You are a child of the Universe,
bright as the stars in the sky,
alive as the flowers on a meadow,
tall as a tree in a forest,
changing as the waves,
radiant as the sun,
no lesser than ground and the rocks,
the clouds or the snow.
You are a child of the Universe,
holding the landscape along your frame,
the ocean as your eyes; revolting and fierce,
the meadow blooming as your hair,
tree branches as your arms,
and your roots are your mom and dad.
The bags under my eyes tell stories,
just like the rings of a tree trunk.
One ring holds stories of a night spent with too much drinking.
Another holds a long night of loving someone who didn’t love me back.
But the deepest ones are from staying up all night,
waiting for a call
or a text
or a visit.
Just so i know you cared.
But these will never go away,
because you never really did care anyway.
What is more important? Today or the dream that awaits tomorrow?
The deforested; burnt and brittle and all gone aery
Who is more important? The empiricist or poet? Engineer or Sophist?
History recalls the fortuitous and fruitful mind
Have you found a resolution? Or are you destitution incarnate?
Too late for the body, but never for the soul
Which lamented downtrodden path do you follow?
The path paved with gold and epistemological riches
Or atone to the pith of a life in poverty?
Incessant nightmares of the daily worried abyss
What is more important? Me or you?
The view is beautiful on this night of starless and bible black
The night; eternal and sleepless epitaph
For the 21st century schizoid man,
Waiting man, Man with an Open Heart, Model Man
Indiscipline and Satori
On the wheels of an autograph and a welcoming peach tree
To 'Catch Bull at Four'
In the Court of the Crimson King
Matte Kudasai my sweet America
My adorned aphrodisiac, Columbia
Old Father Thames wrapped in the Union Jack
Aboard a white star liner forever on the stagnant sea
And with her comes the warm embrace of peace
Under her breast, an Armada of war ships and a fleet of Avro Lancasters
Aristophanes; he speaks like a Churchill smoking Winston Cigarettes
Above Mt. Olympus, flying high above the mythic Prometheus
Enabled machines of fury on wings by beings of glory
And so the story writhes in the wrinkled veins of history
Slowly buried, the worker stoic on white cotton
Is slowly forgotten
This is an ode to the workers in song
To the soldiers in line and the children still-born
This is the same old adage, motif in the narrative, warm and composed
Dedicated to who by fire, who by depleted uranium
And who by desire
Prometheus is dead
But, the vestal flame can not be ousted
The factories run all night in an electric light liturgy
For the planet
This is for Mother Gaia
And us all
Still in the dark with our broken lantern
i don't love what i can see only what
is good out of the corner of my eye because
what is loved is usually imperfect so i hide
myself behind my eyes and the dreams
that come are beautiful i don't know
when it happened that beauty was so blinding
that i had to turn away read in to that
you'll find a sexual avoidant personality
and that's what the twelve step group calls
it but what do those people know anyway?
they on the other hand, i can look at them
all day without blinking and i try but the
meetings only last an hour. their afflictions
are the same as mine i can read them and all
the grief horror of their pasts i can collec
t the lines in their bodies i can absorb the superficial
horror stories, nobody reveals true horror voluntarily
except anonymously sometimes
but still reading in to it you want know why
it hasn't killed them yet they say there's no room
for love without forgiveness without a mighty
god i want to know if this is true all of these years
of surfing what's in front of me is all i can see
i guess these lines of imposed judgment connections
of guilty tied in knots they pull me along
and hope to find a sturdy tree on main street
A fledgling girl fleeing from the Queen’s sharp verdict,
hunting for a getaway, she exhales in relief
as an old apple tree beckons from the yard
and swathes her in a warm embrace.
The long knotted trunk and crumpled limbs
seem the most exquisite of hiding places.
All the stinging from sharp barbed wire
words swatted away by lovely bounty-laden branches.
Her sores swept away by the summer breeze and tangy
taste of tart fruit. All memory lulled by the gentle murmurs
of the suns rays and the warm matted bark of an old friend.
The princess, now sheltered from snarling dragons
and malevolent witches, rests serenely
in her sanctuary of leaves and daydreams.
But one thing do I know
and that is that I know not
whether or not
I should or shouldn't.
Actually, I don't even know
if I don't know.
If only Socrates were here
to corrupt the youth.
As a child, I used to know
that I didn't know,
but I didn't know
who Socrates was.
When I learned to realize
that I understood
everything was turned upside down.
My neuropsychological processes
are like that of a bubbling machine
that traps itself inside the bubbles
that were created just to look useful.
My intensive brain
is not a freight train,
it is more soft and plain
than a ripening plantain
which was picked from the tree of uncertainty
where Adam and Eve and the serpent can't see
what goes on inside their own minds or why
when whoever planted the idea became tempermental.
The leave that hold my passion come from a tree of a dying breed; and as they die my words die too. There are no more seeds to plant, the earth gives life no more anyway. My dead garden of verses decays, and the weeds take over my memory. What was once a fond thought of the past now depresses me when I see what has become of it. The dead garden filled with the fallen leaves of my poetry will never live again. But I still care for them, as the words once cared for me, even if it means loneliness forever, caring for these dying reeds.
No matter the colour of flesh
when opened all are pink inside'
It's a fascinating fact
honesty most of them lack
Cheeky little monkey
come out of the tree
I have a banana of love
just to share with thee
Please don't gibber and Ape around
come monkey climb down to the ground
let me give you this banana
and show you how pink you are inside
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Wait a minute, is it already Christmas again
Seems I just took down the lights and the tree
Is there no rest for the downtrodden and weary
This season sometimes takes the Merry Gentleman out of me
So I load up the sleigh with the dog and the kids
The old beat up station wagon I drive
On the hunt for this years perfect tree
We'll be lucky if we make it back home alive
As we jingle all the way to the local tree farm
Six kids and a dog singing at the top of their lungs
With only twelve days left before Christmas
My Ho, Ho, Ho, is already long gone
Picking the best tree out within our budget
My wife says Charlie Brown would be proud
I ask smarty pants Mrs. Santa what she meant by that
She'd rather not say with the little elves around
Before an argument even ensues
I've lost the battle before I hit the front line
You wonder how I'm so confident of that
The same thing happened last year at this time
As I struggle to get the tree off the roof of my jalopy
While Jack the dog in the frost is nipping at my toes
I fall to the ground with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head
Waking up to the dogs frozen tongue stuck up my nose
Finally with the tree set up in the front parlor
I notice it leans bad to one side
Taking my chainsaw to alleviate the problem
The gas fumes kill my kids parakeet out right
With Hobby Lobby open late for the holidays
I was able to purchase the product I need
Working late into the wee morning hours
I did a good job shellacking the parakeet
I'm not sure that my kids even noticed
Or brought up the question what for
But they sure like the shinny new ornament
Hanging next to the hamster that disappeared the year before
Well, I survived another preparing for Christmas
As subconsciously I'm being led
To wrap myself in last years present "The Snuggie"
And dream of those sugar plums dancing in my head
there was a christmas mouse a funny chap was he
he had made his home beneath the christmas tree
he liked christmas cake and nibbled on mince pies
he was only little and very small in size
chewing on the nuts and anything in sight
to him was a party on his christmas night