The rarity of clarity,
Surrounding connectivity,
Leaves me looking for charity,
Like a parrot in a tree,
Out on a limb for all to see,
Singing repeatedly,
The way I believe it to be,
A fool in enemy territory,
Tearing their story to shreds,
Turning more and more heads,
With the words I've said,
Treading undetected,
Protected,
I redirected my flow,
Forcing obstacles to show,
The shadow sweeping me away,
Playing within undercurrents,
A torrential experience,
Essential for raising potential,
An existential moment,
Learning what it meant,
Transcribing the event,
Silently sitting present,
Sending off my energy,
To everyone collectively,
Effective immediately,
Take back your power to be,
A sovereign entity,
Eventually fixing the chain,
As clarity reigns over humanity.
We oppose mediocrity, not an anecdote for souls,
but forged they’d be in the furnace, a burning coal.
It breaks up the mundane, a bolt of lightning flash,
aspiring to be heaven’s host, waking from the ash.
We’re not just transcribing, etching a fading script,
but artists of the abandoned, by firelight dipped.
We explore the remnants where society lies low,
where shadows are cast and worn currents flow.
With a rebellious stroke, we embrace the divine,
from the false facades, a truth-telling we assign.
We toss aside the nutrition that dulls the soul’s fire,
and build soaring meditations, climbing ever higher.
Our ink is not just black, but stars’ scattered light,
a testament to spirit, tenacious through the night.
Against the corrosion, a steadfast, gleaming beam,
the poet’s defiant quill, chasing the endless dream.
all the colors, all the lights;
darkness conceals object
on wheels, long..long..long.
blinking in twilight, stretching
miles and miles - I exaggerate;
surely across the width of
across-street-neighbor’s yard.
my mind’s pondering what
was it for? and for that neighbor
or merely parked? now it’s eight
and a trumpet sounds out of gate.
the trumpet calling reveille,
as if I’m back in military; curious
day for a poet; and familiarity too
with cheep..cheep..cheep, etc
etcetera, etcetera (as the king
of Siam would twist his tongue
in emphasis and pride) today,
begins loudly…quietly…beautifully;
now a trill and more - call of forest,
as if the birdies know this poet
is transcribing and describing.
alive, like the sound of music.
alive, another day before the big day.
so begins the celebration; sisters
taking me, who knows where,
after this who-knows-what-compare.
today, I’m winging it…
She loved her child through rivers and mountains,
copied sutras with trembling hands,
offered them at dawn, noon, dusk, and night—
each tear a stream flowing in silence.
She loved her child across endless miles,
chanting through tears like mountain rain.
The wind carried her voice to distant woods,
cold rain soaking into her soul.
Then Mother became mist, fading in midday sun.
Then Mother became fragrance, drifting through dreams.
Then Mother became cloud, white hair at heaven’s edge.
Then Mother became sunlight, a shadow behind the hill.
At midnight, I turn in a distant town,
reading the last line of her sutra.
Her words overflow with longing—
transcribing the Buddha’s teaching across the river.
O love! A forest of white hair
flies back to cover birth and death.
A bird cries from the farthest sky—
I lift my head, and hear the sound of the Unborn.
--- By Nguyen Giac Phan Tan Hai
A contrast of then and now unfolds:
Garrulous Trump’s virtual flood of words,
One of most visible,
Or call it audible,
Wonder, if Trump’s in danger
Of raging in a manger,
Would he wear out his welcome, chirp some birds.
___________________________
Happenings |41.01.2025| humour, USA, political
Note: From laconic Biden to garrulous Trump, the latter is talking so much that the White House staff responsible for transcribing his wisdom is struggling to cope up. In first week, he talked for seven hours and forty-four minutes, 81,235 words, more than ‘Star Wars’ trilogy back-to-back.
An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind
They become thy home, a home that thou can't even find
Seems like seamless love, that doesn't involve mind
Staring without eyes, faceless yet wild
A little too longer to remain what's best to pretend
A little too close to what's going to happen in the end
A little too late to comprehend
A little too late to condescend
Worse the part when it comes to render
Worst it becomes, when dived into,
transcribing the vocabulary not meant to be rendered
Atrocious it is, as surrendered
Bled on paper as thou bled in time
Scarce is translucence
Abundant became reticence
Those words, coy! result of which was no rhyme
A mental landscape of shifting sand dunes.
an intimation that something may be worth writing,
A scrabbling creature crawls bedraggled out from
a saturated darkness.
A Scarab beetles shadow takes hesitant form.
Watch as words ripple above infertile ground,
see how serpentine they flow.
Yet another poem about Creation is arriving.
Adam is sewing pants out of banana leaf's
for Eve.
The young man is jealously aware,
that the googly-eyed monkeys
are eyeing her nubile libido.
Early days in the Garden; Eve is making
mud cakes, they have yet to figure out
how to eat manna.
The scarab beetle, has resorted
to scratching hieroglyphics,
for words alone are no going to complete,
this arid revelation.
Something may be worth,
transcribing - maybe.
Perhaps this envisioning
will find fresh water in a dry place.
The white page has a blank face for a reason.
The arc of teeth
the rising and falling of words
Transcribing tangled knots
sayings nonsensical
Incisors gnashing
bone scrapes the blade.
Keep searching, keep searching,
they are meant to be found,
to be bound by record.
Between both pens at
the side of the skull
Is the archive of every schmuck
sentenced
To receive the cold descent
Upon the neck’s nape
that feels frigid
Is the greeting of
a friend’s final conversation.
What kind of policy is this?
Who is posting, constructing or transcribing more than 10 a day?
There must have been a culprit to enforce this policy.
Some PREMIUM member was it?
I've had
A gutful of this
I'm going to triangulate
My findings and then triangulate
My toast
Mother used to cut it into
Rectangles
Foxy Roxy
And some real whiskey banter
Amazing milkshakes
But no
Electricity at night
The contents of my brain
Word-Worker
Thee procurement and collection
Of this smattering of letters
No matter your predilection
For future employment of type setters
To criss and cross all the tees and eyes
Paying close attention to the prose
Transcribing thine inner reflections width and lengthwise
In all subsequent rows
By paying out the aforementioned
It may be held in contention
That without future authorship; I would be un-pensioned.
16NOV20
Quatre-vingts jours
On Duolingo and I’m still
in the present tense which
is fine as I still make mistakes
masculine et feminine are a bit
of a toss but I’m getting better
lesson by lesson and I have
cent et dix-huit crowns et
trois cent quarante-six lingos
whatever they are.
I’m best at translating français écrit
to written English and am getting
better at transcribing français parlé
but to be honest, I must admit that
mon français oralé is halting at
best and it’s not helped by the
covid-19 self-distancing/lockdown
as my Continuing Education course
FRENCH II is in limbo with every
thing else and we haven’t had a class
for weeks and when I look at the
class notes it seems we’re stuck
au milieu de passé impartait
et futur proche.
For years it had flown through dim canyons,
hollows where the mute sheltered in echoing caves.
Poems shifted loose and gearless.
Words darted for cover as if caught
in an empty bell tower.
On tongue-chilled days it would croon inarticulately
as it sang beneath jawbone rafters.
Then one drunken night I felt it clearing its windpipes,
coaching a squeaky organ into yawps of utterance.
I can see it now, a raw unlovely thing,
a creature hammered through gurgling fissures,
grown stark with a transpiring clarity.
I would mislay it like a lost penny,
go crazy to find its untrod trail again,
then it would return like a tramp begging at my door.
I hear it knocking now – a homeless angel
eager to shed the next paltry revelation
in a foundling language.
No longer is it a chance sighting,
no longer a luminous flutter on dark walls;
it is red of lip,
a painted vowel in my unbolted mouth.
A mouth that now divulges,
and sometimes in a dull turning year
may say something worth transcribing
for the ears of other madmen.
who can survive in this maze/ or stay alive in these days/where our lives are like islands, and the silence enslaves/we're lions in cages:/tying up the violence and rage/ the tides and the waves/ are risin, we've arrived in an age/ where-i-must confide in a page/ transcribing my sage/ testaments/ cuz we're dyin, depraved/ defiant, decayed and desolate/ wrestlin pride/ like a great, mighty leviathon/ that's lyin in wait/ tryin to slay/ by blinding with strange/ science and vain guidance that we followed/ it swallowed us whole/ it filled us with nonsense/ and hollowed our souls/ we've lost all our control/ our world's crumblin apart/ we're stumblin in darkness/ so lost and numb in the heart/ and i'm just tryin to find peace/ as a blind beast/ before my time ceases/ I hope this rhyme reaches/ the Divine's feet/
Serenity transmits through my veins like blood
Amidst beautiful flowers of roses and lilies
Mixed in dazzling bright colours
Like the shades of a rainbow
Huh! This ambience smiles at me
Like the morning sun
Gosh!
Tiny droplets drip a pool of cold sensation on my quiet skin
With the East-wind humming its motion into my nerves
Yet, splits of mountain dew rains on me
Like a sensational mild kiss
From my creator
Hmm! This feels like heaven on earth
I see twinkling little birds
Twinkle-off my twinkle little eyes
Whistling sonorous tunes
Borne out of a genuine heart
Yet, dancing to the rhythm of chromatic tones
Birthed in the wind
And like a gentle touch from the wind,
This atmosphere melts my skin
With a romantic feel from within
Transcribing its impulses
Into goose bumps in me like a pin
Hmm!
I feel like the queen of an orchard
Sited beside the pool of Lake Chad
By night eleven figures came to me
Unlocking doors that sealed shut long ago.
We travelled forward on a darkened sea
To sleepy Somnus’ cave, hidden below.
Eternal slumber gave me rich insight,
Transcribing knotted weavings made by Fates.
The desert day so soon becomes the night.
A pink adenium opens the gates.
The broadened wings of Letum drive whirlwinds
Destroying yet defining futile man.
This changeless contract Saturn can’t rescind.
This boundless desert wastes the best laid plans.
The vision fades away, the figures leave.
The Moon is made anew, no need to grieve.
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