#brow
The if, the pose to be supposed, up
above the purpose, we stand under
knowing, mankind was never intended
to know how to do this very act,
reading writing ready to be read, leads
to sayings said some time back, leading
us to imagine we both think the same
thought, each word we read holds, as true
under any standalone circumstance, a meaning
true to the sense supposed such a word may
make a reader willing to agree, the idea
that makes a word a word, is we agree,
that idea,
this is that, us, as a we form of human beings,
thinking these very same words, for no reason,
-apriori aitia, art
poses art itself as beautiful hope substance
weighed in lightness of spirit,
fi, in essence leaving be, the gentle feeling
confident, you know, art's aches are maddening,
no, the reason, is not the cause, be cause ready
readers ratiocinative states allow imbalence,
total nonsensed reasonings used to hold us…
all the worthy ways truth makes life hold us…
the words, the skill
to shape each quant-unused, idle time,
of good sense, seen to show a child seeing
- my grandma telling me, time and again
if I had the good sense god gave a green apple,
I'd have a
gpp gulpt precept popt
t' resonate morphically at you
- classified useless tech, taught better,
- let our imaginations see what lips feel,
goodly persuasion perception, a sweet intelligence,
such a taste at a time coinciding with a kiss perceived,
as while watching, full screen close ups of only lips,
leaving all that could not be seen, to seem,
sorta, kindalike, could and did, in my core
- vicareous exposure to coming attractions,
- should one perceive the adulting too soon…
do. Yes, this idea, once more, reproving
doing and imagining doing, seriously, really doing
is the same for childing as for adulting, thinking
about doing it, when it was complete mystery,
the real deal, believed by all the cohort reared
in the system used to make us each useful, worth
a **** to the whole economic cycles begun back then.
Boomers for business, Jews for Jesus, loyal De Molay,
fidelity, integrity, snap
network radio
to your realm of imaginable,
five words per minute, decode rates, 300 baud signal.
Feel the suddenness urge,
impulse same sure sense, I know
we did agree,
whatsoever two or more agree,
Truths held true to the point where
if the Bible says it, to this point when
you know, each key, carries each letter,
but the reader carries the key to each word,
and the effectual patience of the reader,
waits and reads each line, as an answering,
swery villingly wired for recording nows,
at the instant one uses a choice to remember
Membership in the mad poets, to remember
burning at a public bon fire, really, the idea
used to make adultery so unavoidable, truth
is imaginable, and imaginably beautifully true,
as art is, so is art formed, in minds holding being,
at an instant
pause
to think, we breathe, we think,
we might speak across this medium,
we may talk through this walled time,
and…
we may think each word, in any known
set codes all laud the possibility we know, just
what any knower may, and nothing more, just
now, we each are thinking this is not conversation,
this is verse, prosaic perhaps, yet line upon line,
precept upon precept, except ye whet the edge,
you know,
you must put forth far more labor, wasted effort,
redeemed in times taken as granted, easy waiting.
--------------
There's this art,
and there's that other art,
efforting elucidation, seeming
seen in such a light as good shines
from, in reflection as we speed along,
thinking in decades, retying reasons
to wishes avoided, just at that instant,
when none of this was ever done, not
a thought, you think now, if then
had not been truly what does occur,
in the paradigm of life's book, not life,
but the book of,
on your pages, it must say you knew
enough to know, art has a cause,
a sake, a reasonable weight,
ratio of mass to velocity,
piercing everything this time, this
once, and ever so, called science,
by this time, even so, it must be
imagined, these words tying
known forms of we minds,
contracts, promises, come and see,
bet
you never bet,
yet, you won, today,
as long as you can keep thinking,
life, is an agent for knowing why
and how, energy and velocity,
x chiral functionality reality inside
outside opinions serving as wings
oppostion, push wisht'serve, as hope
substantial understood balance
ratio, you know, you thought, you did.
So, now, whose hell can hold you,
finding your core self capable of holding
this truth, certain, to the point
where madness is the other side,
flat, instant mark dime, two sides,
from where we stand, and where
we understand peace is found,
just past week one, year 77.
Along this course through human events.
Jul 8, 2024
Jul 8, 2024 at 10:21 PM UTC
A drop of beauty spot
a black mole
or a cool shady sketch
on the golden brow
of a sunny day.
The evening is always
welcome at the end.
The night from off site
pops on her way
however pitch dark
weaving even more black
across that kohl-pollen
embroidery
a sky full of stars
will keep an open eye!
Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 10:50 AM UTC
Wish I have that
raised brow.
Let alone eying
the moon on the highs
but up to your eyes.
Neither do you
let me down.
You touch down the abyss
seal the bottom of the sea
before my teardrop falls down!
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 12:40 AM UTC
brow creases lightly
piano sings a soothing song -
fingers in their turf.
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 8:50 PM UTC
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.
Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.
Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?
A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss
from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:
the lost gold of vanished stars.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 11:59 PM UTC
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.
Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.
Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?
A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss
from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:
the lost gold of vanished stars.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 6:15 AM UTC
He’s shaved like a survivor of something
And this is the first time I’ve realized, his
Head normally baubled under a dark cap
His arms spindle, bark bent at shoulder and elbow
The leaf of his hands shiver around a 6B
I watch him become a Broadleaf before my eyes
He stretches long around the room
Determined to crowd every corner
Trundling, truncated at root
I wish to be as I see him
A beautiful tangle, loud in motion and
Silent in speech, sprinting full speed
His feet pound in dirt,
Name sprawled on the walls in capital BLACK
Demanding to be heard or at least recognized
He is the mystery of the day, every day
The jumbled stranger, in pieces strewn
& unsolved
--
c
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC
The one that ventures
to look outside the window-pane
Is the one that kisses
the fear on its brow
The wars of oblivion
make love in the
battlefield of reality
Upon its ashen reeds
What i see and feel
is a sweet sentiment
of loss all along
the street
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
How is it that
my most popular poem
with 970 reads,
twice as many as
the next in that list
has not one comment
nor like nor dislike....?
While runner up
brings nothing but accolades
and praise
from some pretty
**** good poets,
is the fountain of
most of my followers
and trended 10 of 10 days.
Is it the title?
Did they just read one line.
Let me post the painting
that it goes with
then they all would love it....maybe even say sublime.
Its all good I don't mind...I call it market research....though skewed, I can use the results to understand reader's minds.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
out toward the east
a heavily laden cloud brow
poured down its rain
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
There is a sleep so light
that it rests upon my brow
ever so careful no to slip into my eyes
and I hear its laughter
on my thoughts that have no meaning
or reason
And when it notices
my tears
it takes pity on me
and holds my eyelids down
with the weight of its love
That’s how morning comes
and finds me,
clinging to the sleep,
clinging to the life,
that will soon leave me.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 3:46 AM UTC
Were vagabonds of the streets!
each one a collection of memories,
carried like a hearse on our shoulders.
Waiting to be buried in shallow graves.
Did you read every epilogue of sadness
that collected on so many brows...
Each a sentence of our life deleted
by life's eroding moments.
We could hold life in single use bags.
Never reused but fading at the handles
of life's weight. We collect like refuse
in the corners of close shutters, static.
Did you read every epilogue of sadness
that collected on so many brows...
Each a sentence of our lives deleted
by life's eroding moments.
Time is chains on the pressures of
every moment, every step reminds us
of all the mistakes that brought us here..
Life is smothering us as we sleep alone..
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 12:37 PM UTC
There was this grief of a
Permanent kind
Etched upon her face –
Light playing shadows
Christened, “Solitude,”
And a dark that’d dance before
The grace of those long gone.
And so, he’d grabbed her hand,
Nudged her cheek with a
Nose broken crooked,
Tender was the trust bent her back
And failed was the promise
As “tomorrow,” never was;
It’d never ever be.
Sure, tomorrow, the day after
And tomorrow once more
Happens for others,
But one more year, for her,
Would be carved upon brow
Come one more drink,
One kiss and the other, dead.
That door’d been destined to slam
And soon it did with tear drops
Abandoning the never delicate face;
Eyes like a reservoir missing fish,
Pupils with paddies depleted rice,
And once again, but one, “tomorrow,”
Shy an hour or twenty.
Crippled, she’d carried, crippled
And carried on, All the way
And with only pennies to show
With a back bent epochs and
Crooked to bury crook; Under dirt,
Under home and alongside
The love she’d never lost for him.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
Bluegrass sprouts a brow,
When Kentucky’s one crow left;
Feign drawl and bourbon.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC