#smokescribe
of the molecules of the water they will
swim in, that flow by my citybounded
abode in a tidal estuary
heading fir dispersal and aspersions
into the Great Atlantic Ocean
which I will visit
come the spring,
and are etched yet then
within the relentless
waves of the those very same atoms, upchurning and upspitting
white foam which will
very lively likely contain
new poems, perhaps,
perhaps even,
those writ by fish
in their dreams,
for who actually knows
the original origins
of the dreams
we drink daily,
not I,
who finds them
when the wet smoke of
fog of evaporated
water
kisses my lips!
P. S. perhaps I have written poems
authored by the very same fish
you held in your grasp once upon
a time in a photo)
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 12:19 PM UTC
*all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor*
***a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened***
*I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced
perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made
perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased
there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,
3/13/18
1:09am
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)
was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation
living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to
perspective
we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children
a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands
miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment
stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps
then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:
”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”
bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:
“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”
”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”
write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles
***”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet***”
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
Got 0 followers, but one tongue, and that's perfectly ok...
cause I got
two eyes
two nostrils
two hands
two ears
two ventricles
they all
follow me
all riders
on the one tongue
that speaks my piece
that finds poetry
on ***** streets
in closed places
and in the
if's of our lives
that makes writing
in one common tongue
so **** desirable
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
not especially social,
just a couple of friends,
so our interaction qualifies,
special, very,
with sincerity I say,
fancy seeing you here
come and gone,
come back again,
restarting an engine,
that been redesigned
to be as simple as
you and me,
reader, writer
quit, here, brevity here,
but say out loud that word,
fancy
one mo' time
part fantasy,
special, very,
a poem read,
a fan friendship established
here, where words and eyes
intersect, a very fancy place...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
can't imagine it ranks high up
on any list of any deity,
*** and God ******
probably don't make the cut,
on a relative basis,
but ya never know...
looked around,
couldn't be found
any mention of who he roots for,
or if it's ok to ask for intervention
**but
if you ******
if you behead...
claiming with perfect
human vanity
his name as your own
for justification
in ignoring
Thou Shall Not ****
know this
you're a commandment breaker,
having taken god's name in vain,
vain like vanity,
the sin unique to only humans
we cannot divine the divine,
sure wish it was my NY Giants
were today bowl-occupied,
why he chooses me to suffer
someday will surely be explained
or not
but you murderers,
easy rest assured,
taking his name in vain,
you won't be forgotten,
cause and effect
spelled out clearly**
“the LORD will not hold him guiltless
who takes his name in vain”
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:51 PM 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
crazy idea, silly notion,
then again,
come back, circle around,
why not, you ask yourself
now prior to posting hereon,
every word with extra care reviewed
sharing, checking in
with my beloveds,
here, those gone/disappeared
telling myself
telling anyone,
talking to you
letting you know
my grace, your grace,
one and the same,
my face, your face,
my child, my son
know you're
checking in,
checking out,
the comings,
the goings,
knowing full and well,
I see you,
my face, your face
everywhere and everyday
our conversation never ending,
look for me here,
at the intersection
of memory and what's up,
you see my messages,
responding in a thousand
different ways,
our dialogue unending,
formally organized
Face to Facebook,
your face, my Facebook
my child, my son
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
best believe!
don't use this expression
much in my northern parts,
when you hear it spoke,
then you well,
best believe!
what comes next is **** serious
choose words more than with mere extra care,
when you true
believe
it is a surrender to surety,
a gift released,
to own the grit courage of trust
and all that is
best
when you give it up and write in
pixel perfect unretractable,
now know it immutable,
asking pointless,
there is fact that
I love you
(best believe it!)
too
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 5:19 PM UTC
Shakespeare’s Dog
in the theater tonight, the notion of a poem-potion
courtesy of Shakespeare's dog came unbidden
So when home arrived, was unsurprised that this
very peculiar pug was farting before my own front door.
get lost, I announced got what I need from your boss,
but before I could kick him across the floor,
the pug spake thusly:
*this dog knows the boot too well,
it is parcel of this dog's life of no quality,
but if you give me shelter tonite, I will provide,
share some of Speare's un-Published Works
and you can claim it as your own!*
kicked that dog across the room,
(having pity earlier I let him in and enter)
told Jim, (that’s what I called him)
he can stay the night, or long as the sun rises up
and goes down unbidden, but, if I ever
caught him plagiarizing, selling sonnets on the side,
I would report him to the ASPCA and the Poet’s Union.
The American Society for the Poets of Conscience Alive -
might have his low hanging ***** cut off in retribution.
he laughed out loud, rhyming funny, pontificating:
*well mate,
thanks for the soliloquy,
me ***** long time gone,
but what I know and what I’ve seen
if tale-told you, and you were to listen,
you would keep me around as fodder
for your artistic soul.
in return chappie,
you need only provide me a rug, a fire,
A/C for the languid summer eves,
fodder for me body, and your boots,
far removed from my hindquarters.*
We spoke much thereafter,
turns out he served his poet-masters
in many ways, more than a mere footstool.
his snoring keeps me awake some twenty years later.
his love for country music makes me put him on nice days,
outdoors, his headphones securely strapped round his double chins.
ugh that pug. became my best becoming love, old friend,
one of us will pass someday and an elegy composition,
the other devotee will furnish sadness utterly becoming.
so if a farting pug before your door you’ve found,
take him in, give him water, an amply supply please
of Carrie, Trisha and Chaplin-Carpenter for his immortal soul,
but beware, he might try to sell you
some of my words, as your own.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
scribing with smoke and utter devotion
———————————————-
****
*half an orange, half a grapefruit,
on a crystal dish, resting on a fine china plate,
Royal Worcester, from England retrieved,
in a smoke cloud, upon my chest appears
the coverlet up to my chin pulled,
my arms tucked in tight, side by side,
the light turned off, the television too,
who? in a smoke cloud, catch a faintly glimpse
the menu does not mention love, or utter devotion,
no recollection of ordering either, and yet,
here I-am, well served, piping hot and well chilled,
scribing of one’s shadow, she who never disappears
she, whose never disappoints, late in the evening,
early in the morning, a mirage, a ghost, magical elusive,
lightest touch of a forehead kissed, a tingle for evidence,
but not the only proof of her*
utter loving and devotions appearance
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 9:15 AM UTC
why the occurrence of something highly improbable should be inherently noteworthy
Here is a way to produce Here is a way to produce
an outcome a poem
almost certainly almost certainly
never seen before in never seen before in
human history human history
and never to be repeated: and never to be repeated:
Shuffle a deck of cards. Shuffle an alphabet.
The resulting deck, assuming The resulting deck of letters
the cards are shuffled correctly, if the letters are shuffled correctly
should only occur on average should only occur on average
every 52 *51 *50 *... 21 shuffles, every 26 *25 *24 *... 21 shuffles,
because this is the number because this is the number
of possible permutations of of possible permutations
52 cards, all equally likely. 26 letters, all equally likely.
This number is incomprehensibly large, on the order of 1068 or 534 using letters
100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,
(or half that with an alphabet)
Every person on earth could
write a gibberish poem once every nanosecond
for the expected lifetime of the universe and not even put
a dent in that number.
Is this why then is there not a GOOD poem written
every time letters are shuffled about
the astronomically unlikely event
that just took place?
Because letters are not numbers, the subset of sequenced associations called words (in the English language) is about a mere
~ 220,000~
But, each year, an estimated 800 to 1,000 new words
are added to the English language
That is still a heck of a lot of possible combinations and is the reason why the occurrence of something should be inherently noteworthy
at all.
So writing a new combination of words is still pretty difficult,
and writing an intelligible and intelligent
mind moving combination
is a rare thing indeed.
Should you happen to write a poem and get even a single read, that is a pretty miraculous thing because the subset of the billions of English reading persons on Earth who also read poetry habitutualy
read is the square root of pi, or 1.7724537398758821888.
which ain’t a lot of people.
So, if you wrote a really good poem today and a couple of people read it, liked it, that highly improbable event is highly improbable, about the same chance that someone else exists with your exact DNA (excluding any identical twin) is a reallly low number
so, consider yourself really, really special. I do.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 8:12 AM UTC
let the lying begin
first, it's ***** - not ***********
don't pretend its scientific,
like geology, physiology.
It's just *** raw and without boundaries.
you watch. you fantasize. you deny.
then when your conscience questions,
you lie, first and foremost,
to yourself.
what's your favorite category?
got a favorite site?
or you like to explore,
never satisfied, more?
more.
Let the hunger games begin.
who can lie with straightest face?
filter me off of your list,
unless you ready to follow me,
to where truth rules,
no punches pulled,
raw is real. *** is raw.
real is ***
otherwise, why would you still be reading this
poem?
gotcha.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC