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st64 Mar 2014
he who knows..
he who speaks..

laughing all the time
disobeying every law
even the great-king laughed
till he retired for five centuries
to meditate


1.
the imp of wisdom
with coat of gold-brocade and mint-lining
never crawled but crashed
all parties with *ephemerated
-crime
with banner held high, he spread mirth
but the jay-lord's son was not amused
and challenged the magic-monkey
who blew but one hair-strand to duplicate the view
and the foe fought hard against the wind
which made one **** and disappeared

there he was.. up on the beam
munching joyful an apple to the core
and ire met his glaring eyes
he lifted a large vase and forced fire inside
and sent it forth
but excellent skills of the hermit shone
until deception caught him by surprise
ugly lies and secret art sent the baton flying
into malingering-oblivion
and left the imp banished into stone
mockery petrified
and the staff traveled on, alone
where it spins to this day
until it finds a worthy-hand
to catch its portent, embossed with ancient-lore


2.
but the player of the lyre spun a thread to turn all heads upside-down
spinning a feline-twist
smacks them with tight silver-aglet'd tresses
and sends the hunters onto a new trail
of unspeakable dangers on the Fifth-Pathway
a hooded rider on a steed so fast
outruns the stallion over a cawing-hill
a silent-temple starts humming olden-prayers in tongues-forgot
to a drunken-master
calabash-mug in the hand of an expert
pretense hard at work in the grey-dust

both holding onto the same thing
makes sharing one swish of a horse's tale
a miniature-masterpiece sways obstinacy
interceptor-serpent too languid to trap the crab
silent riddles stretch learning to land at the waterfall's feet
its power majestic, yet freeing


empty your cup
pour anew
there's half a shadow beneath the bridge
the one you must cross
take finest-care now





S T, 1 march 2014
just a silly piece..



sub-entry: protect yourself

read the letters on the wall
now.. duck!
st64 Mar 2014
When the night wind makes the pine trees creak
And the pale clouds glide across the dark sky,
Go out my child, go out and seek
Your soul: The Eternal I.


For all the grasses rustling at your feet
And every flaming star that glitters high
Above you, close up and meet
In you: The Eternal I.



Yes, my child, go out into the world; walk slow
And silent, comprehending all, and by and by
Your soul, the Universe, will know
Itself: the Eternal I.
Dame Jane Morris Goodall, DBE (born Valerie Jane Morris-Goodall on 3 April 1934) is a British primatologist, ethologist, anthropologist, and UN Messenger of Peace.
Considered to be the world's foremost expert on chimpanzees, Goodall is best known for her 45-year study of social and family interactions of wild chimpanzees in Gombe Stream National Park, Tanzania.
She is the founder of the Jane Goodall Institute and the Roots & Shoots program, and she has worked extensively on conservation and animal welfare issues. She has served on the board of the Nonhuman Rights Project since its founding in 1996.

Goodall is the former president of Advocates for Animals, an organization based in Edinburgh, Scotland, that campaigns against the use of animals in medical research, zoos, farming and sport.

Goodall is a devoted vegetarian and advocates the diet for ethical, environmental, and health reasons. In The Inner World of Farm Animals, Goodall writes that farm animals are "far more aware and intelligent than we ever imagined and, despite having been bred as domestic slaves, they are individual beings in their own right. As such, they deserve our respect. And our help. Who will plead for them if we are silent?”
Goodall has also said, “Thousands of people who say they 'love' animals sit down once or twice a day to enjoy the flesh of creatures who have been treated so with little respect and kindness just to make more meat."

In April 2008, Goodall gave a lecture entitled "Reason for Hope" at the University of San Diego's Joan B. Kroc Institute for Peace & Justice Distinguished Lecture Series.
st64 Apr 2014
Heaven and Hell: The Parable of the Long Spoons
Post written by Sofo


What is heaven? What is hell? The parable of the Long Spoons explains very well what heaven and hell truly are.
One day a man said to God, “God, I would like to know what Heaven and Hell are like.”


God showed the man two doors. Inside the first one, in the middle of the room, was a large round table with a large *** of stew. It smelled delicious and made the man’s mouth water, but the people sitting around the table were thin and sickly. They appeared to be famished. They were holding spoons with very long handles and each found it possible to reach into the *** of stew and take a spoonful, but because the handle was longer than their arms, they could not get the spoons back into their mouths.
The man shuddered at the sight of their misery and suffering. God said, “You have seen Hell.”
Behind the second door, the room appeared exactly the same. There was the large round table with the large *** of wonderful stew that made the man’s mouth water. The people had the same long-handled spoons, but they were well nourished and plump, laughing and talking.
The man said, “I don’t understand.”

God smiled. It is simple, he said. Love only requires one skill.
These people learned early on to share and feed one another. While the greedy only think of themselves… [Author unknown]

Sometimes, thinking of our personal gratification, we tend to forget our interdependence with everyone and everything around us. Not to help our fellow human beings simply means harming our very selves, since we are all connected on a very deep level.
If you want others to be happy, practise compassion. If you want to be happy, practise compassion.
~Dalai Lama




               *by Sofo
sub-entry: no slime

if Dolores had to hang those sheets upon a sunny breeze
far on below, tracing treacherous steps to a lawn so green
your soles could find no slime deep enough to match

that patch of green where I'd sit
with my pipe blowing out clouds serene
for the sky to make friends with
and face that roar of waves
on the ocean my soul has dipped into
so many times..

st64, 28 April 2014
st64 Sep 2013
collector of iron and all things metal
carried without slightest lament
by
beautiful brown-and-white nag with overflowing mane
clip-clops up and down
every road there is
and even beyond



1.
little doubt exists
of fine ingenuity
of said collector
who wastes no moment nor chance
to scour every luck’s platform
with sharp intuition and assiduous eyes
          an old stove with absent racks
          a precious copper geyser gutted with no fittings
          pine-planks discarded due to skew-cuts
          aluminium pipes abandoned with twisted ends
          old screws with rusty whorls from an recently bucket-kicked geezer’s garage
          parts of a car . . . an ****** gearbox and ancient exhausts
heaps of junk and piles of crap clang on cart
a veritable dump in some eyes but those of
the cool collector who takes all the sweepings in gracious stride
cast-off penalties and chaffs of society’s unwanted

2.
once a week on Saturdays
these wares are parked near the parking lot
for all to approach
to see
a fine spread of legend and lore
     bric-à-brac and books to browse
so many things of interest
     magazines and manuals with miscellany-topics under the sun
     hipflasks of silver and clear-cut carafes
     unused greeting-cards with dressed-up paper-dolls
     rare literature well-thumbed with care
and things you’d sure chuck out
mechanical entrails and shiny things
yet
quite a spectacle to behold
costing a joke but for you
a fraction of today's ha'penny

3.
nobody knows why the quiet collector takes the time of day
to re-inforce that fixture-presence
a kindly soul with half-smile always flirting round the lips
and greets with old-century warmth o'er book-edge, markedly a poem-spine
walking closer to peep curiosity around
relaxed eyes let one be
          no compulsive sales-talk
          no eager-****** hopping
just sitting back in deep hiker’s green fold-up chair
easy posture and half-drooped eyes with soft drink close at hand

4.
the collector really watches all who pass
     who go by on their daily trails with rituals oft unchanged
     who fuss ever-plaintive over facetious deets like school-tasks
as they return their books long overdue while whistling smasher-hit tunes (never to be heard)
     who rush to catch an ever-noisy taxi with their own raucous guards
     who help heaving housewives cursing under breath climb on board
as their groceries groan and nearly drop from overladen plastic bags
     who ignore for now with studious intent the hobos on the pavement there
     who beg lost coins for empty-belly from the tattered purses in bosoms
while others cry out impatient at peripheral nuisances
     who act as indiscreet ‘car-guards’ ostensibly guarding cars, even with folk in it

yes, he watches
and observes with keen eyes yet never obvious
even those who saunter by
with pondering glance and walking stick
even as years have graciously touched their brow
he sees them *tut-tut
the ******* on the wall
like stray-dogs in a pound

5.
once in an often while
this collector who loves a rediscovered hypothesis
to explore the myriad facets of humanity
does an odd turn now and then
when walking to the toilet at the local library
which has parked itself adjacent to this lot
drops a twenty-buck note near the side
and soon joyful sees the utter surprise
when tired high-school kids with sullen backpacks
do a double-take
espy their luck . . . whoo-hoo, look!
their gloomy cloaks of learning plain melts
they take off sure-footed and lighter of heart
and repair to the fish-and-chips shop
they share their vinegary ***** in a finger-licking circle
and amity strong-cemented in a cool memory
that they’d recall with fondness many years later
at their 20th school-reunion
and as grand-dads visiting a dying pal

pangs of hunger satisfied
and
not only by them


next time
that note will be dropped in the park nearby
where effete winos sleep their lives away
     who ken much and give not a care
     a kind long not recognised
educated derelicts debate on war-merits and erstwhile musicians play melodic arpeggios
sitting in the gentle arbour-shade of mutual acceptance
with chess-mad players
working out strategy in rapt blade-moves
which belie and scorn the forgotten titles to their name
along with Ph.D to boot

6.
when night-time hails - all grows still again
and settles, though just for a nibble of time
it’s pack-up time
the listening collector hears the owl-hoot’s call
and knows the time has come to rest a bit
     for when the morrow dawns
     all neatly packaged in a brand-new gift called day
it’s back on the road again
to observe once more
with trusted nag in tow
clip-clop . . . clip-CLOP

7.
and the collector is the one
the housewives invite with alacrity to Xmas-lunch
the taxi-drivers offer gifts of goodwill
the school-kids give their chips and last treats
the vagrants seek out to share a ciggie and sympa-chat
the grown men visit for esoteric slim-tomes and philosophical advice
the shopkeepers welcome reassuring presence of

yes, this quiet collector
is the inadvertent guest
to shores of the lonely
the too-busy and life-ridden folk
who seek a sweet smile
just once in a while
in a world
where compassion is not justified by its deep-touches of poverty





no fruitless labour
in one who sees little detriment
but senses the full value of
every item’s moment in vanilla-time
while trying always
to catch
the finest one can be



supreme harvest, indeed
yes :)
love . . . love . . . love . . .





S T, 1 September
Happy Spring Day!
And . . . er . . . catch some sun-rays . . . while ye can :)



Sub – entry : 'empty chairs'

Songwriter: Don McLean


I feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night
Creep through my fingers and the moon is bright
Beams of blue come flickering through my window pane
Like gypsy moths that dance around a candle flame

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Moonlight used to bathe the contours of your face
While chestnut hair fell all around the pillow case
And the fragrance of your flowers rest beneath my head
A sympathy bouquet left with the love that's dead

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Never thought the words you said were true
Never thought you said just what you meant
Never knew how much I needed you
Never thought you'd leave, until you went

Morning comes and morning goes with no regret
And evening brings the memories I can't forget
Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs
And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwzHlyVRc9o
st64 Feb 2013
Carrying round this cage of secrets
Heavy on the soul
Feel the last rattle upon me
Vultures fly overhead for cool pickings.

The battle is not with death but me
I feel the battles I've had throughout my life
Battles against me, few for me
Battles against myself.

Then death rolled open its rich tapestry
Oh, and was it red!
As I stepped onto that final rung
I felt the wrestling inside; the rattling of that cage.

Great is pity for carrying over this onerous charge
I ball my fist, rage at the skies
And nought but silence greets my fear
Thus graceful forward; no more to prove.

I've heard that G-d is love...
Let's hope I meet no wrath
I've heard speak of rebirth
Oh, let me unburden afore I leave.

And the rattle of the cage's so loud
Lying here, I try to tell you things
But 'tis of little use, for I am witness to
The last moments of this life . . . .

Eyes feel lead-laden, hands so heavy
Head feels like stone, an appendage
Tongue swells up; cannot speak
And the lights go out inside my head . . . .

Yes, someone turned out the sparkle in my core . . . .

(I think that . . . . no, I think . . . . )

And then . . . . simply,

I am no more . . . .
No more.

( . . . .  )


Star Toucher, 21 February 2013
st64 Apr 2013
In this public park, sits he
Quietly: eternal at solo play.
Gnarled hand moves the pieces, so regal
As he plans fortuitous moves ahead.

No wonder how Time sits and waits
Patient: twisted branches overhead.

Reaching: draping its coolness
Unmoving design, just to offer and give
Wanting nothing in return
Wanting noth-thing in return.

Almost unseen in the park
A broken butterfly of dre-eams.

I join the solitary player
So undeterred: he opens the window
Such a clear, blue sky over me
And pierces right through the heart of me.

Three more pieces fall and leave the board
Wondering: I have grown cold, in a warp.

Blunt words, how they close the door!

Are you alive?
Are you alive?
Are you alive?
He said: Are you alive?

Time rises tall, unleashes Truth wrapped
Are you alive?
Are you alive?

Dashing too quickly through the Now
His green pupils fall into my lap....

And in the cloud-light, a tempest rages
Changing: galloping queen high on the southern wind
And lifts the dying breeze beyond.

Some steps cannot be undone
Choose: the path of the solitary player
Who chases not, yet moves at the speed of night.

Are you alive? ONE of us....is not.

In this public park, sits he
Quietly: eternal at solo play.....





Star Toucher, 01 April 2013
Somewhat (erstwhile) drop-tuned sound, this one....inspired by song, "One of us is dead" by the Earlies.
Fabulous number...may sound a tad avant-garde for many, what with song title and theme....lol

And yet....... 'tis life for ya!
Are we alive...or merely existing?
st64 Mar 2013
It's not the docile who are the most peaceful
It's not the quiet who make the best mothers
And it's not the pilgrims who make the finest believers
For, the blade is not the only part of the sword

Only part of the sword, ooh hoo....

It's not the poets who pose the deepest questions
It's not the enemy that you have to fear
And it's not enough people who live in cleanest conscience
For, the string is not the only part of guitar.

Only part of guitar, ooh hoo....


Refrain:
Beware even the blunt side of the sword
Beware even the blunt side of the sword!
Oh, you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword.
Only part of the sword, ooh hoo....



It's not the animals who are the uncivilised ones
And it's not in the light that you get to know yourself
And it's not up to you to decide the life that I live
For the heart is not the only part of me.

Only part of me......

It's not the well-spoken who speak the most wise words
It's not the sufferers alone who feel the pain and anguish
And it's not the have-it-alls who really have it all
And the Eiffel Tower's not the only thing in Paree.

Only thing in Paree.....

And you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword....
Oh, you know, the blade is not the only part of the sword.



Star Toucher, Feb 2013
(Written in 2009, inspired partly by film "Kingdom of Heaven" :-)
st64 Apr 2013
The travelling man,
Oh, the travelling man.

1.
Oh, on the journey, he has grown tired
The travelling man is weary of these memories....

The travelling man,
Oh, the travelling man.


Refrain:
The travelling man has folded up his dreams
He keeps them in his pocket with all his other things...
The travelling man,
Oh, the travelling man.


2.
Oh, on the journey, he has grown so tired
The traveling man is carrying all his gems inside.

The travelling man,
Oh, the travelling man.


Bridge:
The rivers he crosses, the mountains he climbs
The roads that he follows, they tell him the ti-i-i-ime!

The travelling man,
Oh, the travelling man.


Refrain 2:
The travelling man has got to travel light
Nobody can guess the longing in his heart.

The travelling man,
Oh, the travelling man.




S T, 04 April 2013
Written so, so long ago....along the travels of me life...lol

The travelling man is somewhat likened to that olden-times view of that travelling salesman who bundles all his wares in a wagon....

Just a funny ditty, is all :)
It's a song, hence the repetition.
st64 Apr 2013
I couldn't know you'd need me then!
Just a human with all frailty and much fault....
  
Do you think the wind blows differently
When  it passes over leaves and trees?
That it says: "Wait, lemme stop here a bit
And blow on this one leaf  in a special way"
  
Hardly! Time to get with the manure beneath
And see that sunrays shine on everything
And indiscriminate clouds shimmer on all,
How haphazard, the way the wind blows.
  
So, don't hang your head and moan so much
Time dawns for you to get over yourself
Don't you see that I'm still here?
Now quit getting your knickers in a knot!
  
You rant and rave while I pant and slave
Dissect my every move, make me aloof
How can you possibly go counting
And re-arranging all the marbles in my head?
  
You're so insecure, you make me mad
So exhaustive are your constant jibes
So tiring to soothe your unfounded fears
I'm having to placate you so often of late.
  
Before it all gets blown out of size
Sit a while in  (h)arboured thought
Confront the dreads which cause disquiet
A trove may wash up....but broken, on your shore.
  
The wind comes not with tardy tidings
For it isn't the what you say or do
But forsooth, the how which carries weight
Let's not over-whip each other so.
  
My thoughts may be wanton, wild or reckless
Telling tigs bend on a riotous grind
Yet feckless deeds don't follow suit
Pardon my slightly-misbehaving mind.
  
Patient and respectful, I remain to be
Just guard against esurient whims
Paucity of faith and clockwork trivial'ties
Will lead us down a road of trials.
  
Fallen martyrs should not feign, see
The wind makes no pretense. It just blows....
Now, I really couldn't know you'd need me then
'Cause, baby, that's the way the wind blows!
  

S T, 5 April 13
How the seasons and nature can teach us things.....

Let's ....lisssssssssssten to that wind whistling in the treetops or howling late at night......

However it blows, it tries to say summat....if we but....spoke wind...lol

:)
st64 Mar 2013
Meet the Whisperer....
(Oh, and you will want to, promise :)


1.
He can shape and mould
To aught pleasure he desires.

When he calls them at will
Supple compliance at his command.

Yes, they come like twitching magnets
Real easy beck and call.

Such happy slaves are they
Very few recalcitrant ones.

He twists and trims their sides
Makes them kneel before his want.

He will harness their might
Bend them sweetly to his gratifix.

Perchance, skittish on occasion
Yet they serve their master well.

They can spread to furthest capacity
Turning dried veracity into well-loved fable.

He whips them to submission
Insanely alive, they need birth certificates!

Yet tenderly, he caresses, explores
Renders dramatic echoes in outrageous lore.


2.
They melt like marvelous putty, toffee in deft hands
Makes them caress YOU sensuous, everywhere...

They reach deep, tap in and touch your core
Delight or thrill....or equally meet your mind.

Yes, they can stick you with bruising truth
Move you, or bring you to your knees....

They can furnish context with telling content
And with stunning detail, woo the sox off thee :-p

He articulates every brief encounter
With sage and timeless passion.

Molten liquid drips from his entrancing tip
In gilt carriages headed your way....

When the whisperer appears, best be ready
To receive what he may see fit to flay on you!

If that's too tall an order, it amounts to
Clipped wings, falling sadly short of flight.

Be willing to taste that mesmerising lilt
Indebted you'll be to the lack of crude reality.

Oh, reader...retire not spirit of droll mind
Revel eager in rich spark for riveting trips.

Yes, he is the one, your...
One and only word-whisperer.


(Enchante, cher lecteur :)

bows




Star Toucher, 28 March 2013
Only words, you guys....lol
Shhhhh.....!

Words...mere purveyors of thought, not so?

Yet you must admit.....
Appointments with terrific words and the broad mind can lead to......zippingly cool romps and staggeringly impressive mental empires.

Yes, to submerge the mind in an endless sea of tremendous words and well-turned phrases....if you learn to swim well there....oh, what wonders await there .....open your mind....

Well.....hope you don't turn down the (actually, androgynous) whisperer...should you be so lucky to have a chance encounter or two....lol
st64 Feb 2014
I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room  
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life.

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:
"Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!"
"Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide ... OUT!"

Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:  
"It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!"
"OUT!"  

Then Love, cooing bribes: "You'll never know impotency!  
All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!"
I pushed her fat *** out and screamed:
"You always end up a ******!"

I picked up Faith, Hope, Charity
all three clinging together:
"Without us you'll surely die!"
"With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!"

Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty—
As I led her to the window
I told her: "You I loved best in life
... but you're a killer; Beauty kills!"  

Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her  
"You saved me!" she cried
I put her down and told her: "Move on."

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out.

The only thing left in the room was Death  
hiding beneath the kitchen sink:
"I'm not real!" It cried
"I'm just a rumor spread by life ... "  

Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all  
and suddenly realized Humor
was all that was left—

All I could do with Humor was to say:  
"Out the window with the window!"
Gregory Corso (1930–2001)



Gregory Corso was a key member of the Beat movement, a group of convention-breaking writers who were credited with sparking much of the social and political change that transformed the United States in the 1960s. Corso's spontaneous, insightful, and inspirational verse once prompted fellow Beat poet Allen Ginsberg to describe him as an "awakener of youth." Although Corso enjoyed his greatest level of popularity during the 1960s and 1970s, he continued to influence contemporary readers and critics late into the twentieth century. Writing in the American Book Review, Dennis Barone remarked that Corso's 1989 volume of new and selected poems was a sign that "despite doubt, uncertainty, the American way, death all around, Gregory Corso will continue, and I am glad he will."

Born in 1930 to teenaged parents who separated a year after his birth, Corso spent his early childhood in foster homes and orphanages. At the age of eleven, he went to live with his natural father, who had remarried. A troubled youth, Corso repeatedly ran away and was eventually sent to a boys' home. One year later he was caught selling a stolen radio and was forced to testify in court against the dealer who purchased the illegal merchandise. While he was held as a material witness in the trial, the twelve-year-old boy spent several months in prison where, as he wrote in a biographical sketch for The New American Poetry, the other prisoners "abused me terribly, and I was indeed like an angel then because when they stole my food and beat me up and threw *** in my cell, I . . . would come out and tell them my beautiful dream about a floating girl who landed before a deep pit and just stared." He later spent three months under observation at Bellevue Hospital.

When Corso was sixteen, he returned to jail to serve a three-year sentence for theft. There he read widely in the classics, including Fyodor Dostoevsky, Stendahl, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Thomas Chatterton, and Christopher Marlowe. After his release in 1950, he worked as a laborer in New York City, a newspaper reporter in Los Angeles, and a sailor on a boat to Africa and South America. It was in New York City that he first met Ginsberg, the Beat poet with whom he was most closely associated. The pair met in a Greenwich Village bar in 1950 while Corso was working on his first poems. Until then he had read only traditional poetry, and Ginsberg introduced him to contemporary, experimental work. Within a few years Corso was writing in long, Whitmanesque lines similar to those Ginsberg had developed in his own work. The surreal word combinations that began to appear in Ginsberg's work about the same time may in turn suggest Corso's reciprocal influence.

Corso once explained his use of rhythm and meter in an interview with Gavin Selerie for Riverside Interviews: "My music is built in—it's already natural. I don't play with the meter." In other words, Corso believes the meter must arise naturally from the poet's voice; it is never consciously chosen.

Corso shaped his poems from 1970 to 1974 into a book he planned to call Who Am I—Who I Am, but the manuscript was stolen, and there were no other copies. Aside from chapbooks and a few miscellaneous publications, he did not issue other work until 1981 when Herald of the Autochthonic Spirit appeared. Shorter than any of his major books since Gasoline, it contains several critically acclaimed poems, many of them written in clipped, almost prosaic lines more reminiscent of William Carlos Williams than of Whitman. "Return" deals with barren times in which there had been no poems but also asserts that the poet can now write again and that "the past is my future." The new poems, however, are generally more subdued than the earlier ones, though there are surreal flights, as in "The Whole Mess . . . Almost," in which the poet cleans his apartment of Truth, God, Beauty, Death, and essentially everything but Humor.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGam9Z6PSWk
st64 Jun 2013
...would you let me..please??



S T, 8 June 2013
just some (random?) thought patterns on this rather wet saturnday...or is it a case of much ado...







sub-entry:

'saturnalia'


do let's be merry, friend
..cos i'm kinda
in the mood for a touch of saturnalia..

banish all things moody
feel some heat
l'eau chaude

let's make that hay useful
while the sun shines
here, on this platform
or wherever....

no forever
just this moment
to discover at once
what works and not
take the next step
up

pure definition
of a tinkling bell
triggering for an instant
an inkling of truth
or ...make-believe

who goes there
none but me
fool

so
bring out the jolly sun
turn up the good rays
paste on that fabulous smile
dose up the feel-goodys
pour over some happy-juice
add a twist of lime, too (always)
and now
open your mouth


never averse to a little hay
in the hair.
st64 Jan 2014
(oh, if you don't like lengthy-reads, do not read any further.. thank you)





how I long to hear you
I am silent now
just like you



1.
from the curtain rail, hang paper-butterflies in gentlest-breeze
you made for us in vacation-time
we loved living and being with you
      so quiet and so serene
never loud, nor ever shouting
you gave us the love we often had to steal at home


2.
dear lady, when our parents couldn't cope
they dumped us at your door
you took us in for days on end
and how we flourished in your care

momma in her perfumed get-up.. always out and about
I couldn't stand her smell
she hardly took the time of day.. to get to know her own
they quarreled all the time
one time, we saw her pull in ugly-anger, a knife on him
      and he punched her hard in the face
      we-took-it-in.. the three of us
      they saw us standing there, looking on
I tried to shield the younger ones' eyes
but the lesson sank in.. thickly


3.
so, off to you.. we got bundled, like hastily-wrapped parcels
and you took us in
and we gleaned the worth of stability

you spoke to us in quiet-tone:
right, now we will read.. alright, my dears?
    we responded with three silent nods
    eyes up at you.. like open-flowers
    our smiles inside slowly blossomed
as a powerful-routine came to life

sit us down near koi-pond in the yard
     after milk and choc-chip cookies
     green dappled shade-cloth overhead and potted plants
she opened up a book - Gift from the Sea.. and she read
     we listened with rapt-souls, open and accepting
     drinking in the delight of her well-intoned voice
she tempered that sickly-void with deep-respect and lasting-admiration

how we filled the hours with your special-technique of patience
        we discover life.. along with title and the author
        one buck to read the first sentence of a new book
        two for first paragraph
        five for first page
we earned a keep to last a jolly ol' lifetime
looked forward to the end of every weekend
when we'd spend the week with you
off to school, you saw our tiny-feet and welcomed in the afternoon
      warm greetings with firm hand, discipline fell in place
      but when chores are done and homework, too
that's the time we'd settle quietly into the routine you set so well

cushions at the koi-pond and each one gets a turn
granny-dear, granny-doer.. you took the time
you read to us and we read to you
and then, we read to one another.. while you did your tasks
        we learnt of the classics and many obscure artists, too
        writers' names became familiar; we discussed at length
        and from your fine library, came three very well-fed beings
who each had a jar filled with love-pennies and mind-notes

tranquil-nap in dimmed-room in the afternoon
eyes sunlight piercing through in stippling-slants on polished wooden-floor
we fell into peace

thinking expanded beyond the lore of words
you'd engage the width of our seeker-imagination with so much
         drawing fine-lines into the unknown
         and paper-mâché and Rorschach-ink
         and let us see how earthworms could be useful
         and transplanting our seedlings from disposable egg-cups
by my teens, my special botany-project grew: orange saplings
how the time, it flew.. weeks and months.. years..


4.
then, one day, our momma said.. no more time at granny
          we questioned and we queried, but to poor avail
          evasive-looks met our searching eyes
and vague answers, even poppa with the *****-glaze didn't talk
we failed to swallow their awkward-energy

the three of us could take no more: affection interfered
      and I took two buses and snuck out to her place
I crept in silent, found her resting
but her eyes were covered up
      her face had blue blotches and cheeks were puffy
sharp-inhale!
      I shrank perforce and cried inside.. and softly touched her hand
she woke up, startled and turned away
     but she knew it was me; she'd learnt my smell so long ago
bowing my head, I gently wiped her brow with unscented-towelette
and I saw her shoulders shaking
she quietly accepted my comfort


5.
the routine continued, thankfully
after we got wind of what really happened
how you were mugged in the subway on your way to work
you've lost the use of one eye and you now slump on one leg
this fall in health did nothing to dampen your ardour
       we read for you when you could no longer see at all
       and when your pensioner-status made you penniless
       you rewarded us with hugs pressed into the psyche
       our night-time pitter-patter slipping to you from nightmares
       and you stitched our broken-pieces and sealed our cracked-assurance
never finer devotion bred from hands so kind


6.
you let us read and it sparked the mind
the penny kept on rolling with great success
long after you left
    my brother now lectures in languages
    and guest-speaks at many places of higher-learning
    and my sister became a lawyer
I became a drop-out early on, but I never sold my dream
I struggled with their help.. yes, I know.. I was always slower
and melted-crayons still do yield.. colour in the twilight of cool-eve

yes, and I bought a farm not long ago
and I tend my own keep
granny, you'd be proud of us
three silent nods to an angel in disguise


now, I stand here.. quiet in my beautiful-orchard of oranges
              stare at the leopard-changing shadows on the tiles
and long to read for you
so, I open up a dream lying next to my koi-pond, an auburn-tail flicks handsomely
and it all spills forth in reams..




can you hear me now?
in silent-vow, I unveil the finest of my heart-words
to you..




S T, 2 January 2013
man, what a day.. what-a-day!


sub-entry: thank you

.. for reading!

;)
st64 May 2013
choo choo

next stop.....perdition

(no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity)


1.
look how Time doth ravage thee
look what it did to thy visage
in smithereens, lies youth
it so artfully takes away
what is held so dear

rivers and streams
valleys and hills

arching to ecstatic heights
plunging to abysmal lows

into the ravine of chance
stirred by the spoon of Time
slowly around the cauldron
brews the self-same mixture
then poured into chasms of forgetfulness

using the eternal sledgehammer
it
smashes the foundation of thought
grinds the nutmeg of speed
pulps the fruit of mentality
slows the pulse of sensation

and pardons none.


2.
what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips
now are merely two dry slits on your face

once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over
vitreous cataracts steadily grow, ****-like

toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch
away into forever, a pale platform to walk on

life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting
clouded and bedimmed by mists of age

butterfly's existence outweighs a man's
by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight

draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes
the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun.



3.
crimp
sag
limp
drag

mud cracks down a dipping dale
scalding pain sears sore half-foot

yes, time is but a disease
ravaging all
without fear or favour

sunken eyes
slower reflexes
tardier mind
scraggly body


hides not
condescends not
forgets not

the glimmer of ....
a time of ...


4.
cathedral invites the walker in
cool and calm recesses
sit silent
wait....

then *they
walk in, carrying
one who had but a lucky half-score lot

clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat
announcing the folly of stifling ego

now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour
beams of mercy cast a final look-see
jump the barriers of
time
to
carry thee off.



pipe *****-stops are pulled out



(art thee ready?  platform number 5)



S T,  9 May 2013
How age doth touch the brow of one and all.

Looking at pictures of and being inspired by the writing of esteemed Anglo-American writer W. H. Auden (born in 1907, York, UK - died in 1973, Vienna).


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
    doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
st64 Jan 2014
Now it's time to play. Nobody says,
like they used to, but in my bones
the desire overwhelms me. "Write!
Make a poem," say the bones.

The inlet will come first. It always does.
Water calls urgently, "egret." The waterbird
that moves elastically over the surface
making everything focus soon or late.

Now my hand enters. It always does.
It gives the bones reason to observe.
It makes the egret the finest thing in sight
and the water intelligent north of here.

Water is genius because it is interconnected.
Drop south knows drop north.
But the bones will lose their joy
if the bird overwhelms the old playground.




*by Landis EVERSON
Source: Poetry (June 2008).

Landis Everson (October 5, 1926 – November 17, 2007) was an American poet.
Everson was born and grew up in Coronado, California.
He attended the University of Redlands in Southern California.




sub-entry: time's a-flyin'

no splashin' awake
to real deep-explore
nor time for dallyin'
can't pull the hands
they grab time hard
fast-forward reeling
hurtl'd dizzy feeling

pick up the time-banners
and carry 'em all forth
little to do but comply
until the earnings prove
otherwise

tick-schtock!
st64 Apr 2013
1.
I used to bathe in the light of your love....
It suffused me with buoyancy.
It taught me to be gentle and kind.
You showed me how to be soft-hearted and giving.
I learnt unselfishness and endurance from you, through our trials against the world.


2.
I rode high
Aloft, on winds
On winds
Of your indulgence in me
Oh, and how we rode.
Together.


3.
We were in poverty.....yet we shared everything
Together.

We were harassed by forces.... yet we stood our ground
Together.

We were inexperienced in life....yet bent with humility
Together.

We were dreamers, you and I......and we strove
Together.

We were dealt untimely blows....but we faced them
Together.

We lost some big stuff along the way....and we cried, babe
Together.

We were blessed with wings....and we flew far (away)
Together.

We were roofless once...yet we took shelter from the cold
Together.

We shared triumphs and buffeted storms of adversity.
Together.


4.
We ate together.
We drank together.
We bathed together.

We shared everything!
Together.

We slept
Together.

We loved each other...
Oh, how we loved each other!

We ...... b-r-e-a-t-h-e-d .....
Together.


(Like now ..... in our garden)



S T, 03-04-2013
What can I say...lol
Said it all :)

Together...
To-get-her.

He he
st64 Feb 2015
To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the ****** disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.

                       - *Arundhati Roy
blessed be.
st64 Aug 2013
eyeball too big
or
dream too big?


That **** alice-door is too tiny
Just enough to peep through
One mere eyeball
And espy the jolly life of dreams
Yet barely enough for a hand to reach through
let alone fingertips to taste …

Cruelty is…midday heart-brake too big
Reality makes sure to stick it in *deep

Its harsh voice stoking…stoking
Gleeful gives the dreamer an artful kick



maybe moment has dawned
to reduce that ambitious dream-reel
perhaps too big…on the teasing life-wheel
oh, drat! no biggie…
may well just trash every heart’s desire
let go of hope and let drown




no…forget it, Fate
I shan’t, no.
come…..
come onnnnnnnnnnnn, then….!
hey, come and drag me by my ****** heels
with my face in the gutter!



(I am WAITING...)


S T, 15 August 2013
Life’s seems to be a test, at best...every way we look at it.
Trying…
And trying, too…!

(must find that ****** key…and flippin’ magic potion, if it even exists… lol)

not going down....despite consistent taunting of adversity... et al.
st64 Jul 2013
pretty ****** out
gimme a **** *** already
lemme take a deep drag
always such a freakin’ lagger
yeah, it’s all a total drag


bright rags on you, stupid hag
silly tags stick on dense brag

eternally gagging on mind-*****
get endless nagging from the sun
spirit sagging beyond belief

no more tail-wagging for the circus
or dragging on unwanted cacophony
or ******* zigzagging stray bullets


nearly time for tagging
place trash in black bag*


S T, Fried-day 12 July 2013
"All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.”
Galileo Galilei
(Italian natural Philosopher, Astronomer and Mathematician who made fundamental contributions to the development of the scientific method and to the sciences of motion, astronomy and strength of materials. 1564-1642)


swat that gnat!
yeah, swat it good.
drat, missed..! try again

gnat caught on the nib of a pen
in the city of Prague
just fab, man
just fab.




Sub-entry :  "I'm A Loser"
Songwriters: LENNON, J W / McCARTNEY, P

I'm a loser
I'm a loser
And I'm not what I appear to be

Of all the love I have won or have lost
There is one love I should never have crossed
She was a girl in a million, my friend
I should have known she would win in the end

I'm a loser
And I lost someone who's near to me
I'm a loser
And I'm not what I appear to be

Although I laugh and I act like a clown
Beneath this mask I am wearing a frown
My tears are falling like rain from the sky
Is it for her or myself that I cry

I'm a loser
And I lost someone who's near to me
I'm a loser
And I'm not what I appear to be

What have I done to deserve such a fate
I realize I have left it too late
And so it's true, pride comes before a fall
I'm telling you so that you won't lose all

I'm a loser
And I lost someone who's near to me
I'm a loser
And I'm not what I appear to be



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KynpC1e9I9E
st64 Aug 2013
break
astonishment at perception
of
a third-world child making it
up that totem-pole
amidst paltry conditions
even
beyond the half-way mark


1.
a standing man
in silent message

and the woman in red
with thin-sling shoulder-bag
holding lipstick, weekly-ticket and purse
oh, how she frightens honchos out their skull
draped round her sister's head
shroud eternal
coughing
sore


2.
grannies recount lively *griot
-tales
where hope is never barren
young boys play in swamped dirt-trails
drawing absent father-figures in the sand
the wind has carried them off to mines
deep in the crust of earth's ire
adolescent future sits on labour-farms
where keen spirit is dulled with worthless hops
keeps the sly farmer happy
and he tells them the fruit is free
yet they've already paid for it
manifold

when she reaches twenty
she will have at least two kids
whose lives lie in the granny's luxury

while she runs off to the golden city-lites
to jump through higher hoops
for ****** spoils
all cheapened by long-term neglect


3.
there lies hope
unlost
in every girl-child
who goes to school
who finds encouragement
from words kindly given
if but from a stranger

no hand-me-outs
no forlorn begging


she...
the empowered mother of boys
will
help them to grow
into young men
of such sensibility
as to keep their hands
to deeds of honour

who, in turn
become fine fathers to daughters
they love and cherish
raise to be
luminary



each step up
from that totem-pole
such a steep climb
strengthens invisible wings
and unworldly rewards

and when final rung is reached

heralds

untainted take-offffffff
......






S T,  27 aug
much ado about what really matters.
let's clamour for education  . . .  for all :)





sub-exit: good-key


the good key lies in the hands
of the soul
who holds
that key :)

pssssst....
toodley-too!







http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=PzpWKAGvGdA&desktop;_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DPzpWKAGvGdA
st64 Mar 2014
Upon this beautiful web of lies
I sleep and rest my head
Unbeknownst to all the others
That the me they knew is dead
He died nearly five years ago
In the exact spot that I lay
And the last words he uttered were
I shall find peace upon this day

Vasto Grom
st64 Jul 2013
ants crawl on
slowly


1.
left eye is hopping fast for days now
and time's but a fair damsel
of delightful illusion
how she taunts and teases you
into sweet oblivion
of wickedly sensual basking

she drugs you with deep charisma
and struts at the doorway of your senses
she clutches onto the tracks in your mind
and claws deep into your ragged psyche
that same old song playing
over and over...
........over


2.
see right through train's chassis
rail sleepers spin vigorously backward
in such frightful haste
to get nowhere
no-one knows the real speed of time
out there.....

but for mere mortals
it's leniently paced in adagio
and parceled in mellowed excruciation
as ants walk serene
alongside the tracks


3.
creep into chaotic patterns
fall into hell
through a secret back door
even satan knows not of
as perched as he is
on his *oh-so lofty
pile of ordure
his blind heart
sees not
the strobed tracks
of your visiting soul


4.
take a syncopated shot up the arm
from the foul fang of a kind sinner

while saints bathe in fat glory
elsewhere

when you look again
you lie alone in a corner room
broken
yet untethered

tracks to heaven so obscured
by
your paradoxical attempts at levity
on the twisted playground of life's malady


5.
how badly you tripped
so many **** times
you ....got in the way
of your
own
remise


each time you fell
you looked UP
expecting help
when all the while
the answers lay
at your feet:

[your own mistakes are authentic and real;
you try to fox-tread out
but trying to turn your back on a *****
called destiny - equals catastrophe personified
oh, she WILL beckon you back
with her crooked finger
most kindly
to ensure no overdue lessons wait too long.....]



the ants crawl on
so
slowly




S T, Wed 10 July 2013
can't expect no bread falling from the sky...lol

absolutely love Bach on the lute....with such a delicate and organic instrument, how can one possibly go wrong!

right? lol

right :)







sub-entry: "lutenist's ecstasy"


1.
pear-shaped rebirth
would that these twelve maple ribs
bear traces of Adam's
tapered fingertips

bandying calloused hours
over triple rosettes
protected in intricacy


2.
may
echoes
of this love
resound well and strong
on ledged sympathetic strings

on an invisible bridge
over water's surface
currents travel
on angel wings
as notes of unambiguous clarity
ring out and extend
no rude clarion-calls


only
lutenist's ecstasy :)








http://m.youtube.com/watch?feature=related&v;=2uApiRD7GB8#/watch?feature=related&v;=2uApiRD7GB8

(J.S. Bach: Fuge BWV 998)
st64 Sep 2013
where are women really safe?
how is it that society-collect FAILS
as humanity stumbles yet again.. and again?
our lady-folk are not safe..


Amaya-
bai* finds little comfort but in sibilant-twin
as no eye of sun nor ginoo laid eye on this binukot

Olga is the silent-saint; believes in charity at home
yet chaos ensues too easily - she is wronged and just gets.. lost in the system

Zandile fetches precious amanzi in her sun-soaked calabash
her vigilant-sister falls.. roving guerrilla-men from the river's edge

Michelle, la petite belle, survives the daily-grind via low-coin
tubes to Champs-Élysées as assistante-de-pharmacie

Aadita,  from the outset at 15, dons a veil hiding ****** acid-burns
she has some relative-luck to escape sati later on

Amy with downtrod-heart, grabs the tram to downtown family
wearing dark glasses and gloves on rainy-day blues

Emiko graced (yet cursed) with beauty struggles with ancient-practice
despite the ban, silent-suffering lotus-gait in the tiny village

Aisha may be alive but not well from ethnic-marking tragedy
as irugu are outcast from all-too prevalent gishiri-cruelty




might as well take a trip to Vladivostok
or be dumped in a sarcophagus
beneath the Pyramids
safer there








S T - 27 sept 2013 - *freitag
and the list goes on.. femicide / dowry killing / ****** slavery / breast ironing / bride burning / violence / **** (marital, date, genocidal, corrective, etc)

oh.. the practices, the wicked practices of the wayward-thinking on females of the world :(



Prime minister of Ethiopia Meles Zenawi said, "If a whole community is involved in this practice, you cannot jail an entire community. You have to change the mindset, and that takes time."

how long, still? how much more of suffering and death..?
can a figure cover it?




sub: fly to the sun

1.
fly to the sun
bird's eye view
of
rivers a-shimmer and mountains a-hulk

2.
no pandering to weird-wishes
of anyone

inhale tranquil-life
just the trees in the forest

3.
beauty
in
leaves

fly to the sun
st64 May 2013
1.
pushing blindly
through carpet of old leaves
phototropic

buds anew.



2.
rare, potent connect lies
yet, affection unslung,

only
cloak refurbished.


(on lit trop)


S T, 12 May 2013
what is real?

oft, a change of scenery is great, yet it doesn't change its upstairs counterpart.

wearing new jacket over a torn shirt...means, there's still that **** torn shirt underneath!

novel moniker...still has you underneath, no?



sub-entry:

'essence'

1.
(try) too hard to capture essence
granted in tiny drops.

drink gratefully every heady dram
inhale displaced mercy
swoon in thoughts

purity of rain's essence remains pure
cannot be diluted nor enfeebled.

2.
yet
can't get over
really an uphill battle

and still
so intent on overtaxing strengths
leave beats so
downhearted, thread-bare.


enjoy new growth!
st64 Mar 2014
Roselva says the only thing that doesn't change  
is train tracks. She's sure of it.
The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery  
by the side, but not the tracks.
I've watched one for three years, she says,
and it doesn't curve, doesn't break, doesn't grow.


Peter isn't sure. He saw an abandoned track
near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train  
is a changed track. The metal wasn't shiny anymore.  
The wood was split and some of the ties were gone.


Every Tuesday on Morales Street
butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens.  
The widow in the tilted house
spices her soup with cinnamon.
Ask her what doesn't change.


Stars explode.
The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals.  
The cat who knew me is buried under the bush.


The train whistle still wails its ancient sound  
but when it goes away, shrinking back
from the walls of the brain,
it takes something different with it every time.
happy birthday, antonio -- may your soul-seasons exceed four :)


Naomi Shihab Nye
b. 1952

Naomi Shihab Nye was born in St. Louis, Missouri in 1952. Her father was a Palestinian refugee and her mother an American of German and Swiss descent, and Nye spent her adolescence in both Jerusalem and San Antonio, Texas. Her experience of both cultural difference and different cultures has influenced much of her work. Known for poetry that lends a fresh perspective to ordinary events, people, and objects, Nye has said that, for her, “the primary source of poetry has always been local life, random characters met on the streets, our own ancestry sifting down to us through small essential daily tasks.”

A contributor to Contemporary Poets wrote that she “brings attention to the female as a humorous, wry creature with brisk, hard intelligence and a sense of personal freedom unheard of” in the history of pioneer women.

Nye received her BA from Trinity University in San Antonio, Texas and continues to live and work in the city. “My poems and stories often begin with the voices of our neighbors, mostly Mexican American, always inventive and surprising,” Nye wrote for Four Winds Press. “I never get tired of mixtures.”

In Hugging the Jukebox (1902), Nye continues to focus on the ordinary, on connections between diverse peoples, and on the perspectives of those in other lands. She writes: “We move forward, / confident we were born into a large family, / our brothers cover the earth.” Nye creates poetry from everyday scenes throughout Hugging the Jukebox in poems like “The Trashpickers of San Antonio” and the title poem, where a boy is enthusiastic about the jukebox he adopts and sings its songs in a way that “strings a hundred passionate sentences in a single line.”

Nye is a fluid poet, and her poems are also full of the urgency of spoken language. Her direct, unadorned vocabulary serves her well:
‘A boy filled a bottle with water.
He let it sit.
Three days later it held the power
of three days.’
Such directness has its own mystery, its own depth and power, which Nye exploits to great effect.

Fuel (1998) is perhaps Nye’s most acclaimed volume. The poems range over a variety of subjects, settings and scenes. Reviewing the book for Ploughshares, Victoria Clausi regarded it as, above all, an attempt at connection: “Nye’s best poems often act as conduits between opposing or distant forces. Yet these are not didactic poems that lead to forced epiphanic moments. Rather, the carefully crafted connections offer bridges on which readers might find their own stable footing, enabling them to peek over the railings at the lush scenery.”

As a children’s writer, Nye is acclaimed for her sensitivity and cultural awareness.
Nye told Contemporary Authors: “I have always loved the gaps, the spaces between things, as much as the things. I love staring, pondering, mulling, puttering. I love the times when someone or something is late—there’s that rich possibility of noticing more, in the meantime…Poetry calls us to pause. There is so much we overlook, while the abundance around us continues to shimmer, on its own.”
st64 Mar 2014
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.

    Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.

    Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.

    His hope: intermittent.

    To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.

    He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.

    He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.

    He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.

    He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.

    Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.

    Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)

    "Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."

    He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.

    Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.

    He has a special attitude towards terror.
Keith Waldrop
b. 1932

Keith Waldrop, who was awarded the 2009 National Book Award for poetry for Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy, has been a prominent voice in American poetry for over forty years.  He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry, prose, and translations.

Waldrop was born in Emporia, Kansas in 1932. He enrolled in the pre-med program at Kansas State Teacher’s College, but his studies were interrupted in 1953 when he was drafted into the US Army.
While stationed in Germany during the 1950s, Waldrop met his wife, the poet and translator Rosmarie Waldrop. He earned a PhD in comparative literature in 1964 from the University of Michigan and has taught at Brown University since 1968.  

In addition to being an internationally celebrated poet, Waldrop is a respected translator of French literature.
Waldrop’s poetry navigates concerns that are at once personal and philosophical by representing a world that is endlessly strange and fascinating.
There is, in Waldrop's work, a steady thought directed to the way that we make our way in the world by thinking and speaking. Where Wallace Stevens gave us the portrait of a man bothered by the march of ants through his shadow, Waldrop gives us the disturbances of the world in its representations.

Upon receiving the National Book Award, the judges said of Waldrop’s poetry: “If transcendental immanence were possible, it would be because Keith Waldrop had invented it; he’s the only one who could—and in Transcendental Studies he has.
These three linked series achieve a fusion arcing from the Romantic to the Postmodern that demonstrates language’s capacity to go to extremes—and to haul daily lived experience right along with it: life imitates language, and when language becomes these poems, life itself gets more various, more volatile, more vital.”
st64 Apr 2013
1.
It feels as if we've enjoyed a beautiful, paced love for so long
On this turntable of unity.

Then you quickly and suddenly throw at me
An unpinned grenade of words and demands
While you jump off the LP.



2.
Leaving me spinning on, alone
Wildly out of control.

I jump to the middle
Seemingly-still core of this storm
While it spins ever faster
Rapidly gaining momentum
Caused by your absence!



3.
Confuuuuuuusion....
............................Fe­ar.......
.....................................oh, just horrible!

I am stranded in the middle with this grenade in my hand.




4.
I am frightened.
I am lonely.

So alone, too.
And.....where are you?




5.
Off to gather stones.....
Oh, Joseph can't catch it this time.
Please... too late.






Star Toucher,  04 - 03 - 2013
Oh man, this spinning....killing
Ha ha!
Stop the world.....


We all got funny and not-so-funny turntable moments, hey.
Gotta seek a little levity, somehow.


Let's catch each other...safely....in poetry :)

Tenk yoo.....lol


Written in July 2010.
Seems a tad fitting now.....I said, A TAD, ok.....lol
:)

Fear likes to poke its tail into me tale..... sometimes.
st64 Nov 2013
she didn't know..
until she knew
what a curve of learning!


1.
both college-students and real good-friends
he was a science-and-botany buff
            *and the mountain would get a taste of his cells

and she, student of philosophy and languages
            would hear the latent-message from a dozen sources


2.
they shared confidences to the other
things they never told a soul
            he also discussed his theories and science-experiments and projects and stuff
            she told him how slightly-uphill her lectures in Russian proved to be
they'd meet there every Monday.. under the campus-trees
with two hellish-strong espressos
        he remembered her chewy-doughnuts without any snow-sprinkles
        'cause she was given to these silly coughing-fits
        when eating peanuts and pulses
he teased her endless and ragged all her idiosyncrasies
they seemed closer than kin

yet he seemed to remain aloof when she tried to get closer
      he brushed off her advances
      and told her to get lost
then ran off with Lilian on Tuesday
then Zita next Tuesday
then Sumaya the following Wednesday
and Tarryn on Thursday after that
and so it went on for a whole while
the whole academic-year, in fact

yet still
      they studied together
      and swore in debates
      and met every Monday
oh, that was the one day he never dated


3.
on the first day of each month
he'd give her a beautiful clutch-pencil
its casing bled entirely in translucent-fuchsin
and told her to guard well context over content
she never understood this cryptic-crap
       but smilingly accepted each one
she thought them too pretty to use
       and kept them in a special-box
       yet her heart broke each time
he took out a new flavour-of-girl
and shared his tongue with
     Sally and Margaret and Lisbeth and Anne..
     some lasted days, others short-weeks
but they all fizzled out
like the pop that they swallowed
and she wondered if he would ever
              favour her with affection
              give to her what those lucky-gals got
              look into her eyes like that
              whisper sweet-nothings to her
why didn't he want her?

but he was brusque with her and abrupt as discordant-chords
he scolded her like uneven-bricks tumbling down
and yet, it was to her that he played
               his own alternate-ballads on his banjo
               i n t r i c a t e - b e a u t y like living-pearls on those strings
      he couldn't look at her, then
      too caught-up in sweet-delivery of song
and with his eyes closed, her imagination took high-flight
as she was able to stare at him, without fear
                           in wonder
                           in enchantment
and marvel at the mesmerising co-ordination of those busy-fingers..

others passed by, but he did not care.. so giving
she felt so unique
'cause she got what they did not
           unbreakable-bond of
            music and.. talk and.. those clutch-pencil gifts

and for his birthday, she gave him a two-tone pelargonium, potted in cream
left him wordless..


4.
it was near the end of November
(just like now:)
and he casually mentioned of going away
            a week-long hike in December
            with a girl in a group that he'd met, some Sarah or other
and something in her flared and she broke down..
                                                                ­went off the rails

he looked on aghast, in total silence.. half-perplexed, half-squinting
     which disquietened her far more than any outburst could have
he stood there before her, on that Monday
       in the beautiful mid-morning sun
she remembered, to the moment.. how the light caught his eyes
       seemed to be looking right t-h-r-o-u-g-h her
       and almost, she saw the tiniest-trace of something...
       struck by a touch of liquid-vulnerability in his being
but hooded-eyes quick again, typical-hider!

he reached into his backpack
****** her a clutch-pencil
which she almost rejected
but she calmed herself down
and he looked at her once
            turned on heel
and walked to his Beetle
rode off the campus
without looking back

and she kept on wondering what it was all about
       that silent intense-look


5.
news came of a group of hikers who succumbed
from high up
some slipped and
her acrid-tears were not the only to fall
upon learning......


6.
she ran back to her dorm
reached for his gifts.. in full-remorse
and clutching a pencil in each hand
she squeezed and accidentally pressed on the flick-top
and then...............
               (it came out)
i t . . . c a m e . . . o u t . . . ! !

never in her life would she be as stunned
as they repeated their message
     over and over
     in tandem audio-confusion
in all the tongues she had studied
she learns now
of the time he took to delve into her crap to relay his truth through his amazing-invention!


7.
at the interment, she couldn't speak
displacement dipped too deep
she took up one clutch-pencil
      and pressed on the top
      message loud and clear
custom-made brilliance direct from heaven's fingertips

the pall-bearers lifted him up
                 and
out of her life

now this roundabout-present lies in the velours-box
like he does in his



students of learning..
in book.. and in heart









S T - 25 nov 2013
sort of confusing day - yet, clearing tracks can be good thing, no?
yes!


the pen sure be mightier than the sword ~
but life is much like a pencil - ain't nada permanent :)




sub: beloved

father, beloved.. who will care for us?
when you depart for war tomorrow
against the people's will

mother, beloved.. we pray for you
your seven children miss you so
we seek your guidance now

children, beloved.. hark ye well
there be a place to go, when alone
to feed the soul.. go quietly - inside

it's simple-truth:
(when you fail to go within
you go without)
st64 Nov 2013
r EVOL ution
uncoils slowly by the fire
pondering of profound-flickering in the reverse-sparks
within the pupils of shifting-light


1.
love(r) dips deep within a hardy fire-maker from another sky
body recycled and soul carried on
mind unlike any other
it’s simply a matter of Time.. holding that rusty-key of long ago
entrusted to a cavorite-place behind silent-wells whose treadle-functions heaven forgot


2.
yet what counts highest sits on a ledge of paradox
as happiness falls short upon the threshold of *fornever and never
after

there are tumult-fears to overcome
and it needs time, once again
as hearty does beseech temporal-cogs to ensure one full revolution

thanks are not enough for things that words fail to express
no specific thing to pin-point
of the immense power the discharged-missile holds
who is ever the same person in the marching of months?


3.
exponential growth is combustion understated and surreal-excitement catches
to find traction in the whistling wind.. only a quarter-whisper away
it has instead.. been phenomenally unreal

.. can't explain it
.. won't deny it


4.
the full idea has near-outgrown its twin-seal flanks
that choices came shaking.. aghast and                                
dripping its magenta-fury in heavy-drips upon the sand
                                                            ­                                            half-spilling lava-filled cups of ire            
near the camp-side        
grabbed it by the lapels        


shaking – I love you so
now, why can’t you say it?
why won’t you declare it?
what holds your yellow-*** back so?


5.
there's a power-burst in the trajectory-whirligig here..
can’t be stopped, won’t be stopped

burnt offering rises up in a scathing-hiss

  and exudes such a sweet-cleansing                                                  ­                                           

   of               ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                           

semi-cinnamon and subtle ginger                                                    




a­nd.. love is but a word whose letters
lie
in the sand






S T – 11 nov 2013
so, yeah.. that’s about the size of it.. lol



sub:  none

none of loss
in moult of moments
let go
to see the new
st64 Jun 2013
how he loved his sweetheart queen
she always wore the silver bracelet
he gave when she turned sixteen
now their kids are growing; how time has flit



10 a.m.

Eyes opening, sun comes streaming through the windows. It's so late!

I rise, feel so groggy....what's this weighty load on me...?
I've been sleeping, yet feel profoundly *weary
.
Where is everyone?
"Muriel...?"
I get to the bathroom to wash and shave.

My wife appears at the door, "Honey, where have you been? Oh, we haven't seen you in so long... Welcome back! Come down for tea, dahling."
She pours a glittering smile and reaches up to touch my cheek with the back of her left hand, fingernails painted deep red...her nuptial rings still a dazzle after so many years...but she....
"Alright, dahling?"
"Y-yes, dear."

She had never called me darling...or even dahling....before...!
Huh?
And off she goes, to the kitchen.
Welcome back?? did she say?? And her eyes were shining so bright...
Wait a minute....just  hold on ....what....??
I shake my head, unable to toss some heavy feeling....a dense cloud in my head.



10:30 a.m.

Now I'm dressed and freshened up, I head down.

Feeling better, I see my warmhearted and humorous son at the pine dinette table.
I smile warmly as he turns to look up...I remember the promise that we'd go fishing this weekend.
"Hey, budd....."
I reach over to touch his hair, but he flinches away..!

"Who's this, Mom?" Kyle demands hotly.
My wife gives a bright smile which doesn't quite reach her eyes and says: "Now, Kyle....behave. It's Daddy.."
"Oh, he's just .....tired, ok."

She waltzes over and politely hands me a steaming mug.
What in the name of....???
Over the cloud of coffee, I watch them all.
Little Jenny, but my jolly toddler...now on her mother's hip...watches with wary eyes and reaches out to scratch me, her pacifier hanging from a blue ribbon, like a noose from her 'happy-smiles' bib.

"But Mom, he's been away so long...for years and..."
I hear him whispering sullen and lizard-like, to his mother....but he's hissed into silence.

What in the heck....?
"Now, children," Muriel says patiently, "go play out in the yard..."

Oh, I'm feeling so frazzled!



11:00 a.m.

I decide I've had enough.

My wife is at the sink, thickly busy rinsing cups and plates; she smiles sweetly, humming.
She never did like doing dishes....
Now there she stands, looking all coiffed and made-up, hopelessly incongruous...

I shake my head; thoughts roll and collide, like mysterious marbles across my mind-floor...
Kyle watches me hostile, from the garden...arms folded defiantly across his chest.
Jenny's on her tricycle, red as a fire-engine.....eyes blankly staring, bent on crisscrossing her scalene triangle trip.

I turn to ask: "Muriel, where's your bracelet, dear? You always have it on."
"Oh, dahling...don't you worry. It's upstairs on the dresser."

And yet.....I was there earlier whilst dressing, and I didn't see it!

Baffled, I step out to the kids.
I prune the bougainvillea and then rake some leaves. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck....
It feels as if I'm being watched...when I look up to see, they are all quickly resume their activities.
Muriel just keeps on that shiny smile for me.


11:30 a.m.

This is it.

As I rake, some leaves make way for a clearing in the yard.
Bending down to scoop some up, a shiny reflection catches my eye...there's the silver bracelet with that beautiful twist of blue as gemstones.
What was it doing here...?

Still pondering, I see my wife's head **** up from the kitchen window...lips curling back...oh, no smile this time...body looking too *****...eyes like saucers, way, way too interested.....

I look down again...move some more leaves.....a curled hand....But it looks like ......

I recognise my Muriel's hand, her clear and pushed-backed-cuticle fingernails....her arm..her face....but.....
she's here.....!!

What the.....??

I turn round slowly to look.....only..... too slowly.....







how I loved my sweetheart Muriel
who always wore her silver bracelet
with that beautiful
twist of blue




S T, 11 June 2013
Partly inspired by movie 'Haunting in Salem'...just some ****** film I couldn't finish....lol
Dozed off and wrote this thing, instead :)


sub-entry: none
st64 Jul 2013
eternal thanks to the likes of open flowers as these
always a-blossom
rendering life
so worth
living


1.
“But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it *most
?”
― Mark Twain

2.
“The trouble is not in dying for a friend, but in finding a friend worth dying for.”
― Mark Twain

3.
“If you don't read the newspaper, you're uninformed. If you read the newspaper, you're mis-informed.”
― Mark Twain


4.
“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.”
― Mark Twain


5.
“You believe in a book that has talking animals, wizards, witches, demons, sticks turning into snakes, burning bushes, food falling from the sky, people walking on water, and all sorts of magical, absurd and primitive stories, and you say that we are the ones that need help?”
― Mark Twain


6.
“I've lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.”
― Mark Twain


7.
“The best way to cheer yourself is to try to cheer someone else up.”
― Mark Twain


8.
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
― Mark Twain

9.
“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.”
― Mark Twain


10.
“A banker is a fellow who lends you his umbrella when the sun is shining, but wants it back the minute it begins to rain.”
― Mark Twain


11.
“A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory.”
― Mark Twain



12.
“Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.”
― Mark Twain


13.
“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”
― Mark Twain


14.
“Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, and never regret anything that made you smile. Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
― Mark Twain


15.
“Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?”
― Mark Twain


16.
“I thoroughly disapprove of duels. If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and **** him.”
― Mark Twain


17.
“Noise proves nothing. Often a hen who has laid an egg cackles as if she had laid an asteroid.”
― Mark Twain


18.
“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”
― Mark Twain


19.
“He who asks is a fool for five minutes, but he who does not ask remains a fool forever.”
― Mark Twain



20.
“Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option.”
― Mark Twain






Source:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1244.Mark_Twain?page=10




S T, 2 June 2013
Feeling inspired by Mark Twain, of late....oh, the fine thoughts which spilled from him ...wow.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens (November 30, 1835 – April 21, 1910),[1] better known by his pen name Mark Twain, was an American author and humorist. He wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876) and its sequel, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885),[2] the latter often called "the Great American Novel." (WikiPedia)

Also listening to 'Scarborough Fair'.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XEhAXQ5QQzs





Sub-entry:  “faire”

1.
will ye go to the faire with me, dear thing?
walk over the lea and pick wild daisies for yer hair
please, let me whisper sweet honeyed songs in yer mind .

2.
deep-red apple-toffee syrup on yer cotton shirt
oh, I have something splendid to give ye this eve
we share moonlit love under a twinkling canopy.

3.
come with me..

(oh yes :)

st64 Apr 2013
I want.......
Quiero un corazon, lleno d'amor
Un corazon.

A heart.....
Por que tu no esta ahi?
Soy tan solo, tu no esta ahi.

Full.....
Toco justo guitarra, por te olvidar
Por que tu no esta ahi?
Soy tan solo, tu no esta ahi.

Of.....love.
Donde es mi corazon?
Creo esta perdido.


S T,  6 Abril 2013
Un poco de amor....

Corazzzzzzzzon!
st64 Apr 2013
1.
Do you know, I'm coming undone
And did you notice, I'm coming round less?
Did you ever see, me hardly at your door
Then, I'm already waiting to leave?


Chorus:
We used to fit so well together
But now, we're drifting far away
We were too busy to see...us
Come undone.


2.
You didn't see my threads come undone
Too busy tallying your brownie points!
You used to be a shining star
Then again, that was so long ago.


3.
Trying to learn what the ox cannot do
And that is to unshackle its heavy load.
Drummed in the guilt, weary and sad
Could never manage it all, had come undone.


4.
Have you any idea of the many times
I've tried to call you, with my courage undone
So, how can one tell when the time is right
To take a chance in life and make that change?


Sometimes, we learn only too well!


S T, 19 April 2013
Problem with conditioning, is ...we sometimes learn too well!

Unlearning a thing is .... a heck of a bit tougher than....learning.
st64 Oct 2013
.                                 .
.                           .
.                     .
.               .
.         .
.    .
.
MM





S T - 4 oct
sub: conceal'd nae more

fine-toddy to be
if but open-eye
to acknowledge

porte-sacrée closed
when re-writ word
claims garish-light

conceal'd nae more
fine-trust to share
man can see truth

(if they dare)
st64 Jul 2013
blinded by startling light,
can one really
see?


mild visions sitting in the dark corners
of shame
strong options flying about
in wild abandon
demanding resentful attention
no epiphany on the steep edge of nerves
just constant and silent grating
escalating the fatalistic complexion
of old wounds
seeping through the rotten bandage
of sickening pretense
rank blood-clots scream such fine expletives
your curling toes may not cope with


which one is chosen..?
dual visions
of life and death
opponents on the same board
no coercion in choice
neither works solo
third option hides
beneath the burning scales of judgment


live through life and death
cut through the slices
of pain
even serrated wedges are better managed
than large edifices


yes, far better to
CRE8 options
than swallow the superb crap that Life shoves
just, who in hell said:
there's only one way...



visions can be
overturned*




S T, 9 July 2013
now, see here: have a jolly time, man.

irony: how we fear options, even when they gloriously exist!




sun-entry: "light of the moon"


live
by the light of the moon

afore ye know it:
without any ceremony
you'll just nod off
for good
then, nicely
they'll try to wash the death-stink off you
and carry you off ...
roll you in some rosed-up rags and
maybe cover you in some splinters of wood
dump you in some deep hole
where they'll scatter some sad words
over your sorry carcass
saline petals, maybe
and think of you
once a year

hence:
to live FULLY by the light
of
the moon..
gotta be
worth living for


(fear not that
that moon will shine
on that patch of ground
anyway :)
st64 Jul 2013
in purple haze of reverie, the gentle visitor came
beckoning kindly…come, come to
our V I R I D I A N world* . . .


1.
On our cerulean sphere
You need have no query, nor fear
We open our non-gravity planet to guests
Even unlikely earthlings who pass the simplest flaxen-test.

2.
Much less needed, we bedaub
Our flavescent lava-vision, going beyond the orb
Mild kaleidoscopic fandango-swirls is our mossy cyan-matter
Triplet-hue colours felt only by the revered and well-known mad Hatter.

3.
To let you in on the cosmic-latte ripple
Our flowers range from acid-green to African purple
Blast-off bronze flora dance-blaze in  burnt sienna fields
Alabama crimson rocks and aureolin skies over anti-flash white seas.

4.
We confabul8 with deer, breezes, plumes
Such creatures roam free, for we do not consume
As slumber befalls us not, you wonder how we spend time
Frolic in universal peace; to welcome home stars as our rhyme.




you are so welcomed, celestial guest
Vortexiamus awaits
only
you




S T, 28 july 2013
A rare rhymed piece (with one deliber8 break :)
So much (time) lost … so much can be gained … in silent seeking.


Sub-entry: THE SEEKER – The Who

Writer: P. Townshend

I've looked under chairs
I've looked under tables
I've tried to find the key
To fifty million fables

They call me 'The Seeker'
I've been searching low and high
I won't get to get what I'm after
Till the day I die

I asked Bobby Dylan
I asked The Beatles
I asked Timothy Leary
But he couldn't help me either

They call me 'The Seeker'
I've been searching low and high
I won't get to get what I'm after
Till the day I die

People tend to hate me
'Cause I never smile
As I ransack their homes
They wanna shake my hand

Focusing on nowhere
Investigating miles
I'm a seeker
I'm a really desperate man

I won't get to get what I'm after
Till the day I die

I learned how to raise my voice in anger
Yeah, but look at my face, ain't this a smile?
I'm happy when life's good and when it's bad I cry
I've got values, but I don't know how or why

I'm looking for me
You're looking for you
We're looking in at each other
And we don't know what to do

They call me 'The Seeker'
I've been searching low and high
I won't get to get what I'm after
Till the day I die

I won't get to get what I'm after
Till the day I die
I won't get to get what I'm after
Till the day I die


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XrO4_nyamZs
st64 Apr 2013
Another chance, a new approach
Waiting in the wings for you
Waiting in the wings for you.

What else is waiting there? (x2)
Waiting in the wings for you
Waiting in the wings for you.

So, take your time, enjoy the ride
Waiting in the wings for you
Waiting in the wings for you.

Yeah, enjoy the ride...while you can
Waiting in the wings for you
Waiting in the wings for you.

For you never know
What else is waiting there
Waiting in the wings for you . . . .


Refrain:
Dare you hasten your destiny?
Only to regret your impatience . . . .


What seems to be boredom now
Is simply biding grace time
Waiting in the wings for you.

And that is not so bad at all
Waiting in the wings for you
Waiting in the wings for you.

For you never know
What is waiting there
Waiting in the wings for you.


S T, 30 April 2013
Give things a chance.....quit bein' so hasty......

Like some wise person once....all good things come to those that wait, but better things to those that hustle!

:)
st64 Mar 2013
Dab, soak
Scrub out blue.
Who wants
A bleached soul?


Star Toucher, 15 March 2013
Some stains can add character...like a spackeled ceiling yielding pretty patterns for the open mind.
And...there's colour in a rainbow :)
st64 Sep 2013
we are witness to atrocities
committed by regime
over its peoples
over time



1.
we are witness..

shattering glass of reality arranged into chosen shard-feeds
like omni-gov surveillance into meticulous mind-grafts
spluttering eternal-stats for public mind control
spewing mini-truths of perpetual war raids
disillusionment of history forever *rewritten

control supply-and-demand
create dark-cloaked dilemma and monitor shortage and famine
make-believe elements so well played to auto-frenzied latch
thinking is degraded and actions.. well, less said



2.
diligent and loyal yet harbour secret-hatred
feed visions stilted by politrix
deception and manipulation
propaganda is the oleaginous-game by wand-over-mind
totalitarian is the kingpin-holder of cards
and yet, who is really being played!

eternal marionettes on a conveyor-belt
can't even play with yourself alone
your ****.. your ****.. your every move..
watched - surveyed - and studied
by that ubiquitous-bulge eye you cannot escape
right opposite your low hard-bed
you're broken into popping-parts
that YOU won't recognise!


thoughtcrime-police is gonna accost ya
get up, comrade.. get UUUUUUUUP!




3.
we are witness
life-tube covered in darkened vapour-swirls

we are witness
children conditioned to watch their parents.. too closely

we are witness
truth so smothered, now re-fed by repeat-metaphor

we are witness
dictata.. dictata..

we are witness
austere existence in a tacky one-room flat

we are witness
subsist on black-wheat and imitation-repast

we are witness
regurgitate the party-dialect on and on and on
(after a while, we end up half-believing.. )



only the clock which strikes thirteen
can smell the charred-reality
as leftover-truth is shoved
into incendiary obsolescence




tick-a-****-tock
and that would be..
one



S T - 26 sept
two.. three.. four..

who's really subversive?

afraid?
yeah, maybe we oughta be!
(ooh, mind.. don't think too loudly now..lol)

oh, and I wonder if anyone dares to hate this poem..
(anyway, it matters little - life's too short to give a rat's **** 4 that :)







sub-entry: Witless


2.
it's for the greater good
believe it!


1.
thus
we are witness..
(my broken nose tells me.. I won't be decimated)

and
we are all witness..
(heartless control reeks sidewalk-cracking dents)

then
we are witless
( .. .. .. )


0.
hack, hack, Neanderthal
hack, HACK!


-1.
brr
it's cold..

no..!
no..!
no..!
not me, please!

(primal fear sets in
see how
we stigma-sell each other out)
st64 Oct 2013
a day is a day is..
a day
hey?


since the day I saw
but a mere two days
hard to believe what I
saw
but I can't say.. I just can't
I might be blinded
by the contiguous-brilliance

today
I slow-pour this wondrous-concoction
into
this
wee poem-in-granite
and wait for the right-an-timely setting

and *tomowwow

we'll see..
won't we?



yesssssss...


S T - 23rd octo-octo 2013
how lucky anyone afforded the godsend of contrast :)


sub-entry: sunny..rainy


sunny.. yesterday, the sun hid its bold-face
rainy.. today, you go sit quietly now

one day.. will be
what will be.
st64 May 2013
.
and so, what do we see?


[A]

1.
We see...
Their planet is third from the source
That it still takes sunlight 8 minutes and 20 seconds to reach Earth
So, they're not as koodauzled yet
Thus, stable (for now)
Despite the polar melts and atmospheric fumes....

2.
We see.....
Stick-like appendages still grow out of extensions
At the end of long, dangly limbs
With hard yet pliable, translucent growths at end
To use for countless tasks.

3.
We see....
They still consume: plants....and animals
No change there.
Yet, now ....less subsistence
More modified products to eventual detriment.

4.
We see....still
They engage in warfare, of all kinds
Air, ground, mental, cyber, chemical....
No end to barrage of senseless acts
Violence is slippage as means to commune.

5.
We see...
Some figures more gaunt than others
A kind of poverty of the inside duels external opulence
Deep clutter and subsequent wasting
Twisted fragments of utter decay increasing.

6.
We see....
More enterprising ventures in communication
From lightbulb to phone to pads
Neat advancements in technology and science
From many kinds of wheels to flight.

7.
We see...
Their offspring subject to long years in learning
To maintain (by rote) their disproportionate rules and ready values
Propping equations and formulae into heads
Castaways on a rickety boat in a deep sea of confusion.

8.
We see....
Amidst beauty of their art in all forms
Of dance and music, visual and written
Other forms of entertainment are demeaning to some
Mind-numbing staring and raucous outbursts.

9.
We see...
Figures of peace reduced considerably
Voices erstwhile strong and fearless, full of candour and truth
Now, fashionable puppet-sticks of media
With regurgitated rhetoric a-spew.

10.
We see.....
Mother Nature and geriatric folk not as cared for
Neglected and (..)used
How long before this greed catches up....
Afore progeny be heirs to blight.



[B]

We see not....
Enough of

Peace
Harmony
Kindness
Sharing
Forward Thinking
Courage  
Inter-Connectedness
Hope
Inner Consciousness


Not nearly enough.




[C]

We long to reach out and touch the centre of their being
And share fruits of universal wisdom
And steer all away from adversity.

Yes, we long so
For them to see.....


[D]

1.
Not yet....

All so easily done....but
They are not yet ready.....but
One day...

2.
Yet....

We will continue to observe
They know not we may be among them
observing



to return on the Aurora in a few light-seconds



S T,  6 May 2013


(dedicated to outridin' light)
.






QED...really?
as Mr. Lintnaar (my ol' Math teacher:) used to say

just a silly poem, is all.


TIP:
A must-see film (if only the introduction) ......"The Gods Must Be Crazy"


/ / /


INFO:

One light year (a measure of distance, not time) = 365 x 12 x 4 x 3 x 30 x 7 x 24 miles

The sun is 93 million miles from Earth (or 149 668 620 km)

Earth to Alpha Centaurus (closest star system to our sun) = 4,3 light years


/ / /


KEY:
Speed of light = 186 000 miles per second

One mile = 1,6 kilometres

1 light minute (the distance it takes light to travel in one minute) = 17 987 547.5 kilometres

1 light year = presently defined to be equal to precisely 31557600 light-seconds


/ / /


SITES:

http://www.universetoday.com/15021/how-long-does-it-take-sunlight-to-reach-the-earth/

http://earthsky.org/brightest-stars/alpha-centauri-is-the-nearest-bright-star


((((((((((: thank you for reading :))))))))))
st64 Jun 2013
walk with me, oh sweet soul
oh please, walk with me

walk with me upon this path betwixt dale and brook
you are goddess of the moon, healing night creatures
feel the rustling breeze whisper hopeful prayers to us
don’t condemn your thoughts and feelings, for they guide.



This time, curiosity can be a blessing
Seek not excitement of the night
Yet wait not forever for a life to come
When you have it *right now
; live it well.

Emotions are sometimes borne of selfish needs
Thus, succumbing to easy judgment.... may lead to pain
And not only to yourself, oh no!
Its force can touch your whole being.

Get up thus and walk with me, sweet soul
Get fresh air into your lungs
Lie on beachsand, fully stretched, in clothes
Feel the living sun give to you, selfless.

Encourage not phantoms of ill desire
Place not your heart so precarious
Reach inside, extend a hand
For what seems cursed or bland..may well be ~ your very own blessing.



Oh, what gentle ministry gives she...goddess of the moon..to a needy soul




S T, 30 June 2013
written in 2010.

"oh Lord, it's hard to be humble"

read that line somewhere, just forget where now....

hope that Moon-Goddess pops by sometime....soon :)




sub-entry: 'tides'll turn...tides'll turn'

when we least expect
but most need.

wait for it...
tides'll turn....tides'll turn.
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