"bonum" poems
they say that enlightenment is unreachable, unattainable,
unfathomable
yet each day we continue to search
for our beatitude.
the bodhisattva
and i'm not very good at many things,
maybe nothing at all
but i know i can never transcend
with an anchor as a body.
still, the demons swim through my mind
and i watch with enjoyment
as they depredate my soul.
i like their cold breath on my skin,
in the winter,
for i can feel something
other than the numb that has encased my body. daily, i feel rough fingers ripping at the stones
that have replaced my heart.
nightly, i weep a sweet harmony of melancholy for the nostalgia that haunts my bones.
if you take me apart,
piece by rotting piece,
you'll learn i'm nothing but matter
controlled by neural impulse.
maybe it's benign to feel nothing at all
but this darkness is never ceasing,
growing more rapidly as i begin to shrink.
maybe i'm not good at anything
and maybe god doesn't exist
but i want to die knowing
there is a heaven and that i'm not going to hell. more often than late i've been asking myself
if it's all worth it
and to that i say
i'm terrified of the grim reaper
because his face looks just like mine.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC
my first loves
transformed what 'beauty' and 'perfect'
meant to me, and looking back
i see some other meanings
to the imperfection-
perFected i proclaimed;
concupiscent nerves from icy stutter flutter/stop/and start
to overvast before- and after-glowing liquidy, salacious insatiateness--
to coughing up to concrete luck
or reigning fates between the legs
and then the sob galactic spin of adoration-letting-go
even when in full embrace
from many imperfections always there,
'perfect' grew -- astounded me
beyond imagination's bounds--
and i still say amid the memories,
((mistakes and hurts and flaws
i held close then)):
i found in her,and her, and her perfection fullness all and nothing left--
sincerely told her so,
demanding in a tongue perhaps akin
one love there,one love, one more another one in oneness found in one
an understanding of a 'summun bonum' love returning yet just found at last the first.
and then, to see grandma!!
elope away at 86 to marry on impromptu cruise!!
i saw a childlikeness there as she returned,
youthful once again a flame adventure shocking all her young,
to spring her step beyond her offspring
despite the flaws become apparent it was perfect watching them
(with that same man she'd passed up for another at 18)
dance into a twilight swoon of giggles envied by the moon..
finer acrobatics of the heart
to tie the strings of self with other knotted self
together form and net cocoons for loving evolution's end
in learning how again to change into the deeper love of flaws which strengthen us as well to bonding into
this
all too perfect, imperfect endless bliss
.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
Say nothing but good of the dead
As they were once your friends,
Or enemies, it doesn't matter.
In death lies no dishonor.
Say nothing but good of the dead
As they were once fellow workers,
Or leaders, it doesn't matter.
In death lies no classes.
Say nothing but good of the dead
As they were once our slaves,
Or masters, it doesn't matter.
In death lies no races.
Say nothing but good of the dead
Because they were once living people,
People like you and me.
In death they are beloved.
De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
*
arcanum arcanarom, argumentum ad hominem
animal disputans, dixi.., animal bipes implume
cessante causa cessat et effectus, damnant quod non inteligunt
audiatur et altera pars, hominus libenter quod volunt credunt
multi famam, consientiam pauci verentur
boni pastoris est tondere pecus, non deglubere
bonum virum facile crederes, magnum libenter
non omnes qui habent citharam sunt citharoedi
currente calamo, cave quid dicis, quando, et cui
gigni de nihilo nihil, in nihilum nil posse reverti
**
..love always...*
عرفان بن يوسف © AH 14/03/1432
**
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
*you never really say piranha.... it’s more like piraña... no wonder english without the necessary diacritic spans north america and australia and the emoji platform, so the romans said: bonum, sed ν (nu) *** linea obliqus, sic ha est ad hoc tetragrammaton pars, et allah est la la; quamvis latin est mort scriptio autem non clara voce - basically just write some latin using english grammar, what’s beneath it? guess.*
i’ve written almost 10,000 poems and still i can only
remember having said one or two memorable things,
i mean, for god’s sake, the pedigree maine ****
that lived with me for the 7 years he lived to
dying of kidney failure said more memorable things
than i did, having only said meow / miał (i.e. he had it, once),
maybe that’s because i don’t actually cradle these outbursts
to much appreciation, hence my own worthy critique -
but like i said it once admiring spiderweb threads and the washing lines:
by the casual phrasing ‘killing time,’ i’m sure people invoke
the meaning: to occupy a definite space;
the antonym? that’s a bit what philosophy preaches - ‘to stand outside
all of time and space,’ well the first one i can do and feel remorseful
concerning boredom, but that gives me an indefinite space,
although this whole ‘killing time’ is a great option, i’m going to
schwarzenegger time with a sawn off umlaut, ooh... kick to the groins
watch the crouching tiger hidden *** change - and occupy
a definite space. see, you have to find the hammers and the chainsaws in language
to escape the waterfall of fictional narration, obviously grammatical
categorisation of words makes it easier to suddenly realise:
am i really typing, or actually hammering a word in?
but realising that grammatical categorisation of words
exposes unlikely-to-turn-rusty tools gives writing a whole worth
of sanity, as no longer the chance encounter, but a safe environment
to abseil like a spider which lost the plot of creativity famed by the cobweb, just ******** out a piet mondrian.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
I’ve reached the age when most of my contemporaries have
kicked the bucket,
turned up their toes,
popped their clogs,
and other such unsavoury activities.
I take every opportunity
to memorialise their lives.
The question I ask myself is:
when I finally pop my clogs,
kick the bucket, and so on
who will provide the tribute to me?
De mortuis nil nisi bonum is the Latin phrase
of Greek invention.
Speak nothing but good of the dead.
I cannot accept this.
What good can I speak of Adolf ******
Osama Bin Laden
or even Senator Joe McCarthy?
Better would be De mortuis nil nisi veritas.
Speak nothing but the truth.
But, if I had to choose one for my own obituary,
I think I would turn to the late, great Harold Laski,
who coined De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.
I’d be very happy to have nothing but claptrap
talked about me.
after my demise.
At least let there be something written,
be it good,
truth
or codswallop
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
The blues, the blues, these Blues, the Blues,
The Blues. The Blues won't stop moving,
but haven't gotten to going. They're a-move,
they're soluble insomnolence, they're
indefferant irreverence
in reference to reverence.
The Blues won't stop going,
but haven't yet left.
All day, I've sat on this Furthest Shore,
unsure if they'd ever get to outgoing,
if they'd ever get to outflowing.
All day, I've sat and worse yet,
all night (we know the nights are the
very darkest sorta pretend-to-be-blackened blues),
sat on this dew-damp Distant Shore,
unsure if I'd ever get to outgrowing,
if I'd ever get to outgoing.
The blues, the blues, these blues, the Blues,
The Blues. The blues won't stop wounding.
I won't stop choosing. I won't stop two-ing.
Tilting at horizons, I hold anchor to
Torii. Summum Bonum, I insist it be.
(Can't let it be. {whatever it is.})
(Can't let it be. {whatever it isn't.})
Gateway from humdrum to hallowed.
A red atop blues, also unmoving.
But still in its unmoving, still unmoving.
How unlike the blues. This red, how unlike the blues.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
Another shattering of illusions,
as I sit here in cocktail mist
and cannabis descent,
staring with guilt at the nicotine gum;
all the time applying lotion
to care only for exteriors.
Gold *** in apple juice,
I unsettle the ice in partial decency.
Half-baked notebooks scatter
amongst the stray tobacco leaves,
neglected books, tablets and glue;
it's little wonder my life has
fallen
apart.
Old jazz queen,
she's rolling trills and cigarettes
and reminding me of my spine,
the way it twists to the bass-line,
sending chakras to bedlam
and returning to me
my recently lost youth.
Keep it off the record,
as I tumble on through another night
of poison and medicine equivalence,
a summum bonum of forget-me-do's
and elimination of both
the future and past.
I clear the leaves from my autumnal porch.
After the dead slate of winter,
I will emerge, sober.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
hypochondira and hyperactivity,
misguiding nouns.
*vinum bonum et suave,
bonis binum, pravis prave,
ave mundana laetitia!*
łyski - whiskey -
łysy... itching to slap a skinhead...
so the question:
what are the ad hoc parameters of
cogito ergo sum?
i so wish to be given an
ad hoc clarity for certain maxims...
in most instances they're bibles,
obscurity riddles them a hymnal status,
and that said: holy.
i wan't to be given the ad hoc
instruction manual for certain
eurekas...
i'm told that the already stated
prefigures subjectivity...
and that the subconscious
isn't merely a bystanders' experience of
puppetteering...
insinuation sphere...
just like i might add third party
inquisitors demanding of me that:
every dream has a hidden meaning behind it.
so many have died trying to
create the uncoscious contraceptive...
this mental *******
this exploitative subconscious insinuation
puppet motivation...
the subconscious only exists
to create the other's drone capitalisation
of fragility...
the synonym of the subconscious
within groundwork of making choices,
acknowledging ethic, is insinuation,
spies and the alphabetical fixation on
subversion, and all other subs- congregate.
and it really does sound like nonsense
once the enemy's tongue is waggling...
some even called it the
omnivore safehaven...
when in fact so much was prioritised
for dietary requirements...
that became bouldered
anorexic grey-areas;
synchronised skeleton army
tugging the chimeras of crimea,
shortened to the word: Krym.
knowing this tongue, i should be apt at
forging any and all ethnic linkage with it
being expressed: i should be gagging
for a forthnight spent in las vegas!
but there's me, dreaming of a tartar steak.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
Quis sum ego?
Vir som.
Ego confido in me,
Est bonum?
Dec 19, 2024
Dec 19, 2024 at 10:15 AM UTC