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martin  Apr 2014
Lottie
martin Apr 2014
Lottie lived in an old pebble-mashed cottage in the middle of nowhere, with a ***** muzzle tree in the garden. She always wore white glubbs on a Sunday, and going to mumble sales was her favourite pass-time.

  All year round a lyre would smoulder in the gate, as the house was not connected to the lucidity grid, which Lottie considered the work of the davel. She liked to recite Shakespeare to her clogs but as she got older would mix up her worms and get her lettuces in the wrong order. At times I was the only one who could stand on her.

   There was a lovely orchard out the back in which all kinds of baffles, tums, bears and cheeses grew. She made the best crum plumble you never tasted.

  She loved her macaroni wireless, the old type powered by molluscs, although in latter times she accepted my gift of an up to date transittor with a built-in bat pack.

  We would ***** away many an hour as she reminisced about her youth, when she had traveled far and wide in the grand old days of steam *****.
  
  Lottie kept all her marbles right up to the end in an old sweet jar, kindly leaving them to me when she passed. So now it's up to me to carry the mantelpiece.  Dear old Lottie was unusual, but I liked her concentricity.

There's no one quite like Lottie
I'm sure you will agree
To some she didn't make much sense
But she always did to me
annh  Feb 2019
Concentricity
annh Feb 2019
describes my centre
defines my true potential
infinite circles
‘We are all born naked into this world, but each of us is fully clothed in potential.’
- Emmitt Smith
5|7|5
betterdays Apr 2014
early morning,
with
cup of kenyan blend.
i step outside,
to meet my day.

all soft,
misty drizzle.
cocooning the view,
to the koi pond
and slick driveway.

stepping stones,
are
soft wet coins
on greenback lawn.
dewed and glistening new.

the last
of the snapdragons,
weep in bright tears
of beauty.
the portulaci
have closed their
faces to the world,
to await the
returning sun.

in the pond,
the koi swim,
and glide
like solar flashes
caught while bathing.
bright moving wonder
on the colourless day

and as i watch
the surface becomes
hypnotic as water drops
create ring,bisecting
ring, bisecting ring.
concentricity,
most exquisite.

the smell of jasmine
eucalypt and coffee
mix and mingle with
exhaust and salted iodine.

sound is muted.
birds, whisper this morning.
even the kookaburras call,
in stuttering short chuckles.
the sea, so close, is but a murmur, a chinese whisper
on the frail wind.


the small grey cat,
comes to sit with me
nose, aquiver,
ears swiveling
to and fro.

a pause before,
harrumphing
and stalking
back into the
dry, cosy, warmth.

i soon follow....
leaving the day,
to it's softness.
napowrimo day 6
prompt write a poem of what you see hear and feel
outside your window/door
(paraphrased)
Dan Hess Sep 2021
Know other, and thus

know thyself.



Know what thou art not 

and thyself shall unfurl

before thine eyes.



Yet, know thine eyes as thyself, 

and know no self before another.

One twine of thy spiral 

unwinding, whence

thy center point 

diverges, vast,

in multitudes amassed 

betwixt thee; the eye 

of the spiral of unwinding. 



Thy sleeping self, 

merely asleep

to life within a dream; 

awake to All 

aplenty.



Alas, in tangent vortices

all aspects of thee 

exist in mirrored reiteration.

Fractalescent bodies of one name.



Above the vortices 

converging round the center:

a greater maw.



A many weaving being, seeing
everything expanding in concentricity

round compounding sound,

the endless symphony;

ubiquitous infinite 

vibrations of eternity,

in resonant helical geometry. 



But these are just the roots..



Somewhere, 

amidst the canopy, ever-thriving

disseminating light,

crystalline dimensions break the mind

splitting time in two.



And there are

infinities in every inch…

every inch of me

and you.



A billion years of histories;

a billion people,

a trillion different views.



All, interconnected

through the dissection

of light projected dimensions

of intention wrapped, 

and woven endlessly

around a gaping space of emptiness

chock-full of energetic collectives.



Each an individual unto themselves.



I think, maybe, that’s what angels are.



Accumulations of many universes;
pulsating orbs of holographic light,

teeming and erupting with the knowledge

of a love that cannot be contained

by illusory space.

— The End —