no fame, no claim, no name


who shall we say is calling?

I am a man of
no fame, no claim, no name,
an average sinner, absent glory

a few seconds of rustling bustle.

did you ever write poetry?

once. but everything of earthly substance,
destined to fade into the ignominy of forgotten
vaults, where time takes it time and erodes all
into dust.

here, every word preserved. there is no time
in the dominion of creators, and you friend
are numbered in their midst, enshrined in many
hearts and eyes, and with every reading, each
reimagination, you are a reincarnated being.

(from the beautiful messages some of you send me, this my unintended answer, my thanks, my concerns, all brewed and blended, emerging in this the first second of this say, this day)

the day’s light is undecided. Alternating currents of cloudy
and peek-a-boo sunshine are reflecting outward from my insides onto the world exterior as personality is the best envisioning filter, making you and reality mirror each other, and there are no lines, no divisions.

you awake and instant watch water moving; the currency of
water are the surface wavelets, like wind blown hair.  So, what notions  I have going on is that the water wears wigs (shhhh!) just to keep its integral integrity of constant dishonesty, that being its
natural state.

and
recall nature is just your insides eking, leaking out in...wavelets
and wigs.

all this wonderful nonsense is my heart deeded  eking, leaking, in droplets, in constant motion, this water is never placid, never perfectly still, always moving, sometimes rumbling...and she and I talk about not having a child to take care of in the morning as a sad freedom to
pamper and experiment ourselves even as we co-exist in sweats and t-shirts which segues into a conversation how we moderns crave simplicity over the complexity of living in “modern” times, making us vulnerable to leaders who offer promises of draining, return to the good ole days, forgetting that in just forty years the world fought two wars that killed millions, destroyed the landscape, left billions in miserable existence, and yet shaped, still shapes, the world via today’s unraveling global structure...

so I return to the water, marveling at its life long deception...motion
constant, to the human eye, random and disorganized, yet balletically
organized with synchronicity and yet above and underneath is a whole world in random cooperation, but not necessarily peaceful coexistence...

a mobile, ever changing jigsaw puzzle where the pieces fit together
for just a second before devolving into a new puzzle and on and on...
the surface calm of our appearances, flecked with expressions, our body reshaping with every step is a testimony to the inconstancy of living and I think I could never write a good enough poem to explain how we each inside and outside coexist with engines of turmoil inside, churning, and the oceans and the rivers exist only to remind us that water comes in many colors, and when we dip even a finger in running flows, we  alter the course of history, humanity, eternity, and all words that end in Y, that are really big, the all encompassing ones;

every thought, every blink, every word, is so revealing and I rejoice, secure in that knowing, for it is the source of creating and here I am creating this one second’s summary and I must stop for here comes another second, another glance asking for love,

like a child climbing into your early morning bed, ear to ear grinning, announcing their presence as their gift to you and the world in general, and of course they are exactly right, like every fluid body of water...

They are scared of you, young woman
Do you see how they shiver when you speak
How they become furious when you walk in your crown with your head held high
Do you see the hatred in their eyes when you become as educated as they are
Young women you are the future and they are frightened by that
When you put on those gloves and start fighting
When you put on a smile as you walk towards your achievements
When you put on your heels and stand tall with you head held high
They are scared of you young women

when the bridge becomes a pier (Connectivity Poor!)


when:
extended arm, but finds no counterpart, empty air friction,
the bridge becomes a pier, ocean refuses to red sea split, yield,
road divides, dead-ended headed, no turnaround, only STOP! signs

when broken ends are splintered, jagged, glue won’t work, no fix,
two too twisted arms cannot hold on, too tense, too tight,  
being over-alone, solitude passed, secrets go untold

tongue buds are busted broke, vicissitudes of pandemic,
voices, once golden, now just rusted, red flecked word droppings,
only one message from above: Connectivity Poor, Try Life Again, Later!
                                                   <>
?What good is to be a King
when you cannot lead,
what good is to be a shepard
when the flock dying,
what good are David’s psalms
when God is not listening?

I am a woman
A strong, beautiful and bold woman
Perfection is something am not for the word itself does not exist in my dictionary
My scars show the rough edges of life l have endured
Am a woman
I receive  punches, slaps and insults
I am someone's punching bag
However l go around with a smile in my face and my head held high
I am a Survivor
I am a woman l lose things even when am careful not to lose them
I lose babies but l still try hoping one day l will have them
For l am a Survivor
I carry all the load, all the pain and the hurt but l dont stumber
I might cry, l might fall but that doesn't mean am weak
I am what l am but do not underestimate me because am a woman
I've been through all the bad phases of life but l've never relapsed because l am a Survivor

an artist
structures
their lives in
a certain way.
you construct a life
the best and most efficient
    ways of gathering information
processing thoughts
    thinking about thinking
looking for inspiration
connecting the beautiful
downloading
uploading
and deleting
and copying
basing
something
upon
something.

i think i see now that we are more different
than i thought
and it is not a pro or a con
we just have different information
to contribute that you
might have to stretch
your thinking
to understand.

and if you can't imagine
stretching your mind, you
definitely have never
stretched your mind.
it hurts.
it might make you cry.
it might make you confused.
it might make you angry.
you may shed old beliefs
and take on new perspectives
it is not something
one would forget,
and for me took years and years and years
  just to be able to begin to understand.

it's just something i have to offer.
i don't know how else to describe it.
a way that
can be
sustained  
a way to
      notice and to listen.
to recognize,
connect,
and destroy.
rebuild,
and
destroy once more.

you can never be born or die too many times in art.
each death allows you to see.
and each birth allows you to see.

if you want a challenge
  you must challenge yourself
in your own mind
in your own time.

all learning is based on
growth
and growth is based
on exposure and practice
there is no way around it

to believe to know
   is to be the worst thing.
unless, of course,
you are correct,
then it is ok.

teach and connect and learn
come together and create
    something bigger and better than both
if you can teach,
   then you know.
if you understand me,
   we may know the same something about something
or the same nothing about nothing.