smoke-scribe - Hello Poetry

of the molecules of the water they will swim in, that flow by my citybounded abode in a tidal estuary heading fir dispersal and aspersions into the Great Atlantic Ocean which I will visit come the spring, and are etched yet then within the relentless waves of the those very same atoms, upchurning and upspitting white foam which will very lively likely contain new poems, perhaps, perhaps even, those writ by fish in their dreams, for who actually knows the original origins of the dreams we drink daily, not I, who finds them when the wet smoke of fog of evaporated water kisses my lips! P. S. perhaps I have written poems authored by the very same fish you held in your grasp once upon a time in a photo)

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Jan 2, 2025

Jan 2, 2025 at 12:19 PM UTC

Mr. Thomas W Case: I do not dream of fish, but

of the molecules of the water they will swim in, that flow by my citybounded abode in a tidal estuary heading fir dispersal and aspersions into the Great Atlantic Ocean which I will visit come the spring, and are etched yet then within the relentless waves of the those very same atoms, upchurning and upspitting white foam which will very lively likely contain new poems, perhaps, perhaps even, those writ by fish in their dreams, for who actually knows the original origins of the dreams we drink daily, not I, who finds them when the wet smoke of fog of evaporated water kisses my lips! P. S. perhaps I have written poems authored by the very same fish you held in your grasp once upon a time in a photo)

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scribing with smoke and utter devotion ———————————————- **** *half an orange, half a grapefruit, on a crystal dish, resting on a fine china plate, Royal Worcester, from England retrieved, in a smoke cloud, upon my chest appears the coverlet up to my chin pulled, my arms tucked in tight, side by side, the light turned off, the television too, who? in a smoke cloud, catch a faintly glimpse the menu does not mention love, or utter devotion, no recollection of ordering either, and yet, here I-am, well served, piping hot and well chilled, scribing of one’s shadow, she who never disappears she, whose never disappoints, late in the evening, early in the morning, a mirage, a ghost, magical elusive, lightest touch of a forehead kissed, a tingle for evidence, but not the only proof of her* utter loving and devotions appearance

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Apr 18, 2020

Apr 18, 2020 at 9:15 AM UTC

scribing with smoke and utter devotion

scribing with smoke and utter devotion ———————————————- **** *half an orange, half a grapefruit, on a crystal dish, resting on a fine china plate, Royal Worcester, from England retrieved, in a smoke cloud, upon my chest appears the coverlet up to my chin pulled, my arms tucked in tight, side by side, the light turned off, the television too, who? in a smoke cloud, catch a faintly glimpse the menu does not mention love, or utter devotion, no recollection of ordering either, and yet, here I-am, well served, piping hot and well chilled, scribing of one’s shadow, she who never disappears she, whose never disappoints, late in the evening, early in the morning, a mirage, a ghost, magical elusive, lightest touch of a forehead kissed, a tingle for evidence, but not the only proof of her* utter loving and devotions appearance

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why the occurrence of something highly improbable should be inherently noteworthy Here is a way to produce Here is a way to produce an outcome a poem almost certainly almost certainly never seen before in never seen before in human history human history and never to be repeated: and never to be repeated: Shuffle a deck of cards. Shuffle an alphabet. The resulting deck, assuming The resulting deck of letters the cards are shuffled correctly, if the letters are shuffled correctly should only occur on average should only occur on average every 52 *51 *50 *... 21 shuffles, every 26 *25 *24 *... 21 shuffles, because this is the number because this is the number of possible permutations of of possible permutations 52 cards, all equally likely. 26 letters, all equally likely. This number is incomprehensibly large, on the order of 1068 or 534 using letters 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000, (or half that with an alphabet) Every person on earth could write a gibberish poem once every nanosecond for the expected lifetime of the universe and not even put a dent in that number. Is this why then is there not a GOOD poem written every time letters are shuffled about the astronomically unlikely event that just took place? Because letters are not numbers, the subset of sequenced associations called words (in the English language) is about a mere ~ 220,000~ But, each year, an estimated 800 to 1,000 new words are added to the English language That is still a heck of a lot of possible combinations and is the reason why the occurrence of something should be inherently noteworthy at all. So writing a new combination of words is still pretty difficult, and writing an intelligible and intelligent mind moving combination is a rare thing indeed. Should you happen to write a poem and get even a single read, that is a pretty miraculous thing because the subset of the billions of English reading persons on Earth who also read poetry habitutualy read is the square root of pi, or 1.7724537398758821888. which ain’t a lot of people. So, if you wrote a really good poem today and a couple of people read it, liked it, that highly improbable event is highly improbable, about the same chance that someone else exists with your exact DNA (excluding any identical twin) is a reallly low number so, consider yourself really, really special. I do.

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Mar 25, 2019

Mar 25, 2019 at 8:12 AM UTC

why the occurrence of something highly improbable should be inherently noteworthy

why the occurrence of something highly improbable should be inherently noteworthy Here is a way to produce Here is a way to produce an outcome a poem almost certainly almost certainly never seen before in never seen before in human history human history and never to be repeated: and never to be repeated: Shuffle a deck of cards. Shuffle an alphabet. The resulting deck, assuming The resulting deck of letters the cards are shuffled correctly, if the letters are shuffled correctly should only occur on average should only occur on average every 52 *51 *50 *... 21 shuffles, every 26 *25 *24 *... 21 shuffles, because this is the number because this is the number of possible permutations of of possible permutations 52 cards, all equally likely. 26 letters, all equally likely. This number is incomprehensibly large, on the order of 1068 or 534 using letters 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000, (or half that with an alphabet) Every person on earth could write a gibberish poem once every nanosecond for the expected lifetime of the universe and not even put a dent in that number. Is this why then is there not a GOOD poem written every time letters are shuffled about the astronomically unlikely event that just took place? Because letters are not numbers, the subset of sequenced associations called words (in the English language) is about a mere ~ 220,000~ But, each year, an estimated 800 to 1,000 new words are added to the English language That is still a heck of a lot of possible combinations and is the reason why the occurrence of something should be inherently noteworthy at all. So writing a new combination of words is still pretty difficult, and writing an intelligible and intelligent mind moving combination is a rare thing indeed. Should you happen to write a poem and get even a single read, that is a pretty miraculous thing because the subset of the billions of English reading persons on Earth who also read poetry habitutualy read is the square root of pi, or 1.7724537398758821888. which ain’t a lot of people. So, if you wrote a really good poem today and a couple of people read it, liked it, that highly improbable event is highly improbable, about the same chance that someone else exists with your exact DNA (excluding any identical twin) is a reallly low number so, consider yourself really, really special. I do.

41

“*I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing, knowing your precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken, screened through five perceptions I am the word weaver setting the loom for each peculiar requisition, a havened place of restoration as best I can, for this weaving my eye’s recollections perfect, no imagination needed*” imagine that

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Sep 29, 2018

Sep 29, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC

I am the smoke of return and rest

“*I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing, knowing your precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken, screened through five perceptions I am the word weaver setting the loom for each peculiar requisition, a havened place of restoration as best I can, for this weaving my eye’s recollections perfect, no imagination needed*” imagine that

13

let the lying begin first, it's ***** - not *********** don't pretend its scientific, like geology, physiology. It's just *** raw and without boundaries. you watch. you fantasize. you deny. then when your conscience questions, you lie, first and foremost, to yourself. what's your favorite category? got a favorite site? or you like to explore, never satisfied, more? more. Let the hunger games begin. who can lie with straightest face? filter me off of your list, unless you ready to follow me, to where truth rules, no punches pulled, raw is real. *** is raw. real is *** otherwise, why would you still be reading this poem? gotcha.

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Sep 6, 2018

Sep 6, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC

***** (let the lying begin)

let the lying begin first, it's ***** - not *********** don't pretend its scientific, like geology, physiology. It's just *** raw and without boundaries. you watch. you fantasize. you deny. then when your conscience questions, you lie, first and foremost, to yourself. what's your favorite category? got a favorite site? or you like to explore, never satisfied, more? more. Let the hunger games begin. who can lie with straightest face? filter me off of your list, unless you ready to follow me, to where truth rules, no punches pulled, raw is real. *** is raw. real is *** otherwise, why would you still be reading this poem? gotcha.

25

“is this the hill I want to die on?” there are certain questions I ask myself filters, lines in the mental sands, rubicons, so denominated by me. which loosely translated means is this battle worthy of dying, fighting over? the question comes so frequently I wonder what’s wrong with me. always instigated by a human being and every one quick to the draw I ask the question twice - most times once to them. then to myself by now my children know, to ask themselves first, so once is enough

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Aug 25, 2018

Aug 25, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC

is this the hill I want to die on?

“is this the hill I want to die on?” there are certain questions I ask myself filters, lines in the mental sands, rubicons, so denominated by me. which loosely translated means is this battle worthy of dying, fighting over? the question comes so frequently I wonder what’s wrong with me. always instigated by a human being and every one quick to the draw I ask the question twice - most times once to them. then to myself by now my children know, to ask themselves first, so once is enough

13

Imagine that I could write a salve, compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal, even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh, just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far another bruise joining the cast like a floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability imagine that where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction, borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters, children, return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain imagine that the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be imagine that a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in, in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up and the stony chest is breathing lungs free imagine that and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing, knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken, they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed imagine that you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical, cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins when we imagine that for this how new healthy cells are born quiet-now, go, imagine-that, now*

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Aug 18, 2018

Aug 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC

imagine that

Imagine that I could write a salve, compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal, even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh, just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far another bruise joining the cast like a floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability imagine that where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction, borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters, children, return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain imagine that the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be imagine that a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in, in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up and the stony chest is breathing lungs free imagine that and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing, knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken, they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed imagine that you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical, cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins when we imagine that for this how new healthy cells are born quiet-now, go, imagine-that, now*

32

The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination) was not unexpected but its fury was without compare, poet awake in semi-preparation living by water should be a human right for all, even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to perspective we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in an IMAX 3D theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined, sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment stand before the screen, poets arms outstretched as a supplicant, the light of the lightening passes through him, yet , behind me, she still sleeps then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say: ”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth” bold poet window worshipping risky answers: “but who will know if even a poet cannot declaim sights no one else has seen?” ”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly, do you trust your imagination human, to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?” write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles ***”then you may call yourself a miracle too, a poet***”

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Aug 12, 2018

Aug 12, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC

The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination)

The Violent Storm by the Water (Do You Trust Your Imagination) was not unexpected but its fury was without compare, poet awake in semi-preparation living by water should be a human right for all, even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to perspective we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in an IMAX 3D theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined, sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment stand before the screen, poets arms outstretched as a supplicant, the light of the lightening passes through him, yet , behind me, she still sleeps then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say: ”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth” bold poet window worshipping risky answers: “but who will know if even a poet cannot declaim sights no one else has seen?” ”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly, do you trust your imagination human, to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?” write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles ***”then you may call yourself a miracle too, a poet***”

31

Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am she asks me good naturedly which to wish me - a happy this or that and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising hot **** rueful smile and unruly reply a solid out loud Ha! neither either or he writes and so believes for I am a god loving man, whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed that I may call Sam I Am and the answer to your question is why not for most quests and questions can be well-answered why not! my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria and thus whose to say his rightful name, is not Sam I Am my choice and the big D (a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre) has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of low volume taciturn tacit acceptance so wish me a u happy anything you want-to-call-it-day don’t matter. but know this u were there when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger, when this Sam-Approved-Appeared poem was born and Sam blessed it with a hot **** she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly “there are no lines or lies in my writings there are no definitions and perception is only your truth”

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Apr 1, 2018

Apr 1, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC

Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am she asks me good naturedly which to wish me - a happy this or that and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising hot **** rueful smile and unruly reply a solid out loud Ha! neither either or he writes and so believes for I am a god loving man, whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed that I may call Sam I Am and the answer to your question is why not for most quests and questions can be well-answered why not! my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria and thus whose to say his rightful name, is not Sam I Am my choice and the big D (a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre) has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of low volume taciturn tacit acceptance so wish me a u happy anything you want-to-call-it-day don’t matter. but know this u were there when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger, when this Sam-Approved-Appeared poem was born and Sam blessed it with a hot **** she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly “there are no lines or lies in my writings there are no definitions and perception is only your truth”

40

my sally my Sally a wonderful double entendre for it’s time, my internal clock chiming to sally forth and give the due to where dew in her garden resides, poetry becoming sweet tears in all our eyes when the philipina rain thirst quests our quenching there is no reason no request for this sally poem but a tickling thought suggests that a good friday. could be the trigger, or that pandora bringing me Ave Maria as I compose when the due and the dew and the do are a trinity the best poems are the un-requested but the most needed, the most holy

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Mar 30, 2018

Mar 30, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC

my sally (when the due and the dew and the do are a holy trinity)

my sally my Sally a wonderful double entendre for it’s time, my internal clock chiming to sally forth and give the due to where dew in her garden resides, poetry becoming sweet tears in all our eyes when the philipina rain thirst quests our quenching there is no reason no request for this sally poem but a tickling thought suggests that a good friday. could be the trigger, or that pandora bringing me Ave Maria as I compose when the due and the dew and the do are a trinity the best poems are the un-requested but the most needed, the most holy

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