
the seed,
before the seed,
mystery...
After the seed,
The button,
after the button,
what will it be...!?
After the button,
the fragile outline...
Then.. vegetable
flower receptacle...
blooms!
After unfolding,
surprise bursts...!
the flower... magnificent flower
the Rose...!!!
Marvel films have a way of grabbing our interest.
Superman, Batman, and Robin can't interrupt.
Superheroes are a common childhood fantasy.
Some dwell on villains who are full of fallacy.
Everyone wishes they could fly or be a superhero.
The pride of possessing their own unique billow.
Our desires for a flight might shift each day.
And I've been obsessed with writing essays.
When I'm upset, I strive to be clever and back.
There are also fine days, that I wish to be on track.
Children who seem to be ill, suffering, and insane
I wish I could heal away their pain and grief again.
I often wish I could create money out of thin air.
But then I realize that I would surely turn evil there.
Instead, I'd yearn to bestow hope on the world!
Probably, alike garlic, finding a cure is absurd.
Then I realized that all of us held distinct skills.
We all are born with imagination, and this is real.
That incredible receptacle you name your body.
It's artwork, as love, passion, and care to embody.
March 22, 2023
Marvel Superheroes Supervillians and Superanimals Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
ALL ABOUT NOTHING
Long before modern nihilism
Plato spoke of khora,
the receptacle of nothingness
as the existential foundation
of all things shown and known.
Nonsense, the men of Athens said
for we stand firmly on the ground,
to which Socrates replied:
If no space is in and about the ground
how could you or me be found?
(And in China in this axial age
Lao Tzu told skeptical men the same:
The origin of things had no name
but as the nameless eternal Tao
for which nothing could be shown or known.)
Witnessed something today so unbelievable
Couldn't believe my eyes
Lounging in a comfy easy chair at Starbucks
It was busy in the store as usual
Everyone buying a cup of their favourite brew
People filling up with the necessities
Cream, sugar, and stir sticks
One young chap picked up all he needed
But accidentally knocked a white plastic cup on the floor
Then walked away without a thought of picking it up
That in itself was bad enough
Astonished, I then watched perhaps twenty or thirty people
Pass by it, around it, and over it
Without a single one stooping to pick it up
And deposit it in the garbage receptacle
I was totally blown away in utter disbelief
Until finally I could stand it no longer
Got up, walked over, picked it up and disposed of it
As I write this, I am still flabbergasted
What has happened to people
They certainly saw it lying there
A white plastic cup on a dark brown wooden floor
Is it below their dignity to perform this simple act
Is their day so filled with such important things
That they don't have the two seconds it takes
To stoop down, pick it up, and dispose of it
I am still shaking my head
The play of soma
Humming magnetism
Purring bliss eddy current
Blessings of the divine Mother
As each cell of our form is ignited
As a receptacle of God’s light
Transfixing our attention
As rapture cascades
By day and night
Silent thunder
15-March-2022
O thousand Tongues sing, sing of Christ
Jesus, Chosen vehicle, human receptacle
Of fatherly fondness, for who would be wise
Admitting we do what we ought not, not what we ought
That we sin, inclination native to Adam's race
II
O sing of Jesus the Christ; He is Grace
O sing for Jesus Christ, whose willingness
To get up on a cruel cross, then rise to righteousness
Like robes carry us "children" to Trinity's side
For forgiven sins cleansed: He paid already for each life
III
O sing for Jesus, not that we stopped sinning
But because in Him Grace gives daily cleansing
In Him we have victory over Satan, trials, tempting
Victory in His Blood, winning in His Name, communing ...
With bread and cup, He said, worthy of remembering
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