Limited Linguistics

 

A word or few can hold within its qualms

Entire universes of mysteries and miseries

From that initial jog into view down to

That final extirpation out of entropy’s final thrust.

Lives, of course are more than words, contain

Wonder and pain, love and disgust in configurations

Well beyond the noun or adjective or even verb.

One must contain a throat to scream, a mind

To dream, that sense immense cannot condense

Existence into the formalities of utterable sound

Or even scribbles symbolizing oddly the lightning of life,

That flash of clash that streaks through every now

May echo in linguistic thunder to trace the wonder

Of reality but there is no way that actuality can be trapped

Into the tangles out of the consonants and vowels enwrapped.

Dominations Of Illusions

We live atop this spinning sphere

Which makes our silly suppositions clear,

There’s no such thing as day or night.

It’s just a shadow peekaboo of light.

A slice of time to chop the fourth dimension

Like an endless sausage into slices, but really,

The Sun’s quite steady in the sky.

It’s we, imprisoned in our spin,

Chase the Sun as if it’s mobile in our sky.

And just as well our solid Moon

Shrinks and grows in occult illusions

A trick of spin to make one grin

At the ease we humans

Swallow confusions.

Delights Of The Unachievable

Bats, rats, and cats. amongst all else, have been ruled

Mysteries, not to speak of all other DNAs alive and their secret ways

To survive.

Denials or confirmations if a bat could smile in human style

Is mere fuss to presume

All else must be nuts like us.

Thus God and coconuts, by some observants,

Tossing aside doubts within, should smile like a bat,

A rat, perhaps a rhinoceros without a hat, therefore,

The scores of good and evil must be obvious

To both God and any boll weevil fussing with the cotton crop,

And pumpkins as well must have a Hell to fear of pumpkin pies

Denied the glories of an afterlife wherein they learn

To play the harp.

The Errors In Terrors

The Errors In Terrors

There are, of course, no excuses

Within the abuses of humanity’s queasy moralities,

Again and again to twist the fist of fear

That renders human decencies irrelevant.

Within the touch of the elephant.

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One must admit raw power is the game

That demeans the dreams of human beasts

Who simply reveal ferocities to subdue most of us

Into frightful submissions.

Obey or cease to exist.

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Thus enwrapped in traps we spend our precious short lives

Imprisoned in servitudes to fears, our years caught, between the gears

Of necessities to peruse the raw questions of why and how we are gifted

With a momentary glance of a century or so, totally dismissed by the

Childish comedies of theologies that suppress the obvious

That guessing is our only tool to school us towards a reality

Most assuredly of no consequence in a star speckled crash

Of gravitation, of time and space and conflicting probabilities. 

Humanity’s Variation

As a follower of SF as a kid back in the 1930s what sruck me struck deep me was the difference between H.G, Wells and other writers was the acknowledgement that, in his story of a time machine that humanity itself would change in strange ways in time. Presently, humanity is changing in many ways with the change in computers and advent of robots to attain somewhat human status, It seems likely that keyboards will vanish to a large degree and we shall say hello to our computers and greet them as equals in conversation wherein they will join in social collections of their own quite different from those of humanity. .

Enterprise And Exitprize

From that first screaming moment

When we discover we are alive,

Trapped in the kaleidoscope of sounds and sights,

Profusions of fearsome shapes, colors, noises,

We are gifted to be bestowed with fears

Of dangers of inherited traditions.

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Good and bad are acquired skills.

The unexpected can be a threat,

Or simply, surprisingly, a joke.

Those initial skills of walking, tasting, talking,

Take root in happy guesses  that in the end

Fail, as understandings crumble into disasters

Out of foolish ignorance of a universe of no concern

For you, for me, for life itself, a minor phenomenon

That occurs as minor accidents like thunder in an electric cloud.

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That sense of you or me must smoulder in each of us.

Not be imposed as disciplines or philosophies or faiths.

As rarities we must behave in caution to observe the musts

And must nots to observe, preserve the most delicate of webs

Of flies or bees, of fertile seas. giraffes and spider webs

So the joys, delights of birds in flights now here

May persevere.  

The Magic Of Uncertainty

Rhyme, like time, can snag random complicity,

The territory in which sound itself jungleizes possibility.

Where the feral guess is in the egg as well as creativity.

To believe to know crushes the embryo of chance where Kant presumes

An inborn inner certainty wherein any rooster cries morning Suns to rise to defeat

The midnight Moon whose ghostly eye spooks the starfull skies.

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The is that is is the fragile glass goblet that we can presume contains the universe where

Here is here and there is there now known to be a mistake where cats can be and be not

In simultaneity until we check, and not forgot. For time is not for giving nor forgiving.

Most oddly Einstein’s quadridimemsionality is slippery in grasping whens and nows and thens

Despite both roosters and their hens unaware that gravity depends on what holds the reins.

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Unpopular as it may be, if time turns out to have extensions more than one,

This universe becomes a puzzle of much huger fun.

Justifying The Unjust

There is no kiss from infinity

Where good and bad that manufactures loves or hates

To anticipate significance to fates is over-ruled in unpredictability,

The mosaic interlock of fields of forces, of guesses into carelessnesses

Akin more to the theologic than the absolute must be viewed

From preference that can be attributed more to greed not need.

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Concerns that burns, obliterates the weak and most vulnerable have gripped,

Have stripped the bulk of humanity’s treasures to those in power,

Be they royalty or popes, or business executors in millenniums on the preposterous contentions

That they are strangely superior rather than simply more viciously, powerfully,

The urge to vanish seems in accord with nearsighted stupidity.

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Habits have multiplied, rabbitwise, to ignore those odd choice’s lack of mind

To foster this phase in a craze to erase the appreciation we sorely need to elect

To acclaim each one of us

Demands equalities of respect.

The Chains Of Change

That the flower might seize the creation of the bees

May seem odd but clear facts cannot be denied.

The pest’s asides that crush the bumble

Demonstrates where technology can stumble

So six legs, now deemed criminal, creates a void

That flowers no more are needed to fulfill.

The violence on violets extends to lilies

In humanity’s worst sillies amongst a horde of others.

Plants comply by masturbation, fertilizing themselves

In desperations, encouraging the loss of yellow dandelions

That blond each Spring, a sad suggestion to arise.

To bee or not to bee

That is the question.

Concession

This bit of time, this bit of space

Leads to expectations of eternities

Which is, obviously, a logical disgrace,

Something we must each face.

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The floppy sloppiness of a life extended

To a century or so is so minuscule a particle of time

Whose fundamental nature is the unexpected

Must be corrected by probability wherein nothing is sure

Remains our stability.

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We are guests that rest on guesses,

Acrobats who trod the creaky stairway of what’s to come

Seduced by rules of thumb of what we prefer

Whether or not our submissions concede

To probability or to greed.

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As a youngster of 98

I find within myself no chance

That eternity with a harp could possibly confer

A musicality simply not there to do

Even sufficiently for a kazoo.

No As Where To Go

There is, of course, this problem to explain

The friendliness of pain,

Since it took Darwin  and his evolution

To reveal that the universe never makes mistakes in invention

Since it has no intention.

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Humanity’s idea that the tangle of force fields which made

Monkeys into people signified

That someone has died therefore there must have been a guide.

But no, no plan exists, and its only instrumental tool is death.

To live, one must die to enforce the lack of fit.

The time of time demands the spin of gears to arrange

The rigidity of change.

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Thus pain can teach.

It is the nose of nos, to catch the scent

Of denial to instruct the dance

To the melody of chance.