"alternations" poems
Save My Soul, (But First), Rub My Feet
thus a poem auditorialy conceived,
but!
the sexuality of the deceiving dualities,
irritates erogenous, exogenous perceptiveties,
plethora of intensifying variables, a not-serious,
harmless remark yet bring us to myriad of
marauding reversals, add-venturing into harm’s way…
much to discuss, but this
topic bettered by much
trading of traditional bantering
brevity bettering our wordless battering
insinuating, sensational signals bring
us backwards & forwards
to an exploratorium of wide boulevards
back to new unfamiliar venues,
narrowing alleyways & places we were before,
places before we were before where,
no unnecessary commas to separate,
distingué, distinct
tween the instinct of old and new,
an uncommon commonality experiential revisionism
now I understand what you said to me,
a tenderizing of
the sole synapses directing
the brain, the old ooh ‘s, aah’s
reigniting what what lay dormant,
at long last,
by opening doors to alternations,
ven diagram of digressing yet intersecting
old & new pathways,
from the souls of her feet,
to, too, two,
we become diamond
on souls of our heat
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
“What can a poem do?”
—————————-
***”A poem
is a not a tourniquet
when you’re bleeding.
It’s not water when you’re thirsty
or food when you’re hungry.
A poem can’t protect you from an airstrike,
or from abduction, or from hate.
It’s hard to write when our words feel
like they’re not enough—they can’t do
the real, tangible work of saving lives,
or making people safer.”***
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
<~>
as is my wont,
I write,
as is my Natted~inhabited,
retiring to the local watering holes of
Cerebrum & Cerebellum,
them regular haunts,
where all requests are mailed, processed, satisfied & marked;
‘return & render to the sender, who’s on a cerebral ******
and that request?
‘give me the words’ (2)
those ‘to do’ words, floaters, direct to top of list,
those ‘can do’ words, that can effect the affect,
spare the despair, realize the fungible, concretize cures,
soften hard waters, giving a worsening worn life fabric a
curated baby blanket feel, a 4-ply human tissue of
‘words that tell me everything’ (2)
salve solution verbs that bounty-wipe spills in entirety,
vacuum up spillage spoiling of 17 days of terrible nouns,
uncovered-unknown rages caused by inflicting prepositions
released a hatred rising,
safety rebury it deeper, drug & destruct the sleeper agents,
and let me start over again with
‘telling me everything by saying nothing’ (2)
the pausal silence, the quieted spaces tween the heartbeats,
where ‘reflection,’
the noun,
and its world of alternations,
reflection,
the noun,
look inwards, but shining outward,
this, this!
is where the poem goes to do!
enervating & arresting
its contradictory powers
rock you into wild docility,
possessive and submissive,
contradictory interferences,
smoothing the roughness,
closing the gaps it opens,
healing the caused truthful cuts,
with words that tell you
everything and nothing,
open the holes, filling the gaps,
that is what a
poem do,
in and by
the manner it is spoken…
<~>
“Sometimes a poem is the stone you carry in your pocket—the one you rub when you’re worried. Let’s fill our pockets with poems.”
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 10:10 PM UTC
Eyes switching gazes from right to left pupil. Stories held in thin air for a moment in the space between retinas. Words acting as weapons of mass destruction, hanging in the air becoming stale with every inch as each syllable rises into the atmosphere. Forever echoing in the ears of the listener, penetrating thoughts, clouding the brain, like toxic waste. Encouraging words must be found, they must be said. Dreams, inspiration. Into the minds of the growing, the moving, the future. holding the destiny of this world in small, and innocent hands, and wide eyes. Those eyes are the windows to the next generation and the key to the next miracle the universe begs for. Opening windows, and locking front doors, let’s pretend for a second that time is stoppable, moments aren’t lost, and people live forever.
Results aren’t final unless you ask them to be. Things happen we aren’t sure of, flashbacks your days dream. Having doubts that fill our minds wading through the nerves through the brain stem to the core of the cores of the armor. I can talk to my 13 year old self, and tell him that I understand, and that we’re still the same person, I’m just the shell. I can tell him everything I want. But he’s already lived.
In the mirror, switching gazes from iris to pupil. Lungs collapse as the phrases land on the younger heart of mine. Phrases consisting of the negatives, the outcomes, the results, the roots, the stories, the endings, the beginnings, the alterations, the alternations, the provocations, the imagination. Phrases meant to tear down, not rebuild. The destiny of the world held in small hands, clutched by small fingers, as the quotations waft through rooms. The rooms where they escaped ***** angry, and ignorant mouths. The miracle stares at the reflection, not knowing the necessity of the universe. Closing windows, opening doors, wishing the hands on the clocks of life can stop.
Encouraging words must be found, they must be said.
Let’s write history with the minds of the growing, the moving,
the future.
Nurture.
vi.xxi.xi
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:24 AM UTC
The fitful alternations of the rain,
When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
Drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere.
2.4k
*First the attraction
a morning sighting
of new spring warmth..
that initial penetrating
of sun's rays
an altered state..
then drifting clouds
breeze and chill
disappointment aroused
the earlier promise
seemed unfulfilled..
some alternations then
clouds and sun
is morning truth..
feeling the shadows
yield and not
clouds there are
bringing the sun...*
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
as space sufficiently expresses, or succinctly paraphrases with the concerns for time: or hue, or suntan, or baritone hummed weakening into a humph... crazy-bone etc.; sometimes poetry is so much more than the usurping of onomatopoeia... life is the essence of being timed, but that's hardly the essence in the space we occupy - over-versed thinking never formalised toward an outer-reaching imagination that might become copper-raindrops' worth of Disney, or a way memory is made adaptive to cure dementia... yes, space is the essential component for the compartment of life... i believe time has no place in what's to be called life, i believe time exists, but on an Olympic scale, in the metres and millimetres, on the minutes and seconds scales... space is the essence of life: so diverging from known apparatus to unknown operations, thus so diverging from known operations to unknown apparatus... and so on and so forth, until dinosaurs roar and we merely say: yawn - arrogant in our guise.
true, space devalues time; as said the people between us who we never had a meal with, but had the crazed look of craving an unnecessary contentment with despair. can i guess at something? i like your alphabetical onomatopoeia, i.e. pun for knocking, a sorta p p p / b b b, not necessarily needing the suffix for rhyme, why is it that poetry requires the echo, why not rhyme upfront? anyway... but it's there, that alphabetical onomatopoeia... a repeating of the first letter, like opening an oyster... which contradicts the orthodox methodology of rhyme... meaning that there's a repeated seance of an opening... which (although alphabetically staged to a prevailing repeat) equips the reader with many more surprising alternations - basically you begin with what rhymes alphabetically, but not necessarily phonetically: the lost suffix -ing via i had a cat called blinding, and he said all things were shining... one of your poems enabled me to spot this reversal of poetic orthodoxy, in that the rhyme became less musicological, and more rubric enlisting a coherent schema, such as a list... or rhyme via propped first, and cascading into oblivion, never really minding the waggling tail of a bouncy-ball of accepted verse. aardvark and acupuncture... the rhyme begins with A, and ends as it should end, diverging, so there's no feel for a repeat akin to drum or rhythmic bass... otherwise: shout an A into a cave and hear an echo... that's what poetry is damnably worthy to congest one's thinking with... don't rhyme: echo! and ensure that echo is alphabetical rather than musicological. perchance lessened talk, i too would have revised this example with some worthy emoticon.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
My eyes switching gazes from right to left pupil. Her words hover in thin air for a moment in the space between retinas. I'm losing my breath. So I write like read and tell. Forever echoing in the ears of the listener, penetrating thoughts, clouding the brain. An idea to entertain, remember and maintain.
The negatives, the outcomes, the results, the roots, the stories, the endings, the beginnings, the alterations, the alternations, the provocations, the imagination, the first, and the final destination.
She is the sound, the music we each hear through our ears, she is when the storm ends: the sky naked, clear.
She takes less than a second to smile in the moment. Unknown to Being my inspiration's main component.
Constantly unaware of the silver on her shadow's lining.
As bright as the midnight sun stays shining.
Perfect timing.
iii.xvii.xii
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:45 AM UTC
If I had to pick between that moment and a lifetime of moments I am not sure what I'd pick
Yes, that moment is guaranteed, but a lifetime of moments–lovely or not–is much more valuable than a lifetime of contemplation
I'm sure that that moment wasn't as valuable as it felt
Our lives are just alternations between living and dreaming and I am afraid that dreaming is much more productive
Because living always becomes dreaming and thus logically dreaming should become living but it does not and I'd rather live my dreams than dream my life
Except that none of the above can occur
I'm not sure what I'd pick.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alternations finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks at tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken,
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hour and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
wind goes ballistic.
the farther the birds are to complete
this absence, the better
quicker exchange of easy avatars
in Magsaysay, where no strobe
roams and only alternations of taxi
zigzag in stolen hours.
remember you pale,
forget you raw with blood.
eyes see all what silence divests.
in some dark place, we must
all have many cicatrices. blue is the hand
whirling outside, serious with its narratives
and tenuous notes.
lightening up
the fleeting truth of togetherness,
its ample weight something virtuous
in perceived realness is
that all guesses wan and wild
exhilarating the words we utter
riding along the strange Sun, our
headlong chronology of rue.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
somewhere in Antipolo
tonight,
let me tell you a lie:
the swell sheen of the moon
is borrowed.
this laughter is, too.
the streets with their
useless names,
the stir of the wind through
the dark's basin.
these words
purloined from the gut,
out of the frame,
and onto paper.
while staring at the moon,
i have this melancholy string
of smoke twining in its
foetal nature.
a threat of storm is coming and soon
together with all the dead specimens,
i will be buried in the rain,
yet now, locked in the arms of
stillness
yellow and blue and red alternations
from the edge of the radiant void,
goodbye.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alternations finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks at tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken,
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hour and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
mild no. 8901 i really enjoyed...
difficult no. 8902?
made one mistake... pretended to do
a crossword by filling in two squares
in complete black...
was the mild no. wholly relaxing?
i guess you enjoy something if you take
a long time to keep being
engaged in it...
i just wanted to reveal some sort
of conceptualisation of the tactics...
e.g. III ≠ II = I.
and it can really seem
as an autism doing these puzzles...
akin to understanding symbols
+ // | Γ L;
you're basically belzeebub eyed darting crazy...
thankfully my grandfather proved
the point that he can solve crosswords,
and i can do these.
i'm not competing, i'm no *******
samurai equivalent with these,
i don't have an ideogram capacity
of some asia... i just translate the "complex"
asian ideogram as gypsy: cha chi chong chew;
but it's the concept of sitting on a leather sofa
and doing a mild su doku for half an hour
while drinking *****
but the following symbols used?
that's the level at which i decipher the puzzles;
jokingly 6 9 also helps...
reading into the patterns so does 3 and ʒ...
who the hell reads mirage while
encoding it as /mᵻˈrɑːʒ/, when all you need is
the diacritic ż.... to either write: me-raż... or
akin to yen: mī-rāƶ:
****** wanna play? let's play!
let's play it: daddy **** me long time in thai.
all the bankers that retired from the game
walk these streets with dogs and feel lonely...
yep, and i'm feeling "lonely"
with linguistic alternations;
i'm going to down this ***** sharpshooter,
and probably feel less lonely by turning arrogant
into utilising an empty space / canvas.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
diamonds are a naive dream
but setting up next to a river
is trimming off all of the excess
you arent impeccable
you anger, melt, chip, stain
but you self soothe
you expound, even your alternations
are within the realm of reason
you arent a liar and i wont mop you up
tomato plants drop and are twined
we are the root, rod, flower, fruit, fiber
falling down, holding up
we are the looking glass, mirror, split
whole, humble shimmer and harsh set
we are as we aren't.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 7:44 PM UTC