#carl
The smartphone is a portal
to progress and possessional obsession.
To behold all knowledge of the beauty of the human experience within the palm of your hand, yet to also behold;
brilliant tutorials from false idols on how not to live your life,
that captivate and obliterate all free-folks minds.
Ahh yes, freedom-the fickle *****
monkey see
monkey do.
The smartphone has brought us closer than ever before
yet, when this little tablet of infinity shows you only what you want to see
(like a mirror to the soul)
pray you keep keen eyes upon your shadow
for even hugs can crush and families feud and through opinions and tribal captivations
we become more divided.
It has made us spend so much time looking down, that we no longer look up;
For it hurts to stare into the light.
Nobody looks into each others eyes anymore for the same reason.
Oct 3, 2020
Oct 3, 2020 at 5:44 AM UTC
Shadows are the part of us
that refuse to grow.
We need to integrate them back
neatly in stow.
........
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 6:42 AM UTC
Dear Mr. Carl Sandburg,
Once, you wrote:
*"The lucid and endless wrinkles"
Draw in, lapse and withdraw.
Wavelets crumble and white spent bubbles
Wash on the floor of the beach."*
Having observed often, the exact phenomenon you reference
in the words above, the undulating action upon a sand white beach, patient waiting the greetings of the all-day wavelets, which reminded you, which reminded me, of the lucid and endless wrinkles sea worn upon our faces, it is my happy duty incumbent to inform your spirit, that we have yet in this the 21st century, to invent, a machine that does it better than you man, hu-man, connecting our aged faces to the timeless stroking of the Earth by the water that sustains life.
Yours truly,
Mr. Smoke Scribe
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
With the Voyager’s wind at our back,
hear me say: HALLELUJAH!
It’s right here—all the love that ever was—
on a pale blue dot, suspended in a sunbeam.
(Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya.)
Here. Home. The true and only one.
Half a pixel in a wash of darkened gray.
Dark like the soil of land weeping life.
Dark like grief. Dark like the space between
fires on a cold and a broken night.
Hear me say: HALLELUJAH!
You have soil under your nails, and
a fire in your soul. Carry it steadfast,
and with caution. Honor its burn.
Bow not to a darkness that merely seems strong.
You are stronger. You, plus me. And yours.
And mine. And theirs. And theirs.
(I used to live alone before I knew ya.)
Like fruits and the trees, we cry when clawed.
Our awe. Our agony. Our awakening.
Hear us say: HALLELUJAH!
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
I buried my shadow in a concrete grave
He came back to haunt me
I could not deal with the dark of night
But all of my light hid in the gloom
so my shadow re-entered the room
All the things I buried with him began to show
The blackest of times
So with him I entered a truce
That I would acknowledge him
But I said to him I'd never let him wholly loose...
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
As the moth flexes its wings,
the flower blooms,
the ants pause,
innocence,
born.
Born
in June,
the rain sings
for birds on our roof,
Laughter jumps from wall to wall.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 7:35 PM UTC
The double moon, one on the high back drop of the west, one on the curve of the river face,
The sky moon of fire and the river moon of water, I am taking these home in a basket, hung on an elbow, such a teeny weeny elbow, in my head.
I saw them last night, a cradle moon, two horns of a moon, such an early hopeful moon, such a child’s moon for all young hearts to make a picture of.
The river—I remember this like a picture—the river was the upper twist of a written question mark.
I know now it takes many many years to write a river, a twist of water asking a question.
And white stars moved when the moon moved, and one red star kept burning, and the Big Dipper was almost overhead.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
In Memory of Carl Sagan
his pale blue
sense of wonder
suspended
in a sunbeam
taught beauty in
the faint sensation
of our atoms
put together.
a legacy of
dust and stars
billions upon billions
of stars
I saw the sky and
endless possibility
stretch over me like
broken shackles
form the past
and we remain the
momentary masters
of a fraction
of a dot.
© Ben Ditmars 2014
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.
It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.
An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.
You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.
Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.
You are not fit
To analyse me.
You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.
Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.
I could have you hung.
But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC