"centennial" poems
A slow walk up Centennial
and I still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the Turkish blend and dust pack
A novice mixed duet plays
Brahms on broken strings
the erhu and overcoat
veiling a blue heeler and sphinx
Maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home Bedford Falls;
the flavour and character and social circles
Annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins
Dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto
Night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC
Connect like comets,
got thoughts but won’t comment,
controversial as a result of being honest,
honestly sick of the politics & sick of the nonsense,
actually I’m sick of it all to be honest but still I won’t *****
conflicted by the conflicts that’re inflicted on my conscience,
from the constant onslaught of plots that they’ve got that I’m barraged with,
in this enormous orbit that we’re all in it’s ugly & gorgeous I’m nauseous but conscious,
just wishing they’d stop it & I’ve lost my train of thought but haven’t yet lost consciousness,
at,
a house party in The Hamptons,
July 6th. 2018,
last week D.C.,
next week Miami,
bless the vibes like we bless the mics,
that’s why they want us around,
if I get the invite & have the time I might take that flight,
because I’ve been all around but still up to get gown,
buzzing off of a mixture of different chemicals,
feeling Sharon ****** operating off of basic instinct,
Semi-Quasi-Serious-Centennial-American-Millennials,
were are what is in so we tell them to get out with their doubts & we dismiss what they think,
live big & still get enough to give more than a little bit away to various charities,
with 3rd Eye Vision that’s 20/20 so they can’t pull a fast one on me,
in the perfect position I see everything while most of them can barely see anything,
not kidding but we do play no kids no way,
our artistic creations are what we will leave behind as our living legacies,
staying grounded at the same time we’re all stars outta this world like a fabulous galaxy,
where we connect like comets,
got thoughts but won’t comment,
controversial as a result of being honest,
honestly sick of the politics & sick of the nonsense,
actually I’m sick of it all to be honest but still I won’t *****
conflicted by the conflicts that’re inflicted on my conscience,
from the constant onslaught of plots that they’ve got that I’m barraged with,
in this enormous orbit that we’re all in it’s ugly & gorgeous I’m nauseous but conscious,
just wishing they’d stop it & I’ve lost my train of thought but haven’t yet lost consciousness…
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
I've always been in place,
in situ
Maybe (just maybe) ...
I'm sui generis?
When my lifeline intersected with spacetime on this continuum
I found myself moving toward a collision course with duality and non-duality
Moving towards a zero-point
What are we talking about?
Nothing (Rafelski & Muller, 1985)
As a geographer, the mimetic expression was dualistic
As one plane flowed through another;
as fiat lux flowed through Medicine Rock
I found wisdom
I further explored the duality @ this place
(also known as University of Lethbridge)
The U of L is an interesting duck
It walks like an Albertan university
It talks like an Albertan university
But one of these things is certainly not like the other
The U of L got its chops as a house of learning for the Liberal Arts
Follow those roots and you'll see conduits to another spacetime known as UCBerkley
U of L memetics share material memories from the birth of the Free Speech Movement (1964)
And as Arthur Erickson drafted up his plans for Canada's centennial gift to the Province of Alberta, I'm sure he would have been partaking in the pleasures of this particular spacetime
I'm sure at the very least that he was listening to Hendrix wax on about Castles
As Erickson designed this modernistic monolith called University Hall
There were influences such as Arthur C. Clarke and his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
He was certainly knowledgeable of the Blackfoot stories of the Old Man
And of course as an architect he would be versed in gravity and how built structures on a slope tend to creep toward base-level
Strange but true, Erickson's first degree was in foreign languages
So what I see is Canada's premier architect wrote a poem for us in 1968
In a foreign language
And that poem would be expressed over the next forty to fifty years
Some of those primary poetic elements were:
Berkley, California
Hippie Movement
Creep (or gravity)
Base level
Blackfoot creation stories of the Old Man
Jimi Hendrix poetry and his savage musical genius
"and so castle's made of sand melt into the sea, eventually."
So let's reinterpret that line to be more U of L centric
(through my glossy apertures)
"and so monolith's made by man melt back into god eventually."
........ ....... ...... ..... ..... .... ... .. . zero~point . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Colorado We Hear Your Call
Through Her Eyes The Centennial Stands Tall
Rocky Mountains Ruling Us All
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
Forest sentinel,
Bi-centennial
-Chop-
Feet of roots,
Fingers of shoots
-Chop-
Hands of stems,
Arms of limbs
-Chop-
Skin of bark,
Flesh of starch
-Chop-
Beard of moss,
Nothing of dross
-Chop-
Blood of sap,
Crack of snap
-Chop-
And that was that...
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
Cell phone shield in hand,
the mirror-me peers
into a shoddy, cracked up
dream reflector-slash-protector
as I make amends with
my agitated mitochondria and
attempt to drill miniscule holes into
paper dolls without ripping them.
So screams the wall hanging!
Banshees dance, falling
into cyclical romances as
cream colored microphones peek
out around one-way windows wondering
whether or not the smiles will hold.
Eyes still,
eyes wrinkles crinkling,
spit spray sprinkling.
Connect to the dreamers.
Push your plug into
my cracking wall sockets,
pull me apart at the seams.
So cries the doorstopper!
Knees bleed from
street corner séances
and eyes green grass
that's afraid to ask
where its clover went
but heavens, it's bent for hell.
Pray tell me, burping chickadee,
when did your teeth glass over
with a film of cerulean and
your bones start sailing
through tepid reminders that
you may end this life a failure,
swallowing Uncle Ben's rice packet trash
at the dark black bottom of the Pacific?
So sighs the statue!
Broken walkie talkies
feed red back to nothing
and knick knack hoarders note
the familiar festering of deadly bacteria
in the lungs and on the
tippy top of the tongue.
Space cadets rocket
through concrete jungles containing
apartment after
apartment after
apartment filled with
mannequins filled with
sand filled with
unevenly severed hands.
So speaks the ornament!
So declares the dashboard decal!
Sensual scholarly seekers
seem so totally hip
and read feminist poetry
to dispel the myths
and spit on the irony.
I won't dare to flatter you
with the focused attention of stone
or allow the personable picture frame
to make the secrets of
the microscopic universe known.
So suggests the ship siren!
So recites the repository!
Empty yourself into me,
adopt a new philosophy,
abandon in within two weeks
so I can see and you can seep,
your fluttering robin heart to keep
and glaciers to arrive upon
a salty brown eternal sleep.
Deliver me to the melting shopping mall!
The centennial fire alarm goes off
at the tip of the cliff,
at the end of the hall.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Can we go back...to where life met laughter. To when love had more value than fame. To how we used to respect those who came before us. And family extend far beyond the limits of your doorsteps. Can I get back to a gap toothed smile and fill em in puzzles. To puff bread and pecan candy. To walking my hanging with the homies at Dunbar. Who want to go back to walking from Oak St to Wakefield. Playing ball at Centennial Park, East end community center and MLK Elementary. Somehow I've wipped away a lot of my memory, however, I'll never forget my homies playing their makeshift drum set and me winking at their sister behind their back. Childhood crushes right. I have erased dates and events but the way you all have influenced me is engraved in me like the chiseled details on Donatello sculptures. I just want to go.....
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
When I'm seeking shade from a relentless sun,
And brush a rejected leaf off my shoulder,
I feel poetry.
When I brought my girls home,
From hospital, school, a bad night out,
I've experienced poetry.
Walking Front St., or Centennial Park,
While the buskers are busy,
The children are laughing,
The dogs are barking,
I've heard poetry.
If fortunate to espy a shooting star,
Enjoy the fullness of an autumn moon,
Witness the dawn light up my lawn,
Like a diamond mine,
I've seen poetry.
I've tasted poetry on my lips
With kisses and endearing words,
And lingering tastes from what you serve.
Yes, I've savored poetry's flavors.
Who reads poetry.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 9:08 AM UTC
Future fed,
I am past tense,
With pretense of post textual subtext.
But I'm in love with mental reflex,
That rebound and curve in action,
Reaction replicated and reduced,
Redistributed and digested through the nose,
Said then to then be brought down to a new low.
But it's hypocrisy,
And inert,
Like morality in children,
Who celebrate their own centennial,
While 10 children to each their year,
Are snuffed from this earth,
In quite the same fashion as the candles
On Mr.Centennial's cake,
And it's fake,
For he's a diabetic and suffers,
Having already forgot half the people he raised,
Sentimentality wasted on a senior,
Who shook hands with the devil,
And then smacked an angel off its cloud.
It makes me sick,
Such sin began,
Stopped to begin,
Walked thin and ran thick,
Over budget and understocked,
Cut backs on morality,
Cut backs on humanity,
They call this art,
The only proof of evolution,
Is how we slide down the chart.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 2:33 AM UTC
I am not afraid of death.
I am afraid
of leaving nothing behind:
no legacy, no memory, no lasting impression.
I am afraid
I will not have a mark, a footprint,
a story worth telling generation after generation.
I am afraid
everything I ever do
will have absolutely no meaning
after my conscience is inevitably whipped from existence.
I am afraid
all of the tests and assessments will count for no grade:
none of the points will have ever mattered,
whole nights awake and exhausted stress for nothing.
I am afraid
each word I wrote and every line I drew will be erased,
the rubber shavings swept to the floor by a careless hand
vacuumed away in spring cleaning,
and emptied into a trash bin months, even years later.
I am afraid
the lyrics that sprang spontaneously from my lips
soaked and soapy from shampoo in the shower
will only survive dripping through dank, rusted pipes
echoing with hollow drops in an empty bi-centennial home
for no one.
I am afraid
what I saw, what I understood, what I thought, and what I spoke
will have no impact on the interpretation of the universe
through the eyes of others;
there is no continued learning through humanity,
only amnesia
forgetting and loosing
until our entire species dies of sheer stupidity.
I am afraid
my essence will be forgotten.
But then again,
I am also afraid if I am not.
I die and then what?
Mourning?
Wailing and depression?
Screaming and fury and reverberating shrieks?
Pure, blessed joy at relief from my existence on this Earth?
I cannot decide which I fear more:
my last breath passing as not an eyelash bats with nerve for care
or my memorial lasting eternally.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
monk jumps
trinkle ****** trane
criss crossin time
aboard idiocentric planes
whacky Hackensack moods
near my mysterioso home
round bout midnight gleaning
brilliant corner poems
hummin blue monk blues
i surrender dear
Bemsha swing cast away
Friday the 13th fears
melancholy ruby swigs
straight no chaser shots
just let's cool one
at the red hot 5 Spot
rollins and griffin jammin
hudson riverside house
Weehawken royalty bows
to a spiffy charlie rouse
we remember mintons
a vast creative flood
monk be boppin on stage
when in walked bud
red rooster clucksters
raising town hall roofs
consecrating spaces playing
Monk's hallowed tunes
"pianos don't play no wrong notes"
we heard Thelonious once say
his utterances on the upright keys
ingenious music maestro on display
Music Selection:
Thelonious Monk:
In Walked Bud
Marking Thelonious Sphere Monks Centennial
10/10/17 - 10/10/17
Orlando
9/28/17
jbm
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
It was famous celebrities I met
It was all in a normal set
I met David Rockefeller, former Chase Chairmen
He had a top position being the number one rank
We bumped into each other and talked for 5 minutes in Rockefeller Center
Later it was Cardinal Terrance Cooke of St. Patrick’s Cathedral
We shook hands on the steps of the Cathedral on 5th Avenue at a time when the church was celebrating their 100th Centennial
Who could forget Arnold Schwarzzenger long before he became Governor of California
It was a vintage when he competed in bodybuilding competition with the top Bodybuilding
Title being Mr. Olympia
We met at the Mid-City Gym, a ******** gym back in the day with many famous Soap Actors and Wrestlers who trained there
Speaking of Wrestlers, I met Superstar Billy Graham and Irvin, the Polish Power
Who could forget Ralph Nader, Politician advocate
It was at CNN Center in Atlanta, Georgia where met the Media Chief, Ted Turner
It was an acquaintance as he came flying through the stair doors where we were standing with our Tour guide
It wasn’t part of the tour, but was a lucky stride
So I was my own Walter Cronkite in seeing celebrities with my own eyes
My own Media event with captured moments in how my time was spent.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
Starts with a plan,
You need a street,
volunteers with care,
You need chalk and artists
volunteers who, give time to share,
too make it complete!
Every artist bends,
and begins to work,
some kneel some stand,
there is a demand,
on every body,
fingers coated in chalk dust,
as the asphalt grinds away,
minutes become hours.
measured by smaller and smaller,
morceaux de craie
a chill is in the air, yet
warmth is around each artist,
as they work the asphalt.
Centennial Square artists of chalk
beautiful works to be seen, and the kids,
could work with chalk; was the talk.
Government Street, quite a beat,
to walk and see artists' heart,
and love for what they can do,
put on display for you and you too,
as you enter
to the center
of the Bay Centre!
You, on your way to or from work, walking by,
you who want to see something different downtown,
you who have friends in Victoria from anywhere,
you who may want to do this next time, next year,
let the chalk do the talking!
©DWE092013
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
I was wheeling, weren’t you left reeling? We, we--
Weren’t you falling like a star from that stately name,
Before you didn’t feel the same, and touched by
All the teeth of beasts you couldn’t tame? Then there were–
O, what silken shards of likened dreams were in your past
And it never lasted
More than a week or two. But you,
Then, you were a sentry. At the turn of the century, the
Wooden horses burned and the cardboard-box gates fell.
Since then we never felt so well
As the day before that centennial. Anon, Aeon!
Spare us only years.
I adorned you with a crown of forget-me-nots.
You, you presented me with a fistful of dirt:
Told me to grow my own **** flowers.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
In the rainswept city lie
Wannabe beatnicks strung out
On fantasies of martyrdom
Awake and alive in a crowded room,
They suffer self-imposed secrecy.
They whisper mantras of Fitzgerald
While drowning in green label jack.
They frown upon the instagram
Girls bedecked in pencil skirts
Of centennial imagery. "It’s petty"
They cry from their lonely mountaintops.
Folk is a fanfare; flannel
a robe of imperial purple.
As an invisible emperor he reigns
Over his plebeians. He sneers
His verdicts, chin held high.
The unwitting peasantry pay
No head, but he does not mind
His ambiguity is his throne
And silence his scepter.
Jovial laughter, sweet serenity fills the happy hall.
But looking on, they turn their backs to the warmth
Preferring the company of raindrops.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
like two banks of the same river
sharing a stream
but never meeting
like two heads on the same pillow
sharing a dream
but always sleeping
like two heads of the same coin
when one shows face
the other will hide
like two beats of the same drum
one heart out of place
one hardened inside
like thoughts on the tip of the tongue
a predictable sentence
never put in to words
like lines on a ******* tightrope
this addictive tension
will never get cut
a spark in the darkness
forming filaments of fire
a centennial light of
ever burning desire
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 1:19 PM UTC
She walks by
In a dashing hurry,
All and sundry
Steps aside blurry,
She walks;
Her path a red carpet,
Deserving of greeting
A pirouette,
As she passes by to leave,
If one must speak
Do not bereave,
Words uttered
Of inspirational awe,
Pristine defined
She has none a flaw,
Beautiful she tethers the world,
On a string
From her pinkie a herald,
For those in wonder,
Whom she is,
Gossip & hearsay
Silenced to a fizz,
She taps my shoulder
Lightly, hark!
Her voice a bubbly spring,
A lark,
The chosen one is I,
Perennial,
As if witnessing a
Centennial,
Off my knees,
Her friend I to be,
My face flushed a jubilee!
© okpoet
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
There is peacefulness in every random blank stare,
A sense of freedom, letting all things go bare,
There is calmness in the silence of the deep dark night,
Still like water thats unfazed by any might
There is serenity in the thoughts of nothing, how odd it may be,
Thoughts of nothing, yet changing phantasmagorically,
There is joy in the walks knowing not where the journey ends,
Thinking of nothing, taking each step without making amends,
There is fulfilment in the emptiness our mind succumb,
A feeling of achievement, no matter how dull, no matter how dumb,
There is glory in laying still and staying put,
Like a great centennial tree, ever so hard to uproot,
There is happiness in the stalemate of thoughts rushing through our mind,
A certain surge of enthusiasm for our daily grind,
There is beauty in nothingness, any mere man will confess,
There is beauty in nothingness, even the dead can attest
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 9:32 PM UTC
We can change history
miss Clarke, it is easy,
just re-write the lies
your historians wrote
about the early settlers
in New Zealand, which
if you had any respect
for, it would be called
Aotearoa, the official
Maori name. Tell the
world about your nations
attempt to eradicate
native Maori and what
is written at the base
of the Obelisk on One
Tree Hill by Sir John
Logan Campbell.
*Laura Clarke is the British high commissioner to New Zealand
<>
Campbell, like many European New Zealanders of his generation, had expected that Māori would gradually die out and that an impressive memorial would be a most fitting symbol to perpetuate their memory.[19] By the 1930s this had obviously not happened, and some considered the term "memorial" was inappropriate with many Māori objecting to its use. During construction of the obelisk, a suggestion was made that it should be described as a centennial tower to mark the centennial year of the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi and not a memorial.[19]
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/jan/02/heres-why-the-uk-wants-to-strengthen-its-relationship-with-new-zealand-maori
Dom Felice Vaggioli The Italian priest who's book on New Zealand was banned by Queen Victoria.
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 3:05 AM UTC
I’ve been eating popcorn
out of my hat.
It was a freebie that I picked up
at the Gower town fair.
The hat advertises the
centennial anniversary of some local bank
that I’d not heard of until that day.
It was a hot day.
The sun was brutal,
trying to beat us down.
(Pops, the boys, & I.)
We’d walked the perimeter
of the park,
the town square,
in our efforts to see what was what.
We eventually settled on some
kettle corn,
a couple of BBQ
sandwiches apiece.
We’d brought
gas-station fountain drinks
with us;
sneaked ‘em right on in.
My sons found the rides
straightaway.
They spent about $20 of
mine and my own father’s
money.
They masked up,
were cautiously carefree;
stopping for squirts
of sanitizer between
swings, bounces, and bumps.
Pops and I
found a bench
away from everyone else.
I’d gotten him a hat too.
We used them to shield
our heads, our eyes
for the afternoon.
Today,
mine’s an impromptu,
improvised popcorn
bowl.
I’d lined it with a couple
of unfolded brown paper napkins
first;
proud of my ingenuity.
As I poured my first
cap full,
I could almost hear
my wife’s chiding
words.
I chuckled to myself
and
didn’t write them down.
I wrote these instead,
while I munched another
handful of popcorn
from my hat.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 8:11 PM UTC