Garry 1d

As I stand barefoot on the grass I begin to feel it; coming in the air tonight. Have I been waiting for this moment all my life? Probably. Rooted to the spot now, I feel the white light of ancient wisdom. It seeps into my feet and they begin to grow into the ground.  Deeper and deeper they grow, splitting and separating into earthy tendrils that each in turn do the same. Slowly, the light rises inside of me like early-spring sap, up past my thighs and into my abdomen, filling every last blood vessel and suddenly I’m blooming from the inside. The light reaches my shoulders and pours into my arms causing them to outstretch and extend. My fingers grow and twist and contort and split and keep on growing.  Green buds of chlorophyll appear before blossoming into veiny leaves of intricate beauty.  I tilt my head back and wait; I feel my skin harden and thicken and crack as my body completes its earthly transformation. My clothes fall off in tatters, like Dr David Banner, as every part of me grows and fills with the wisdom of ages: the lies and outrages. Time passes and I watch from my now forever-fixed position. Full of wisdom and knowledge and power but unable to express it beyond whispering sweet-everythings to the sky and anyone who isn't listening.

Not sure if this is poetry or some other form of narrative - it's basically a description of a dream I had some time ago.
Oculi 4d

I know now, or in a sense...
I've always known, I've always known
That I don't care about real life
It's hard to care if you never were.
But if I'm not real...
Will people care for me?
Will death just accept me?
Or do I have to stay and tell my story?
Either way, I'm more than unreal, less than real.
And I'm more conscious than I've ever been...
In a sense, I'm alive.

O Knowledge! Thou, in vestments plain and white
Art deceptively appareled, for deep
Runs the well of thy treasures; human sight
Cannot fathom the depth of such wealth. Leap
Into her pasture, poor searcher! Her sheep
Are ne’er shepherded awry; you will find
Her embrace the true fortune of the mind.

O Knowledge! Vision to a brain born blind!
O Sweet sight intellectual! I’ll praise
Thee, who alone art so gracious, so kind
As to seek out poverty so to raise
Up the poor captive from the witless maze
With gifts abounding, though unseen. I’ll sing
Thee, who in false silence makes truth to ring!

O Knowledge! Do thou my petition grant,
And come, my pauperdom to richly bless,
Break up the noisesome dark with thy fair chant!
O consoling balm to ignorant stress,
Thy seal upon our anxious minds impress;
For when the glass of our wits seems filled up,
Thy divine outpouring deepens the cup.

Hand me down some ultimate truth
we'll pass it round the place
hand it to the barman there
gauge the look upon his face

Let the barmaid hold it
see if she, understands
will she keep, or discard it?
truth, not in her plans?

Give it to your lover
precious and pure true
can they comprehend it?
true love, coming through?

Ultimate truth, elusive
the knowledge of, a thing
silicon, may define the glass
as gold, defines, a ring

Ultimate truth doesn't mean, it's understandable :D
Anybody ever see the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy?
Forty Two

Inspired By:
Silvia Noval Nov 8

It was a future that existed even before I knew it.
A line out of time and space that was real, that was a possibility.
It is yet out of my reach,
It is not for me.
But I will become the person that future belongs to.
Soon enough.

What I learned the other day
I got out of a poem
words, I've never seen or used
so, I didn't know em

The knowledge I've attained
from lame to full obscene
expanding my vocabulary
and my inventory, clean

Perusing prose, with purpose
gaining insight, and intellect
espousing, better rhymes
with others, too infect

are you collecting the old counts of how
they slaughtered your son and his power-hungry heart,
twenty three knives to the torso,
the killing blow delivered by a beloved friend?
or are those the scrolls that you wish
dust would settle over forever, relics and reliefs of
everything you see behind your closed eyelids.
a politician’s mother
must be all the more clever; her son will not
be going into battle to die with honor
but rather with deceit. give her-- you-- a laurel wreath,
the irony of the goddess nike standing
golden over the tomb of your son: emperor,
caesar. mother of summer, of boiling july,
are you not the sun? are you not the constellations
freckling burnt pale skin? are you not
the fiercest and brightest of warriors, quietly,
without warning?

for the mother of julius caesar, the woman who raised him while his father was away; for the grandmother of augustus, who marked the change of roman history.

You hide behind
knowledge like
a shield you

feel stronger
when you know
the answers,

when you know
the answers,
when you know.

Autumn 2016.
Gabriel burnS Oct 25

As my footsteps disappear into puddles
And the ripples go silent
I put to doubt
The things we make
Of mud today
As knowledge travels
Rails of science
Instead of the path
Of knowing time
We’re sending light
Where it wasn’t meant to be
Like the greatest of all angels did

We have turned learning into
An autopsy of everything
Lobotomizing every liberty
Analyzing mistakes to find
Better excuses
Bitterly abusing conscience
And sapience
Numbed by the applause
Of every new Eureka!

Next page