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vircapio gale Jul 2012
"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of ****** she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail,
to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the ****** huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough *****, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"
-a version of the Cretan's or liar's paradox ('This sentence is false.') inspired this write and took on a life of its own and isn't meant to be an argument for anything. just an exploration of the problem of representation, a universal distrust of language and my associations. hope it didn't drive you crazy like it did me :)

-i quote Sylvia Plath's "Daddy", Stein's "Susie Asado", and Sappho's very short,

"I have no complaint"

I have no complaint
prosperity that
the golden Muses
gave me was no
delusion: dead, I
won't be forgotten
Sappho

-Erasmus wrote "Praise of Folly." the title alone comforts me

-when asked 'what is truth?' by one of his disciples, the buddha is said to have picked up a flower.

-our moon rotates at the same rate as its revolution (not sure why please inform me), so one side always faces us. the greeks thought it was a disc, literally. and when the Russians got to the 'backside' first, they got to name all the craters.

-noema:
the objective aspect of or the content within an intentional experience. NL, fr. Gk noema perception, thought understanding, mind, fr. noein to perceive, think
Jack P Aug 2019
one love is skinny
one love is tough
one is unrequited
one's had enough

one points a finger
one plugs an ear;
and that's how i'd describe
how we both ended up here
hiatus, hi-at-us, an anagram for hiatus is "u a ****"
Ken Pepiton Sep 2022
Analog, anabasis… trip, short, burn the bug to carbon dust…

Seeking in my treasury of books, pared down to ones with personal attachments,
- I sought a Welsh-English pocket dictionary, gifted me
- by a taller and older, by experience, Overmeyer… Bob,
- but he was one of a few in the corp, band of brothers,
- who sang along with me, when he heard me humm,
- he knew the words, worth-ship fixing words, yes,
- we shall gather at the river that flows by the throne of truth. Mmmmhmm, so we shall see, so we shall see,
Oldman river, you know,
you wait, and wait, fishin' wishin' cogitations got from *** go,
known good, known evil, and evil comes for effect, not cause,
clean up, aisle five
hell, in a target store. And a Walmart, #26.
-- I recognized the anti particle, passing through either or,
becoming here, from there, your thinking my thinking,

wall of text, in your current context, this wall has hat

hooks to insights marked pertinent someday, in the wide ocean
at the end of any river mind me and error master,
as awareness, meandering as all fluids do.
Aligning in honed most saline crystaline form, as
current opinions shapened from dust and ash originally,
then spit the idea out as a word,
imagine
matter… mater, really, bottom first bit, was realized after
paterialization falled to manifest self reproduction…
patterned thought, fabrication, plane geometry… which we
as a team, a man and his tools, gunslinger, plus accoutrements.

Yep. Adam, did not work alone. The egg was first. He named eggs.
And chickens, full of eggs, no, hope, and chaos, nada mas…
- morals from old stories, we had lost all hold on those…
Stepmothers after The Hundred Years war, like as not was
first slave, with only obey believed enforce,
as far as
holy vows spoke allowed, but in a whisper…
hear us,
old folk, we scatterbrained old rockers by the fireplace
listen, this is living, right.
Pursue haps as haps occur, in thinking one thing or this other,

Our kind, fixed position ears perpindicularly augmenting per-
iferal vision, if, just, if. Immeasuarable meanings, justice, yes,

we settled at that point. All the Promises - in any living faith,
even dying proves life is a chance, we all go through it, and some leave marks, while others leave a heart felt
oxitocin, not cotin, red on yellow, **** a fellow, -tocin. Oxitocin,

Rush!- Kettle DRUM after a cello up run, or an old familiar rif,
Goin' up country, ' bought a map for a dime,
from a time lain aside in book, as I was seeking that Welsh word for these experience in side, feeling inside, but being mere, yes, not a limiting adjectival modification, on a word, intended to soothe,

NOT ******, soothe, as said of gentle rolling seas, calm as constant as Jupiter's ever near there, right there, red spot, there,
that is an anomoly, yet, there are those who claim clarity, that

Red spot, Ted-talk phaze, ease in, get a buzz, mmmm, slow, slow

slow
whoa, so slow, what difference can plain-people, just us,
can we ever just know, this is the way, no obstacles,
and we leave trails, and trails widen, and widen, and widen,

wide as the milky way as seen from North Korea.
What a blessing, right?
--- God made these chickens we are eating,

no, child we selected these big red hens, people, like us, we can
know how earthly goods grow and we can help, as gard'ners,
retired guardians and priests can, make soil richer,
by leaven from the native soil,
fresh after fire, sparks the bloom

Patience, paid close attention, over time,
pay is as interest always is, compounding…
complex knots
slipping infinite loops generation systems
spinning straw to gold, bricks to build a tower…

to grow mustard into brocolli and cauliflower, prosper-o

we can engineer squash blossuming
be.. not spelch-pstpst-offt-listen,
- laughing
in my home are children, aged 6 to 13, across a seven year gap…
in my home with complete 5G internal Wifi, with cable
- copper, ah
- the humm, copper wire interference, acceptible as soft
- sub-spectra sfumati self-edged,- cut from whole cloth
abrupt.
Con, is with, fuse, is
blown… but, click, we are past that, where I live, on a pension.
I survived an oath in a war. And in America, the we, as
represented in Congress after Korea, and UCMJ, reach, reach,
- remember the ears that read, need to know
right, MP talk, uniform, all the exact same alignment and weave… for forsake, forsooth, forgotten gains, -- un-fore-gotten
upright walking, living concept, Phoebe Zeitgeist
- she made a word nest in my mind, on March 16, 1968.
- On a Douglas Flying Tiger insertion mission,
Flying to a foreign land more foreign than any thus far, redux.

Surreal stepped up to real, realms of preception, Metaverse/
uniform code under it all, we wished for this, can we, can we,

please, walk back in and watch the shadows morph to home sized I-max with true-fi dolby optimized to your very own, humanity
verified self--
- eyes up, look where we were when ever, then be come you now known as dear reader, responsibility free, cookie or no?
Be any mind you find you can wear with no wish to lie,
the wrong mind set with the ears and eyes, and we cannot lie…
you lose.
The whole ritual of prayer and supersites, tics, ****. We glow…

once illegal exposure
confidential, super-secret, super-positioned tyrannical systems,

whole cloth leprosy, black mold to dust time sequence…
-- such minds as fed us Elliot and Thorough Error-prone Poses,

as seen from the repressed mind of an unassimulated inate-ifity,
We are none of us, Adam sons, his model had nor repro circuits.

Hey, once there had to be something akin to ****** birth,
really, mitochondria developed virally, just fine, so, so fine,

imagine, we got the cell, a wall, with enzyme will efforts on the doors, we open to need, and useful matter is accepted,
as in another phase we open to expel the uselesshit, which then fills the red corpuscles, which use iron to hold the load.

Flushing blushing bride, Mito-mom, her daughters, imagine…

trackless wasteland, aftermath of minor miscalculation
in the dancing cosmos, whirling
whiling, smiling
inside…

I made it. 2022, Everest Pax, is the real name
of my youngest grand son, who randomly
reassures me he loves me, as though he wishes me
to not let that slip, naturally, his version of me is fragile,

what he imagines I am can disappear, in a day,
like Uncle Mike, and Uncle Dennis, and Uncle Richard,
and Uncle Remus…
none of whom were alive, when Everest Pax was named,
by his mother, with no input from me, save
the covenant aspect in the who gives this wombed man…
common pagan ritual adapted to post-Jesus Christ-sanity.

X-mas, nada mas. Agree, and take the cookie,
or risk another death,
on the real wrong battlefield… Well, what the hell… hero
or legend in my mind, thinking, what would any who do?
Raw raw raw
KM Jones Jul 2010
I am chaos.
I've ceased to be adjectival; I no longer embrace, but am, chaos.

My heart has been broken and glued back together in ways all the pieces were never meant to fit.

I am one million miles per hour over the speed limit, on a dead-end road, with no intention of stopping.

I'd rather not sleep, not eat, not laugh.
I'd rather get ready for the day with swollen eyes and a worn-out mind.

I just want my lungs to explode.

I just want for my eyes to slam shut.

To be still.
KM Jones Aug 2010
I am suicide sleeping.
She forgot and took a day off.
So here I am.

I drive wreck-lessly.
windows down. music up.
daring a tire to blow. to lose control.
Stoplights and Speed Limits have become mere suggestions.

I am not invincible.
and I embrace it.
I'll shake hand with death before * I * die.

I am not coasting.
I am beyond your... verbs.
                     Your... adjectival states of being...

Undefined.
Indefinite.

I want to know. not to learn.
I want to see. not to discover.

I needed to be re-built. not demolished.

But I am without foundation.
Faithless.
God-less.

...Simply suicide sleeping.
One russian roulette away...
Aug 17, 2010
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
~~~


reaching hard for words

~~~

enter tip toeing,
the loudest noises off,
save for a silent, seriously-forming smile,
re-designing your face,
while in the orbit of early morn,
mapping your return to the planetary
bed
all the while,
observing her
while closeted, comforted and cloaked,
upon their/his
landing zone bed,
honing your return re-entry voyage
home

the blonde in her traditional,
sleep arms slung in wilding, disarrayed
repose,

and
her breathing stride,
regularized and still,
yet so humanly unpredictable
wild ride

and your are surprised

by surprising yourself,
once again,
that you're in this position,
when an unforced, yet an enforceable,
warm hearted girl-glad,
chest centric?
envelops and coddles
and yet
shocking you,
that this never-expected-gift is capable of being felt

at in over up outside inside
below across beneath above and the
all encompositional prepositional,
throughout

forms of its own accord,
not asking permission,
to exist within

your body that not so long ago,
forgot where it kept
the
how-to manual

and you,
obligatory poet,
noblesse oblige,
try reaching hard for,
top shelf, newly combinated,
adjectival adverbial nouns and
verb words
to encapsulate this
shocking development

but finding none,
save for the the silent, seriously-forming smile,
busy re-designing your face,
quiet like,
it,
thunder claps slaps
in your mind

enough!

your smile is
this time

self-speaking sufficient
and
there is no need
to reach for words


~~~


9:03am
The Sabbath
1-15-16
nyc
Ashley Clarke Aug 2014
She was poetry,
And she was beautiful.

With her eyes
Filled with metaphors.

And the secrets
And similes
In her smile.

Her personified hair,
The adjectival laugh,
The imagery in her hands.

Liaisons between
Her eloquent feet
And the soil.

She is poetry,
And she is beautiful.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 15
What does baking require of us?
It requires patience, thoughtfulness, an eye to your surroundings, otherwise known as
simply paying attention and responding accordingly.


more gourmand than gourmet,
who believes like the firmament above
that the transportation of
the human soul is enlightened,
enlivened
by the aroma of scent of
an endless freshly baked loaf of bread

need to confess,
never held
a rolling pin,
nor had a mustache white
made of flour
upon my face,
and if ere the toaster oven
had not been
installed invested or even invented
in a kitchen,
the only thing
I would ever have
preheated is the body
of a woman who truly
was loved
complete and insane
daily for
sixteen
years

but the perfume of a
newly baked brioche
can bring me to
tears
just as a newly unearthed,
the child of a poem
writhing within me
emerging, even surging
from the soiled placenta
of my
souled~soiled mind&heart,
borne and born
yeah,
even
bre(a)d

so I read an article about
a baker from France,
reading the words above
and wonder
what did I miss,
forfeit,
after a lifetime liftoff of
a badly chosen careered life
that i did trust love
or so I thot!

wondering why bakers are the way
they are. There is a quietness, and a kindness, to their lives that veers into almost monastic behavior. Perhaps it is simply the ancientness of being a fire maker — tending a hearth really brings something out in a person.


how I glowed and flowed
with recognition of the
esprit de corps
(borrowed identically
from French to our
Anglais lexicon)
in all acts of creation,
a fabulous trade,
a new conception
eye spied on the streets of
My Manhattan

understood the mesmerizing
heat of a crackling fire
for children of all ages
and the why~when
the birth canal opens,
I must be alone with
the quietude that
tries and fails
to hold the raging
heated hot juices inside,
kept nope, not in check,
so formatting them into
a disc shape,
lest they spill unseeded floored,
a pour of ooze,
crisping the lost flesh
of flames eradicating
from
the plenitude distractions of
short term, this modern life

<>

Sunday,
in my America is a holy day,
a sabbatical
marked by rituals sacred,
brunch, football games
or maschostically
even two on a
Josephian
coat of
many colored  channels

all this followed by
with a desert tray of
patisserie,
PBS (1) ****** mystery tv shows
of British origin
for a somewhat lessened
yet still violent contested cultural
amuse bouche

In between,
the ladies squeeze in
a Great British Baking Show,
which says when suggested
you’ve been bested
and
‘Yo Boy,
time to ****, Nat
them deserts make you fatter,
by mere visual osmosis’
and contemptible contemplation

and that contested kitchened
atmosphere
antithetical to introspective
inspection
which life ingested in you
overly oveyly
aplenty
in placed,

so now I wonder
if this,
a career chosen
by youthful me,
the maledom masculine shouting of the
traditional trading room,
where ego was nourished
within a veneer of analytics,
rationed rationales reasoned,
was down to the nearest $ sign,
was it
the right place for me,
and how it sponsored within me,
a need ultimately
to sit
in ancien worn
by fig & vine
in uncomfortable Adirondack thrones,

a bright need
to sit by  the
saluting salutation waves of
a constant lapping bay,
and the conversation of
a current thrusting empowered
tidal basin rivers
waters both
lightly salted fresh water
in piety poetic
combination,
all fed by genteel
small mountain streams,
all flowing, by gravity sent,
to assemble ingredients
of
verbs, noun words in
an adjectival temple,
unkempt kept simple,

in different voices
well  hid **** deep
beneath his skin, his bone,
for to simply order up;
a bake off up,
a meringue of
poems

and to better understand what
our well definable,
oh so human
l i f e

requires,
even demands
without surcease,
of us
?
all the while
we
twogether
areexpelling the rap we
breathe
and the scented heaven
of holy wine and
unlimited
loaves of
yup,
b r e a d


nmlipstadt
https://www.nytimes.com/2024/10/09/magazine/best-brioche-recipe.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare
Donall Dempsey May 2019
WILD IS THE WIND

Our worlds wounded
by the wind.

The storm tearing our sentences
apart

scattering them here and there
every now and then

a noun
makes it through

or an adjectival clause
- a strong verb.

We only know
we talk but hear

nothing.

We give up.
Kiss.

This incenses the wind who
lashes our faces

with our hair
but do we care.

The wind unable
to blow the kiss away.
Thank dog, and cat,
     no pet tee filed - late fee
incurred from this
     sole heir, matted son
     Avenue of Harris communique
to his youngest sister
     busy as a queen bee,
her name mentioned

     backwards solely for
     wry ming sense – re:
garding Dunning-Harris Shari:
Not there need not
     be any clear cut,
     nor cloudy total
     reason to bolster wee
kind fortitude to write

an email (albeit
     with my characteristic
     trademark rhyme) to in vite
my own impetus to dash
     off a friendly hello
     in a gentle
effort to unite
sibling camaraderie,

     whether this
     material in question
profound or trite
with no pro noun
     sub bull adverbial,
     or adjectival intent,
and of course nada spite,
this exercise to compose,

     whatever occurs within
mum mind quite
     likely to concern
     general circumstances,
rather than touch upon
     any single plight
since, an easily educated guess
     can paint (no Norman

     Rockwell) framed palette,
     (sans dystopian
     picture) outright
and despite whatever hardship,
     with curtain call on this
     November 11th, 2018 night,
a flickr ring, instagram, and
     kickstarter motive might

be fulfilling tummy,
     that ever so quickly
     the dimming light
(when the scythe lint
     covered grim reaper)
perhaps attired as
     21st century LGBT knight,
the latter once

     sip pawn a time...,
     now he iz a
     messenger simply bear
ring pleasant tidings,
     and also an effort
     to express, how
ye didst (aunt still do) care
(uncle Andy as well)

     for Shana Punim,
     who on a do able dare
to be doted upon, and offered
     to go here, there,
     and everywhere
experiencing a gamut of
     eye opening globe trotting
     (Watch out Harlem

     basketball Boyz to men) hair
reed tailored, and swiftly styled
     educational adventures
     adding learning and zest
to life, liberty, and purrs
     suit of feline doth wrest
good development
     of character to in vest

patterning herself after
     exemplary guardians
     sometimes you might
     be feeling beat,
     when embarking upon
     latest electric kool aid acid test,
nonetheless, this
     missive of gratitude,

     where thee darling daughter
     doth conquer one quest
after another (principally attributed
     to thee, who NEVER protest
obligations, but
     launch with confidence,

     whether feathering
     the Gadshill nest,
or...furthering education keeping
     body, mind, and spirit
     sharpened as best
Yukon Mount attain.
Donall Dempsey May 2021
WILD IS THE WIND

Our words wounded
by the wind.

The storm tearing our sentences
apart

scattering them here and there
every now and then

a noun
makes it through

or an adjectival clause
- a strong verb.

We only know
we talk but hear

nothing.

We give up.
Kiss.

This incenses the wind who
lashes our faces

with our hair
but do we care.

The wind unable
to blow the kiss away.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2020
A HOUSE OF WORDS


I lived in a house
of words

with windows
of memory

speech
an open door.

Now this disease
that I can't pronounce no more

or even remember
what it was

has blown my house down
like a Big Bad Wolf.

A scary
fairy story.

Now I have to ask
what is a "blue?"

Somehow it
escapes me.

And what is
a "Monday?"

I live in the wreckage
of my words.

Here a noun
empty of all meaning.

There an adjectival clause
whatever that means.

So much for being
an English teacher.

"I can connect
nothing with nothing."

Somebody said that
don't ask me who.

I only know
it wasn't me.
to repost poem
(I chanced to locate
amidst plethora of poems on hard drive
of Macbook Pro)
written more'n a half decade ago
before yours truly
blissfully oblivious to crypto-
currency shenanigans linked into

fiendish scammers after which
I (especially me button nose) didst glow
(giving Rudolph the red nosed reindeer
a run for his money)
whence rage,
on par with wrath of Khan,
whereby mine money
witnessed lightspeed outflow.

Thank dog, and cat,
no pet tee filed - late fee
incurred from this
sole heir, matted son
Avenue of Harris communiqué
to his youngest sister
busy as a queen bee,
her name mentioned
backwards solely for
wry ming sense – re:
garding Dunning-Harris Shari:

Not there need not
be any clear cut,
nor cloudy total
reason to bolster wee
kind fortitude to write
an email (albeit
with my characteristic
trademark rhyme) to invite
my own impetus to dash
off a friendly hello
in a gentle effort to unite

sibling camaraderie,
whether this material in question
profound or trite
with no pronoun
sub bull adverbial,
or adjectival intent,
and of course nada spite,
this exercise to compose,
whatever occurs within
mum mind quite
likely to concern

general circumstances,
rather than touch upon
any single plight
since, an easily educated guess
can paint (no Norman
Rockwell) framed palette,
(sans dystopian picture) outright
and despite whatever hardship,
with curtain call on this
then November 11th, 2018 night,
a flickr ring, instagram, and

kickstarter motive might
be fulfilling tummy,
that ever so quickly
the dimming light
(when the scythe lint
covered grim reaper)
perhaps attired as
21st century lgbtqia2s+
genderfluid non-binary knight,
the latter once
sip pawn a time...,

now he iz a
messenger simply bear
ring pleasant tidings,
and also an effort
to express, how
ye didst (aunt still do) care
(uncle Andy as well)
for Shana Punim,
who on a doable dare
to be doted upon, and offered
to go here, there,

and everywhere
experiencing a gamut of
eye opening globe trotting
(Watch out Harlem
basketball Boyz to men) hair
reed tailored, and swiftly styled
educational adventures
adding learning and zest
to life, liberty, and purrs
suit of feline doth wrest
good development

of character to invest
patterning herself after
exemplary guardians
sometimes you might
be feeling beat,
when embarking upon
latest electric kool aid acid test,
nonetheless, this
missive of gratitude,
where thee darling daughter
doth conquer one quest

after another
(principally attributed
to thee, who doth NEVER protest
obligations, but
launch with confidence,
whether feathering bed
videlicet the Gadshill nest,
or...furthering education keeping
body, mind, and spirit
sharpened as best
Yukon Mount attain.
Donall Dempsey May 2020
WILD IS THE WIND

Our words wounded
by the wind.

The storm tearing our sentences
apart

scattering them here and there
every now and then

a noun
makes it through

or an adjectival clause
- a strong verb.

We only know
we talk but hear

nothing.

We give up.
Kiss.

This incenses the wind who
lashes our faces

with our hair
but do we care.

The wind unable
to blow the kiss away.
Arlene Corwin May 2020
I ‘know’ a man (if one can ‘know’ anyone on a Mac) who writes like a dream; fine poetry, deep, erudite - but suffering.  Oh, how he suffers in his verse!  And so, I felt myself forced to reply in kind - my kind.
     I start off by quoting one of his weaker adjectival descriptions and base my response on his picture of life.  

        Reply To An Unhappy Verse

Man is ‘weak’ but man is strong!
The ego always plans to stay,
But strengths and insights
Can and want to rule the day.
So do not dream, do not desire.
Aspire to maturity, the spirit’s liberty
Leave childhood memories behind.
Continue on with climbing into mind
Where you, dear * will  find
The optimistic peace you dearly, daily long for,
So be strong for this.
Its not far off - a kiss away.
You do not want to miss its entry.
Have a nice and healthful day!

Reply To An Unhappy Verse 5.11.2020 Circling Round Experience; Nature Of & In Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin

— The End —