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kenpepitonPoems
Art is the signature of man, wombed and un; the creature or construct of time and chance, which thinks and uses things to make things, **** Okeh, mere glance away, we see two yellow feathered birds, in a bush, but the body of each, surely delicate, creature, is not all yellow, even the yellow part is graded, more or less yellow where it fades in to white, or nearly white, which fades to fully grey, graying gradually to black, but seen, closer than Audubon could, though he did imagine, who could help? who could stop seeing how deep the beauty of almost, almost, almost perfection of graduated choruses of color shades life at every level? GK Chesterton appeared in my feed today, as he has done in yourn, ye'll note, on this line. I happened to have heard of him, so I listened and he said: Art is the signature of man, and… I felt the tug, not the hook, the net, is closing as the fishing forces draw us closer. Mere reality. Signature effect after exposure to one's own kind. Swans are never merely black and white, no line, in living things, is sharp, merely graded to reflect in angles as waves, from distant shores revolving spirals in spirals, seen from the surface as as near perfect circles pulsing from many suns. Nothing more than this, nothing less than that mere perfection, in these little, grey birds, now, outside my window, far from the maddened crowd, I thank goodness you may freely call a name, the goodness is the same. I thank the cause of time and chance that I may watch the dance as if this is my task, my reason to exist, the act of my being merely real. Mere, as a word deserves, as a friend de- serves, and becomes familiar, a friend that sticks closer than a brother, in a word; mere serves no man, mere is free to mean more than idle minds insist when calling any word or man or living thing, mere. Pure is mere's sister. Wisdom is wit's mom. Mere reality, if we agree, in realms of only words, mere feathers on thoughts, form fins we fly with to escape the net, and see, this is life, at the edge of all that was, it fades into ever ever after, as the breezes draw bats back to their cave, already to be as any bat is in the daytime, as the world turns… yes, child. The world turns, and winds return, long-I, short-I, wound around a reason, winding threads from a merest of whys, wist ye not? Grave decisions, are cuts. Cessions in skins, letting go the tie that binds this thread to that, this point to that, ripping tides, mere reality. Minds wander, much as winds and rivers, meander. Art is the signature of man, wombed and un; the creature or construct of time and chance, which thinks and uses things to make things, **** This is that, man as we agree we are, as a species, a kind, like no other kind; a kind, with whom we procreate and imagine mmm who are you, if you are not me, at the moment hearing an insistent bird, seeming to wish my attention, then at the mention, it flies, I think I felt it laugh, like Maijalookmaimaijalook. Sapience, mindfulness, sense, to the degree given birds in my mind, save in a formation of birds, like starlings or geese, each bird flits or swoops or soars at will, on whims not pushed, nor pulled by winds, but lifted, it appears by will of the bird, not the wisp. Whisper hearer, hearing me, have we any wool, have we gathered, since the summer, all the holly held? Shall we sit and twist it into thread and take a sabbath's journey sitting in the shade of this great rock our home sits upon? If we agree we may,. any may, any one, may imagine might-as-well- be tales to sweep away lies left to seem as true any tale a crow can tell, when she's in the mood.
0
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 2:27 PM UTC
Mere reality
Art is the signature of man, wombed and un; the creature or construct of time and chance, which thinks and uses things to make things, **** Okeh, mere glance away, we see two yellow feathered birds, in a bush, but the body of each, surely delicate, creature, is not all yellow, even the yellow part is graded, more or less yellow where it fades in to white, or nearly white, which fades to fully grey, graying gradually to black, but seen, closer than Audubon could, though he did imagine, who could help? who could stop seeing how deep the beauty of almost, almost, almost perfection of graduated choruses of color shades life at every level? GK Chesterton appeared in my feed today, as he has done in yourn, ye'll note, on this line. I happened to have heard of him, so I listened and he said: Art is the signature of man, and… I felt the tug, not the hook, the net, is closing as the fishing forces draw us closer. Mere reality. Signature effect after exposure to one's own kind. Swans are never merely black and white, no line, in living things, is sharp, merely graded to reflect in angles as waves, from distant shores revolving spirals in spirals, seen from the surface as as near perfect circles pulsing from many suns. Nothing more than this, nothing less than that mere perfection, in these little, grey birds, now, outside my window, far from the maddened crowd, I thank goodness you may freely call a name, the goodness is the same. I thank the cause of time and chance that I may watch the dance as if this is my task, my reason to exist, the act of my being merely real. Mere, as a word deserves, as a friend de- serves, and becomes familiar, a friend that sticks closer than a brother, in a word; mere serves no man, mere is free to mean more than idle minds insist when calling any word or man or living thing, mere. Pure is mere's sister. Wisdom is wit's mom. Mere reality, if we agree, in realms of only words, mere feathers on thoughts, form fins we fly with to escape the net, and see, this is life, at the edge of all that was, it fades into ever ever after, as the breezes draw bats back to their cave, already to be as any bat is in the daytime, as the world turns… yes, child. The world turns, and winds return, long-I, short-I, wound around a reason, winding threads from a merest of whys, wist ye not? Grave decisions, are cuts. Cessions in skins, letting go the tie that binds this thread to that, this point to that, ripping tides, mere reality. Minds wander, much as winds and rivers, meander. Art is the signature of man, wombed and un; the creature or construct of time and chance, which thinks and uses things to make things, **** This is that, man as we agree we are, as a species, a kind, like no other kind; a kind, with whom we procreate and imagine mmm who are you, if you are not me, at the moment hearing an insistent bird, seeming to wish my attention, then at the mention, it flies, I think I felt it laugh, like Maijalookmaimaijalook. Sapience, mindfulness, sense, to the degree given birds in my mind, save in a formation of birds, like starlings or geese, each bird flits or swoops or soars at will, on whims not pushed, nor pulled by winds, but lifted, it appears by will of the bird, not the wisp. Whisper hearer, hearing me, have we any wool, have we gathered, since the summer, all the holly held? Shall we sit and twist it into thread and take a sabbath's journey sitting in the shade of this great rock our home sits upon? If we agree we may,. any may, any one, may imagine might-as-well- be tales to sweep away lies left to seem as true any tale a crow can tell, when she's in the mood.
At the core, we age gracefully or rot. Mere reality.
#sunday#sabbath#journey#still
kenpepiton
Written by
kenpepiton
77/M/Pine Valley CA
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 2:27 PM UTC
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