the elegances of minutiae, the grandeur of detail
********
inspired by m vogel
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5097839/airborne-part-i/
&&&&&&&
perhaps, unlikely, unwittingly
your fingertips bring you to a familiarity,
stumbling into a new door, taken by the intricate intrigue of any
of:
name, style, handwriting, overlapping language
and sometimes pure chance, impure luck,
leads one to a poem,
that soddens your soul,
the elegances of minutiae, the grandeur of detail,
the rendering of pain so swelling in a heart,
where loss is everything and then there is
absence,
and though a life can be voided,
a poem is forever,
for it lives in a land of luck of the draw
and you read this poem above,
and you are airborne into a deeper sea depth
that makes the chest arrest, the legs limp,
the intensity of the details
insist one clutches his neck
to ascertain that the choking will not be permanent
this falling into a poem
bedevils me,
and tells me the road ahead
so open, so wide, scarcely touched by
footsteps,
and return you do
for a second tasting, a third emulsion,
and though you leave another's poem,
the heaviness of chest informs yourself,
this is now part of my baggage
that cannot be be ever lost,
but will go round and round
the luggage carousel
till it is your turn
to take it home
Sept. 23, 2025
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 10:31 AM UTC
the things physical we could not live without,
the objets d'art that decorate the tapestry of
the primary bones of our existence
each of us differing,
each of us, a different list,
utilitarian is beauty,
thus our individuation
distinguishing and distinguished
a trash can,
purposed for our wastrel wastage,
and yet, beloved by waves of utilization and
discard
only after much usage, kept nearby as a token of
our appreciation, only to be dumped unceremoniously
when the
memories grow overly fulsome
Why you think I reference the common kitchen garbage?
*No, no! why it is our brain,
that be cleansed nightly,
leaving only the wisps of life aprior,
that reruns in wisps, only sometimes,
for better or for worse*,
recycle-able
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
~for Jill~
“from your messages”
elsewhere scribed, a
confession that your comments
be challenges like cool
well water drawn, a
fresh mix and minx,
a two flavored scoop
on a waffle (or sugar) cone,
mmm call mine, flavors of
inspiration and aspirations
it’s 2:46am, one would think
that a deadrose would know
better behavior, but up is up,
and down down down-come
tumbling words, as usual,
each screeching hoarsely
“pick me, pick me!”
uncover your note of appreciation,
side splitting laugh in shame and shock,
that spellcheck has altered intent,
one day, likely a cause of a war,
or e v e n a new poem
peddle a rose
became
“pedal a rose,”
invitingly nonsensical,
my point exactly
but the awake-too-late idiot,
can’t stop me now ~ urgency
has mastered my common
sensibility, thus commanded
me to write and shine
somewhere nearby,(1)
babies be borning,
and flippers of coins,
old humans too,
be expiring on the
sell-by-date
some surrounded,
yet all surrendering
Angels sent to
both sides now,
to ferry them
back home,
their adventures
completed or a
preface begun
Oh
for the ferryman
to ferry them
across rivers whistling
hello my darlings,
to a new home,
with a clean
writing tablet
to inscribe their
owned
future or past,
making their case
for a future or a
memorized posterity
I am dancing on the edge
of that first category,
dancing tap before that ——,
unwilling to cross over
and the angel sent
with collection papers,
mine and JoeBideen,
can’t touch us yet,
while in the middle
of our latest composition
(ya didn’t know?)
where in the world
has this to do with
pedaling roses?
the angels offer enticements,
write like the great ones,
sit at the feet of Leonard & Sylvia,
get introduced to the author of
“Leaves of Grass,”
who will amend and correct
(using spellcheck)
your own new scriptures
for rules From Above,
are carefully careless,
and don’t care about
impossibility so
leap with me,
onto a bicycle of roses,
each pedal a petal,
each tire of woven stems,
our destination is
everywhere, our purpose
to bring scent to those
who still have need to
breathe, and those’d who have
ceased
being needy
forever
filling nostrils
with colors of roses,
and finding poems
on the floor, full writ,
purposely scribbled
and scripted for just
a jilly one,
(just like
this
one)
just lacking a title,
just lacking a name,
customed for a single
customer, now a custodian
of a new born baby
poem
ready to be fedex’d
to its new owner
and deposited in
the this bank here,
right here
so thank you for
revealing my
inadvertent typo,
and aiding in my
quest to bring it to
a new life,
but must petal on,
for new babies are
being born and need
wrapping in a
a bed sheets of white petals,
fresh happily donated from
living roses!
3:19am
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 2:43 AM UTC
a passing balloon piece,
his, within in a message,
makes the imagery explode
with numerous contractions,
even confusions, and requires an
explaining explication and a fresh
application of sealant
men see the words ~ think war or football,
women think of the lyric, phrase in a sad
love ballad that means recall, and a
moistening tear drop that liquifies but doesn’t drop
but that word, pulverized, has an enormity
attached, that conjures destruction total,
s battlefield’s aftermath, tree stumps cut
down, synchronized with bodies in parts,
sole souls departing
without reasoning/justification
the lineage upon her face,
pulverized by sorrow and
no expectations for the morrow,
gaveled into existence,
by losses and carried
for a length of a term ill defined,
as “life”
with no hint of irony, for it’s not life
when it’s spent reminiscing remembering
the dismemberment of what was a
joy taken instantly and perpetually inexplicabe
the tragedies multicolored in black,
a solid stolid state that nary a meter,
talking centi’s here, pinch of breeze
and /or hurricane alters status quo,
both of us have long known that, but
we nonetheless pick up grains, single
alphabet scrambled pieces to put the
whole together again, but it’s a cause
hopeless cause we be
are
pulverized inside so
the chorded chore is
a double whammy
and still
and yet
we say
but,
for we cannot stop our fingers
from their appointed rounds
and we think in term not of hope
but a thought out louded,
the eternal question,
what if
we do not try?
Sep 30, 2024
Sep 30, 2024 at 10:18 AM UTC
it’s early, a stilling stillness
everywhere a spilling,
earbuds enforce the silence
pushed off to one side,
to lay still,
&
let the music
gentle us
into
the
possibilities of the
day a~head,
before us with,
its many complications
three songs about the heart,
love lungs singing and ****
reminders that this loving,
this unscientific unscripted
heart felt notion is but notional,
that heart
is a hard thing to use,
more complications than
mundane body parts,
I’m thinking
what is it,
a regulatory body,
a government,
a conspiracy of certain cells
of cells
to charge a toll
to let the blood be pumped
back and through,
that the billions
may live on
now after many decades
this decadent heart
wonders less what
is it about this
***** that we
breathers
believers
that we
ask so
much?
short sweet answer complete;
work forever
so that we
may never be
a too deaden
flower
and let us peddle our
poems like petals,
*and even petal them
roses to those whose
whose scent lives for
more than
ever
than
just
Sep 21, 2024
Sep 21, 2024 at 10:21 AM UTC
own the title, and perhaps
what follows, but,
“it,”
came & went,
like so many desires,
moments to momentarily,
only to retreat to unreachable
recesses,
shelves in my mind,
for Without Witchcrafon Steam,
no ladder exists
for them be cleansed
or reached,
except when my dreams bleed
it is almost unfair that time is
not
on my side,
that I am eaten alive
by insiders, no
that self~kerrects,
to mere acquaintances,
more or lessened to
NOR
does the peculiar rain’s
that exists in my brain,
permits the razors
not
to go undulled, unsullied,
no,
they are scathed to
unshaven , un-sharpened,
where &
when I search for a
bon mot, invariably
the answer is a 503.
gateway closed to thee/me,
by virtue of your lack of
virtues
nor
is the motif,
my scrappy pieces
of no resistance
for all are closing rapid,
and that’s an endpoint
of sordid…
now the brain bleeds
persistent
no contented to wait
for just dreams,
the rain is hard at work
24/7
Aug 21, 2024
Aug 21, 2024 at 9:09 AM UTC
“Whatever happened to Tuesday and so slow?” ^ or
Absolute Absolution
<>
the slow Tuesday fragrance fills the nostrils,
Van Morrison in my earbuds, reminding that
“This Must Be What Paradise Is Like!
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…”
Sea salt spray spicy sauces the atmosphere,
Many boats, some silent, noisy too, transverse the eyelids,
entertainment of the vista, decorating time’s motionless motion
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…
the voluble hush, delightfully confuses mes sensories,
noisy cacophony orchestral avians, waves, and a human voice,
punctuate the music, absolute absolution of mes sensoriels
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…
Indeed, it is a Tuesday, and the slow of the surround sound,
vanilla spotted with rainbow sprinkling of the noise of life,
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…,
so full, so rich,
so vast the strands of colored variegated, perpetual motionlless
moves me to tears, steals my emotional refuse,
I too,
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here…inside of me…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~—————-~~~~
(1) Lyric from Brown Eyed Girl, Van Morrison
Nov 6, 2023
Nov 6, 2023 at 3:47 PM UTC
"We are creatures of constant awe, curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom, at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow," U.S. poet laureate Ada Limón writes in her new poem that will fly to Jupiter's moon Europa aboard NASA's Europa Clipper mission.
"And it is not darkness that unites us, not the cold distance of space, but the offering of water, each drop of rain."
The poem, unveiled at an event tonight at the Library of Congress, is going to be engraved in Limón's handwriting and affixed to the spacecraft, expected to launch in October 2024, Miriam writes.
The big picture: The Europa Clipper mission follows in the tradition of others — like NASA's Voyagers — that have sent pieces of art representing humanity into the cosmos.
The poem uses water as a thread that binds Earth — and all of its humans — to Europa, a moon with an ocean beneath its icy shell.
For Limón, writing this poem was a very human endeavor.
"The thing I think that makes me the most beautifully overwhelmed is the idea of all the humans that are going to read it," she tells Axios.
The poem, called "In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa," is featured on a NASA webpage where people can sign up to send their names to Europa with the spacecraft.
"I think to have it feel collective is really, really extraordinary to me, because it does feel like it's not my poem," Limón says. "It does feel like a collective poem. And as soon as I wrote it, it felt like oh, this belongs to Earth. This is our poem for Earth."
Between the lines: Sending this poem to Europa is an "evolution" of NASA's Golden Record, which is flying through space aboard the Voyager spacecraft, Robert Pappalardo, Europa Clipper project scientist, tells Axios.
Those records contain sounds from Earth — including music, laughter and animal noises — as well as a map of where we are in the galaxy. They are now billions of miles away, flying through interstellar space.
"This is an outgrowth in that we're not going to the stars," Pappalardo says. "There's no message to aliens here. This is purely a message to ourselves and a symbolic message to Europa."
Sep 16, 2023
Sep 16, 2023 at 2:47 PM UTC
In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa
VEA EN ESPAÑOL
Arching under the night sky inky
with black expansiveness, we point
to the planets we know, we
pin quick wishes on stars. From earth,
we read the sky as if it is an unerring book
of the universe, expert and evident.
Still, there are mysteries below our sky:
the whale song, the songbird singing
its call in the bough of a wind-shaken tree.
We are creatures of constant awe,
curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom,
at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow.
And it is not darkness that unites us,
not the cold distance of space, but
the offering of water, each drop of rain,
each rivulet, each pulse, each vein.
O second moon, we, too, are made
of water, of vast and beckoning seas.
We, too, are made of wonders, of great
and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds,
of a need to call out through the dark.
WRITTEN BY U.S. POET LAUREATE:
portrait of author
Jun 2, 2023
Jun 2, 2023 at 7:41 AM UTC
-for Olson-
this gift of envisioning words repurposed contextually,
untethered not from meaning, but used in a meaningful but
newly birthed, eye delighting manner of speaking, well, so well,
somewhere between copious laughter, adulterated glee
and tears of amazed jealousy, mock myself thinking this poet
makes me feel like English is just my second(ary) language and I sadly speak no other.
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 2:39 PM UTC