Critical thinking for poetry reading
July 30, 2023 5:00am
The Atmosphere and the Environs
Be attuned, uniquely sensitized, to all that is extant,
outside (the weather, the landscape, the sky), eyeing the slow steady changes occurring for you do not live in a vacuum, and these modifications of your immediate surroundings will, must
impact the writing.
I awake to thick fog, and only the outlines of the trees, though grayed and invisible only within a short distance, are undeniably present, like giant figures, shrouded and menacing, but immobilized. This fog, is it emblematic of my state of mind or just a modifier, a tangential influencer of what I will now be writing.
To be foggy when first you stir to a day ahead full of knowns and unknown, is not unusual even if the shy sky hints at a
bluer clarity to,come. For the morning fog is the story of transitioning, as humans do repeatedly throughout their days and lifetimes. In particular when passing from the fog of nighttime sleep,oft populated by terrors and all,we suppress, morphs into the no man’s land of dusky consciousness.
As I write the fog outside is clearer as the morning light from
above changes, and though yet present, forms remain i distinct, modestly identifiable, but overall, the world is u known and possibly full of dangers. The dangers I sense are in my own
foggy interior, a 1/ reciprocal of the outside, matching and moving lockstep with the outside haze. Thus, I do not know what will be the next words I write, though the words will,emerge of their own accord, or rather from my knowledge base, but not asking permissions, they come of willfully, voluble though unspoken, from the silence within me that is
confluences by the silence and the slow sea changes in my exterior world.
Even now, some few moments later, the distance is hinted at,
what could be a body of water, a mass of land, is shadowy
haloed, there, but not there, ghostly but discernible.
Am I a ghost or discernible? I could bite my flesh and presumably feel and view the test results confirming but confounding,my apparatus is functioning, but instead I settle
for the assumption that placement of theses new arrangements of old words is proffered proof enough,
that therefore I am.
But in doing so I have crosse the line into
My Interior Domains
Various lands, territories, states, states of being, consciousness, conscience, moral frameworks, goals,
needs,some conflicting are being slow stirred in the cauldron
of my ****** soup. Here in lies what we think are the sources
of our expression, slow stirring repeatedly, an admixture I add
and remove from, maintaining a semblance of weighted balance, but no guarantee at all,of being balanced, even remotely in balance, or just ***** and the weights of what is in
side of mean, is always tilting, and one mental gyroscope is working overtime and all the time to keep me satisfied that I will not perish in the next few seconds, though I might!
Ah, those pesky know unknowns, that cause us to expel
our particular soupçons of rambling, transgressing notions
(I don’t think of them as thoughts, just passerby’s, who
of course,can be on or off course, mine, or yours imbibed by
mine eyes, or my decaying hearing, or any of my subpar
sensing sensors, that are the inviolable flowing blood of my body/ mind time continuum.
(An aside: the exterior world goes brighter as the sun rises, but in no,way is there clarity; for all is as before, clouded over on earth as it is in the heavens, just a shade, a tad of degrees brighter, so still and always, still transitory, as if that process could ever be halted and frozen into place. Proofs: no animal
movement is visible, no soundings risible, no activity though we are close,nearby the official morning hour of 6:00AM.
Dear-me! How could I have failed to discuss notation of the measurements of time, markers that are essential to writing down our history. “For it was at this time” an existential and essential tool, one half of the denoted time and place intersectionality of our white lies and soulful black holes,
some of the most critical factors in properly aligning ourselves
in the universe relative to where you are thus fixing the distance between us that is the challenge of why we write,
i.e. to bring us ever closer.
(An aside: the moisture of the atmosphere coats the window,
but in strange QR type patterns, but my camera is unable
to successfully open and opening their secret doors.
I fact I AM suddenly sleepy and will return to this missive
Tat a latrt
time and place as of yet unknown?
so, later.)
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 4:38 PM UTC
Fall Leaves Fall
by Emily Brontë
<>
*Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.*
<>
the summer visage long faded from caramel,
to a bastardized version of ugly dirt brown,
the streets empty of traffic and the silence
is a sadder shade of lesser peace, the vibrancy
given way to sharper clearer long division disagreement
my worrisome peaks when the trees
denuded, less shelter than ever.
no cover offered, we stand divided,
visible lines of demarcation,
unable to hide, from each other,
unable to hide, from our selves,
the briefer day transits quicker
into night’s decay, and the words
we utter and state,, hollow sounded,
have no echo ability, no resounding,
and we all grow silenced, partly in
shame, partly because partisan words
bring no gain, or the satisfaction of a
response that makes us say ah ha! you see!
the leaves crumble breneath tired treads
and forested footsteps long ago forgotten,
beige dust that the wind swirls, delighted
by its new power to spread its grounded
memories of human interference into
a coverlet of dust
this fallen solitude hurts me, for it is in
opposition to the joy gay screams of children
in to water running, the oohs and ahs, of freedom’s fireworks gloried colors proclaiming we are “one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all”
Nov 5, 2024
Nov 5, 2024 at 3:13 PM UTC
typo of the first degree
meant to type passed,
better to letter the error,
write the poem you knew
was the one of the litter inside,
stewing & brewing in the internal
of you, regardless of the woulda
shoulda coulda of poetic eye~hand~brain
trinity of discombobulation…
we passed a 110% good-god-
another-glorious-day—perfect
in every aspect of deep respect,
lazing in sun and shade, no
matter, for the cool customer
of gentling breeze comforts
the global populace and each
draws comfort, deposits solace,
from the timeless day that slowly
slips inside us, a blessing for the
senses, that are inadequate to
praise it properly, ‘cept with a
nod of appreciation for the great
blessing that on us has been
bestowed…
we read, I write, bring her a
coffee unasked, for the chip
secreted by me in her temporal
lobes, lobs me a silent alarm:
snacks required!
we heartily dinner debate,
turkey burgers or mushrooms better?
Bun, No Bun?
Salad ingredients consumes a
de minimus 5 minutes before the
holy silence of our total environment,
soothes the phony discordiality of our
pretense, that there are two sides here,
not just hers, no matter what🙄
any diplomatic observer might
think…
the bunnies sense our presence,
emerging from the cool dark
of the shaded burrows dug beneath
our redwood deck, & get fed baby carrots,
that they pretend not to see until the babies
are summoned, from beneath the ledge!!!
the deck, that is now in its forty fifth year,
grows ancient stronger with a good annual,
steam blasting face lift, bettering with age,
keeping pace with the creatures resting on it,
just above the bunnies below’s steerage deck,
though the humans graceful age with no
artifices or outside help, except the air,
its salty flavoring, and the panoramic view’s
total encompassed comforting…
so the day passes, and it’s added
to our cull of perfection, distinctly
better than the day prior but who
can be sure, not I, for the poems
come easy, the music delivers delight,
the books read, additive to the engine
of the human body of know-more-ledge,
weighty matters, but zero caloric, and
thus, well deserved and served for dinner’s
chatter banter + desert with caramel M&M’s (1)
and the poet signals that the poem near complete,
and the trad sign off, today unnecessary, no need to query,
Where is Shelter?
for we are all a day wiser, and smile,
the answer before and inside us,
and the only open question remaining,
can heaven be better, and we secret wink,
cause the answer is. too obvious to we restees,
here, here is heaven, and go back to giving thanks
for our lucky stars…
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 3:28 PM UTC
Thursday
week has slo~mo’ed, edged on, visitors gone,
two and half rain days, but a mere coincidence (?),
it’s appearance, their concomitant dis-appearance,
inclemency has kept us closeted and cozily, but not a-lonely,
for the world’s tumult~tilting-plane distracting enough,
its axis! seems more than a few degrees a-kilter,
(lively, lovely word, rarely used), and since when have I awoken with
mine eyes have seen the dripping rhymes, for my germanic-jewish
is pretty prosaic, my musings confined to a middle-of -the-night “thingie,” but here and hear I am jingling away in anticipation of a rain-all-day situation, and frankly, a tad less political west wing,
King Lear worthy drama, polarizing, thee-ate-her, might incentivize an exciting trip to the emerald isle’s solitary gas station and IGA supermarket (weekend supplies for the newest arriving morrow-guest-mongers,) for sure-as-right-as-rain-it-will-be-ceasing,
they will be soon enough be landing by F-Day (3) ferry, on the morrow, with their own Shakespearean screenplay, and many compliments on the verdancy (a previous never employed actor’s verbosity) of our tree encased, oak surrounded, tiny cottage hideaway, where we are all the world’s a stage, and we, the designated locked down, can be all ~ heavenly host, wait staff, sommeliers, and most importantly, their captive audience members…for their small life’s litle newest pieces, require us to be fully updated…
enough folderol! first glance reveals wet everything, windows moisture painted; and a halfway penetrable fog means incautious
summer drivers will be out mise en vigueur, french for ‘in force’, testing their luck upon our **** curvaceous, ample bosomed hilllock roads, (stop), excited by their chance to prove their stupid mettle…and their auto’s european superior brakes & suspension…
so the six am borderline of unofficial time division has passed and it is still Thursday, still wet, fog-ever-so-light touch lifting, and the challenges of writing a good piece of poem, yet sizzling in the mind’s frying pan, is still a long haul walk down the creaky corridor to the
just-kitchen ing ya, and the bed’s seductive dulcets.
singing why not “Stay (just a little bit longer”) (1)…
thus throughly convinced, bury dreams of Javanese Enlightenment within the seducing drowsed plumpness of my pillow
unti they arrive in force, but that is a different story already written…(2)
<>
Stay… ah, just a little bit longer
(Please) please, please, please, please
Tell me that you're going to
… Now your daddy don't mind
And your mommy don't mind
If we have another dance, yeah
Just one more, one more time
… Oh, won't you stay, just a little bit longer
Please let me hear
You say that you will, say you will
… Won't you place your sweet lips to mine
Won't you say you love me all the time
… oh, yeah, just a little bit longer
(Please) please, please, please, please
Tell me you're going to
… Come on, come on, come on (stay), yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Come on, come on, come on (stay), yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Come on, come on, come on (stay), ooh, la-de-da
Come on, come on, come on (stay), my, my, my, my
Jul 25, 2024
Jul 25, 2024 at 12:06 PM UTC
about
a year ago the doctors ordered me to return,
put down the tablet, cease driving, stay seated,
you a skinny hair from dying, the drop dead
unkindly kind, come back to the city, there’s
an operating table Resy~reserved just for you,
the menu we will decide, two or three courses,
but for
the summering on your sheltering isle, where the
lapping waves sounds of the sound, the greenery
calming befuddles your senses is ended, the congress
of animals too have ordered your dispatch back to
the hubbub of pizza parlors, nail salons & bodegas,
and
we will slice and dice, drawn up plans to redirect
the arteries and veins that you’ve spent good money,
lazy years clogging & ******* sending you back after
you’re in fighting trim, and and recommence dialogus
with
the sun, sky, animals, the water and the waves, and
write of peace of mind, knowing that your body, too,
is
at peace, but not at rest, and let the writing begin
again, with a refreshed perspective, and re-greet
old friends, Hafiz and Whitman, who were left
behind in a hasty departure, your retreat is ended
and now, a new re-treating of the soul, to match a
newly refreshed body
postscript:
*where is shelter? why, within and without…both needed,
in happy juxtaposition*…
May 19, 2024
May 19, 2024 at 5:00 PM UTC
Inevitable, that the circle be completed,
celebrating our seasonal return to the
sheltering abode by river, bearing winded
surround sounds to our isle of near-perfection,
where slivered tongued foamy waves deposit
new & used poems on beach, emptied from
now repurposed sea shells and hardened
conchae's, evidence that the truest inhabitants
never leave, always return, with their markers
Inevitable, that I write this in premature
anticipation, amidst the towers of babble,
& honking taxis, imitating Canadian geese,
who await our presence to refute any paper,
that we fool human claimants, before Nature
pretense of ownership, are not mere renters, albeit
but for a few centuries, which by larger definition,
is an interim short term lease, writ in invisible ink, that tho it
yellowing disappears, the orange summer heat magic revives
Inevitable, that decades of worshiping this
place, now mindbound, as temple, shrine, to
a place extant in our minds, wherever we be,
as land that owns us; here, we have buried
super~hero figurines, sanded, polished memories
of loved ones, parents, friends, adventures, times,
confusing generations, for the children of earlier
children, whose children, now too scream with glee
& courageous abandon, familiar+identical to forbears
Inevitable, that we live here, though life demands
our presence elsewhere, in our minds,* for each
year burnishes our genes with sun rays, while sand
smoothes our roughened skin, and we are only refresher
modifications of our earlier selves, when we first were
lost, and stumbled upon this grail, with shovels and
red plastic pails, with which we commenced erecting
foundations, homes, gardens and vines, and images
that are always at home in our minds, living on,
in real time…
May 4, 2024
May 4, 2024 at 9:37 AM UTC
(for Daisy, a true companion to poet rr)
in the city,
we fight daily the toughest of hombres,
brown, grayed, mottled city pigeons,
who fear no human predator,
in the fight
for the crumbs and crusts of
inspiration
however, they may come our way
get a message, a post,
with the words
“a good create”
the words form a chord,
in my throat, taut, visible, tense
even knowing it’s likely a typo,
probably meant “creature,.”
but the phrase strikes me
as one too little spoke
in our diurnal drudgery
numbing~dumbing struggle,
but, I take them as (a) writ,
for the crumb of challenge
proffered
if we cannot justify our existence,
daily with a new create,
then incumbent upon us
to cherish, double and thrice,
the good and wonderful
creates,
the surround us
been decades since my body
was warmed by the shape of an animal’s
curves fitted into mine,
our sleep rhythm intertwined,
nay,
one
<>
so once again,
I mourn a living poem
who crossed my path
in photo, in words,
but never,
not in,
living color
but the sighs of loss,
real
*so as is my wont,
inquire within,
where shelter?
in the love
we create
tween us and our*
creatures.
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 10:56 AM UTC
In God’s No~Fly Zone
blessedly, so many of you are
unaware of the full color spectra
that be can seen only when an
age of experience has been reached,
reached, not attained, for the no~fly
zone is no place to be, without any
redeeming colorations, it is dark hued
twilight that inhibits vision clarity,
a precursor warning of the *hungry
darkness* that offers to swallow one
into shades of sad remorse, and other
miseries
How came I to earn this distinction,
was not by acting out, rather by inaction,
the failure to pick the correct fork in a
life of sentence diagramming, sentence
in the prison sense, all my sentences,
broken down, no connection sensible
to the next phrase, next phase, so I
sit beneath my vine and fig tree, unable
to fly, unable to tear shed,
grounded, pounded in my head
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 10:43 AM UTC
Black Tambourine by Rick Richardson
Death is a dark knife
that cuts the light
through the window.
A black car in the night.
A burning cigarette
bursting on the highway.
A fire going out.
A gypsy with whiskey
breath shaking
a black tambourine.
~~~~~
Black Tambourine Rebuttal by NM Lipstadt
Death is a lit light,
sundering the slowing,
defeating the resistance,
accepting with gratitude the surrendering of labored breathing,
tallying as complete the summation of
all the trials of errors
these accumulations,
accompanied
fittingly,
by an 1812 overture music spectacular,
with fireworks and cannons
pronouncing
victory, at long last!
a V-D Day,
over the onerous blackness
of too many soleless nights,
instead it offers a comforter
of Where Shelter?
Here!
in our starry be-Knighted,
our jointed crowning neath tapestry blanket of transport to
our immortality sheltering.
do not doubt its
peculiar nourishing
is
bountiful certainty
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 10:48 AM UTC
“A groan of tedium escapes me, startling the fearful
Is this a test? It has to be, otherwise I can't go on.
Haven't written a word in three and a half years.
Time to take the broom out to this shallow grave”
Middlesteps
~~~~(|)~~~~
For
deep is the fear, coated in thickening veneer
of might-be-bravery,
the weight, Oh, the weight!
of that writing utensil that both
bears and bares all,
an uncomfortable unconscious,
uncontrollable surrender
that sweeps down upon us,
when first we seek the unwieldy unwinding
of our proactive fist of a first step,
the unclenching, the open face palm,
seeing our lifeline’s revelation, the shame,
the lines we thought that faded away,
upended, open ended, that the worst
un-finishing, but here I am, my taking, the
baby steps of Middlesteps,
only looking
back to forwards for permission,
a new looking inward
forward!
we confesses, beg for our own forgiveness
for ourselves, the years of summary silence ,
at last!
unveiled and unbound, this first step stinks of
tremors, poems never writ up, but on our mouths
and fingertips yet memorized as IF they were bespoke
this return,
“startling the fearful,”
a provocation to the mirrored images
caked on my disheartened body,
goes lightly noticed, but not by me!
daily, I ask the bay and the sky, the animals,
the query lives in almost each of my scripts,
Where is Shelter?
today the answer is not an apparition,
but the question is rephrased,
not where! but when
the answer is now apparent,
for the seed planted, this is for you,
watering the seed, feeding the shoot,
that I know too well,
for asked and I answer,
everyday…
Sep 24, 2023
Sep 24, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC