Wordplay

2 bee

 

The words that trick

The mind to dance

Through generalities,

Formalities of process

And chance.

That specify specifics,

Exultations of terriffics

Out of quiet pacifics

And then

To photo click

The how and when

Of now and then

Through sound and glance

To snare realities

That grasps and sticks

With bricks that can devise

Edifices to open eyes,

Convey delights, surprise

And realize

By spelling truth with lies.

 

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Temporal Tactics

clockwork

Time does not respond to curse

Or even worse, disdain.

Daily events make it plain

Discontents are better dealt

With, as it’s felt to be,

Full of inconsistency.

Confrontations are dismaying

When regrets start preying

Over losses where conquests

Youth unlocked

Now finds age securely blocked.

One must sense the moves of fate.

Time can clearly demonstrate

Utilities to be adept.

Accept, accept.

A mind trained in compromise,

At gulping down raw surprise

In loss, can gloss

What no more lies at easy hand.

Time is ever in command.

Victory is not in never,

Time can cut, events sever.

Peace can lay in mere “not yet”,

Not yet and no regret.

This Brain

brain

This is where I live,

A place, situated

Five and three quarters feet

Above the street, or floor

Give an inch or more,

So elevated.

Thus placed behind my eyes,

Between my ears,

I exist to surmise

With what signals give

From nerve transmissions supervised

By genetics, peripatetics

Of this beast devised

By evolution’s solutions.

To comprehend what appears.

 

This brain, it’s plain,

Sits in divorce of light, of sound,

Of all that’s around, behind, above,

Touched only by the prompts of sensors

Specific to particulars of

Light, of sound, of touch and more

To be sorted, parsed, creating consequensors

Linking thinking, sinking

Into the morass of what to hate, what to adore

How to rate import, how to score,

Make use or abuse

Of the time to be alive

Or merely deny one must die.

 

This brain is not me.

In its constant fury to maintain,

Sustain vitality to just be,

Pump blood, air, gain

Nutrition, energy, entertain

Strategies, intricacies

To confront complexities

Of time and thunderstorms and snow,

Simply discovering how and where to go.

It assembled me as an implement,

An instrument to compass geographies

It has assembled from the tweaks and nudges

Of its fingertips and eyes.

I try to nullify surprise,

Plot alternates to disaster,

Secure my master.

 

I live and dance and delight

Amongst the fantasies

Of universe, of world, of day and night.

Of these glorious inventions

Out of fragments of sound and sight.

Realities, no doubt, are pluralities,

Trunking, branching, twigging

Immensely integrating possibilities

Of explorations and fertilities.

 

The mental halls of alls,

The palaces of time and space

Configured to contain within their walls

Things that are, that have been,

Sunshines of triumphs, midnights of disgrace.

People elsewhere smile at me,

The dead quite visibly still actively embrace.

 

Whatever might be in ubiquity,

This inner cosmos is my home.

A construct, personal, of desire, hope.

Expectation and despair

Subject to a need for constant repair

Where intellect can flounder and only grope.

 

 

The Burning

Sand glass

Time is fire.

Flames touch and contemplate

The whiz of is,

The fleeing now

And render it to dust.

One must allow

The evanescence of reality

To flow and form,

To turn and burn,

To eviscerate concern

So the lightning flash

Of instantaneity

Transforms all to ash,

To flakes and broken glass

To possibilities unrealized.

Each second is a blind step

Into the dark of what may be

Where one can only guess, not see.

One cannot spot

What is yet not.

There must still be

Some latent possibility,

Some value sense

To recompense

Cloudy unknowingness,

An egress to possess

Solidity.

It is a ghost.

At most a host to hope.

There is the lightest scent,

The vapor of an element

Of security.

A spice in air

To repair despair.

It does not sustain

Nor does it last

This whiff of God,

This gentle touch of tenderness

Cannot spare

Crumblings of reality.

There’s nothing there.

Nothing there.

Mere sweet breeze.

A caress of ease

From God knows where.

 

The Affair

flood photo

Passion is a rising tide

That sweeps through cities of intelligence

Drowning ordered streets

Overturning things loosely placed.

Automobiles knocked askew,

All propriety discarded and disgraced.

 

There is exuberance and joy

In the wreckage of the ordinary.

An independence declaration evoked by primal force,

A brutality that draws its strength

From lunacy out of our serene satellite

That will not be denied,

An overwhelming force one cannot fight.

 

Afterwards, when the water has withdrawn,

When the scenes of aftermath display

The broken furniture, the bedding waterlogged,

The stains up on the wall that mark the height

Where once the primal sea visited to reside.

One squats amid the flotsam in despair

And groans at the memory of when two lives collide.

 

Whatever

Cat

Whatever is the sea where we swim.

It is the sky, the air, the velvet black

Where lay the diamond stars, galactic necklaces,

The pearl moon and the ringed jewel of Saturn.

And through which the fury of the Sun dispenses life.

 

Whatever is the flash and vanish

Of the smallest bits of matter

That come and go in brief haunt

To jiggle emptiness into cosmos.

 

It is magnificence of running horses,

Terrifying flash and grumble of a lightning stroke,

The gentle sway of curtains of a heavy rain,

The majesty of a cat.

 

Whatever is a mother with her child,

The picket fence of day and night through time,

The mindless calamity of tsunami,

The vengeance of atomic fire.

 

Whatever moves the universe,

Relentless and ignorant of good or bad,

Unaware of ugliness or beauty,

Neither kind nor cruel.

 

Whatever made the fog the dog the flea the frog

Tyrannosaurus and Alpha Centaurus,

The apple, ant, asp and ape

Made you, made me.

 

Nor can we say

What it may be.

 

April 19 2016

April 19 2016

 

Old age is a time of disconnect.

Time alive is time to collect all sorts of sensation.

Contemplation requires the stuff of thought.

Of observation, anticipation, raw material,

In flashes, discrete or serial,

To recollect, inspect as significant or not.

What levers sensible reaction,

At times incomprehensible,

Can wriggle aimlessly

In vacuums of non-response.

 

The mind does not mind,

Does not obey the regularities

Of presumption.

Illusion fabricates connectivities

Out of confusion.

Similarities out of color, shape

That would normally escape

Attentions of convention

Invite themselves like strangers

Slipping in through unlocked doors.

They sit and glare at one, uninvited.

 

One cannot offer a polite

Cup of tea to these intruders.

They threaten, appear at night

Or at a pause of reminiscence.

They oppress, but can. sometimes,

Express the illusive repressed uncatchable

That resolves some uneasy finality.

 

So the chase persists.

Scampering after black cats

In midnight alleyways.

No matter how intensely

They are sought,

They are, perhaps,

Better uncaught.