"conduits" poems
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
So, now we must go,
Choose a direction and flow-
Do not worry about the destination:
Enjoy the adventure in meditation.
For ebbs and flows will come
And do not forget where you came from;
Small veins in a cloistered rock.
That eventually leave and flock.
The showers clean and fill our souls
And end up, sometimes, in dark holes
I have cried over the thought of reaching the salty abyss-
But let your motifs be safe with this freshwater kiss.
We may meet again on a sunny day...
Or, up in the clouds when the sky is grey
Let the moon guide you to an eternity,
For we watch over and envelope you in fraternity.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC
Sable, the swallow rising
as it banks over the white conduits
of marrow in the body, rain
slashes through the honey locust,
along the long ellipse of its hunt
as savage dragonflies rise from stems
to cling, a deep sienna of doeskin tremors
over their sting, catkins,
an aftermath, melancholy to the skin
soaked in white calla,
its reticence assails
the sleeping orchards of the heart,
in its darkest sheaves,
to cleave apart the soft joining of lips
and silence me;
for eternity
is this moment,
and the light you give
cloaks me in a coat of flames,
the burnt locust of slaughter, taunt
the rubric of Christs hidden scriptures,
as I night,
the body, solely a vessel
of shadow, returning
through a field of windfall,
ripe with wasps,
echo you
in me,
a dream of a dream dream't,
in the dim recess of light
your lips close
like a sutra over mine,
a brutality of moments
ground out of thick pine,
as the fine agony
of cricket ballets rise
shivering, to stillness,
this silence is a lotus,
a blue psalm,
throttles the throat,
as a quorum of swallows
gather between the swathes
of sunlight and skewed shadows,
and lift as one body, subsumed
by our abandoned depths,
out of exile, you
have made me a homeland
of truant light and as I night,
lightning opens like scripture,
a black plea, poured over some sore refuge,
and so that I may never be restored,
cloak me in a coat of flames,
suffering an ecstasy of moments hardened in amber,
over the white conduits of marrow
in the savage body, writhe
a black throng of swallows,
assail the sleeping orchards of the heart,
in its darkest sheaves, to cleave
apart the soft joining of lips
and silence me....
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
Our temporal lobes have neurons whose sole purpose
Is to recognize faces
You see, humans are meant to be connected
Our bodies should vibrate
From the sounds of emotional resonance
We are meant to be seen,
Really seen, delving deeply into streams of running water
Where our vulnerability makes love with our experience
And this need is so great, that day after day, year after year,
We open our mouths with hope
That our words can share a meaning with someone
But mostly, we are left colliding
Or surviving near misses
Driving through relationship guardrails
Over the edge into desperation
We are left holed up in separate hospital beds
Isolated by IV drips of disappointment
Until we tell ourselves that true happiness is a myth
And the word “soulmate” was intended for everyone else
This used to be me
And it used to be you
When I awoke this morning
Remnants of our laughter were singing on your pillow
There are 86 lashes on your right, upper eye lid
I can almost see them listening to me
Conduits for comprehension
As I speak,
You turn your ear so it can graze my lips
I whisper while I stare at your profile
Blinking, gentle smile lines
And my heart lunges toward yours like a magnet
I have crawled inside your pupils
To be covered with wet, black paint shining
From your spirit outward
Opposite of indifferent
Our faces so close that I can taste you breathing
This strange sensation is the absence of fear
I. See. You.
I have always known you
I can pull the IV out of my arm
Because what keeps me alive,
Is that you know me too
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
Frozen moments,
embraced,
visions of
luminous things,
unpretentious
pearls dancing;
embers of memory linger,
elegy of the lachrymose,
this horizoning self
lying low in saturnine
tranquility
and repose – paternity lost
to the provisional.
The cross of lassitude,
forming
scars of loss;
estrangement,
preface to
ineluctable autonomy.
Earthen treasure - immortal
footprints, the migration
of fair maidens across my
effusive heart.
Venus trio in bloom,
aesthetic allusion,
ephemeral incarnations
of beauty - perishable fruit,
transcending the plebeian.
Aerial substance-
the hermeneutic,
betraying desire’s
ambrosial tyranny;
The permuted passage -
savor the sojourn, submit
to the fated peregrination.
Purple orchids blossom,
immortal creatures,
culminating
in perfection
from the sheath
respectively,
each plume,
singular,
the continuum of
splendor, mediate
the inviolable.
Eternity compounding,
time and essence suffuse
the already and not yet
into an
orbiting mosaic.
The susurrant devotions
of a satellite father,
summon the quest -
both, and,
absence and proximity,
conduits of
distress and peace
ironically,
solace and
terror
traverse the
same path.
Plunge though,
deep, the depth of pain;
deeper, sweeter
the taste of pleasure.
Engender and witness,
window into
preeminence,
surface azure,
the sacred -
inimitable gravity of
grandeur,
ma petite,
you - are
lived poetry
seen and heard;
cosmic order,
a mediating heuristic -
to love is to see,
in the dismal,
gift of distance.
child of delight,
evermore, Don’t I hold you?
Beauty and strangeness,
music found
in linear,
secret places
beyond the tangent,
purview of limitation,
arousing imagination -
infinititude as near
as it is far.
Long loneliness -
dissonance that
resolves;
perceiving,
the tertiary refrain -
as exquisite verse,
and matchless liqueur,
sublime gratuity
derived
through
doors of surrender.
Daughter,
in adoration and wonder,
I hold you.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
He knows not how the toner trails,
I know how my conduits drain themselves.
Forming a queue while spitting blood
They’re an anemic residue.
He knows not how to freshen my palate,
With warmth, I see no remedy
My so-fatigued heart,
I was a monochrome in plastic wares.
I wasn’t a prototype, but a derivative.
Seclusion I abhor, indeed my life too
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
Often poets communicate
via internet voice recordings
sharing dancing lovers videos
as pen pals may venture to do;
no it doesn't mean
we do not exist
people aren't virtual cartoons!
We have feelings emotions we love
the mind makes it all real.
We are real people in different countries interchanging loyalties
we are perhaps more real then couples living together yet disconnected in many ways,
and not in love either
but rather utterly bored.
~~
So don't be cruel saying
I am virtual and you've met
the love of your life already
and want no one else,
but your Zaheera for all eternity
because she's omnipresent real.!
Trying to make her jealous with me
a real poetess!? think again!
Zaheera and me can smell your rat.
She is more a fantasy for years if she even exists
Why the virtual competitiveness
and AnK isn't real?
We are breathing eating sleeping loving trusting sharing
yet not real!?
In your book of tricks ? Hu?
How shall we search for real connections hu?
have you noticed though
the whole planet has gone virtual.
it's become a ritual,!
All people are real living brings
not virtual their lap tops cell phones c are the virtual conduits,
though so what !?
~~~~~~~~
By Mr and Mrs Andrews
inspired by Karijinbba.7/21
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 5:50 AM UTC
Dream for me
a Savannah,
a sestina in reds
at Pandoras threshold,
clothed in bludgeons of light
and these tears are nothing
but the nightingales burden,
the words laden and livid as storm
across the mauve wasteland
unfolds, the sky in its deceit,
promises rain, delivers nothing,
in this room the light will ruin me,
the squall of glass slippers overhead,
on my knees, now
the abstraction of the body, opaque
I write in the limber whisper
of fingertips, deep villanelles
about love, restless love
on the skin of your back,
histories annotated
by gestures of supplication,
I drag fingernails across a fairytale
and out falls a wide-eyed harem,
April-blue veils trail their blood, narrowing
the flagrant staccato echo in my sternum,
A palm reader warns of conduits
and spells, the darkness
that puddles like lake water
in my mind, moths of Summer
a fragrant blue,
restless blue
notes like scorpions
scurry beneath the blankets,
strands of hair, stained sheets
this vacancy glows through the shears
I forget, how early, and still
the night falls here,
as how early it fails.....
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
You were talking
About a girl
She laughed
Clinking like anklets
At times
Grew dull
Like an overcast sky
Other times
I strained my ears
To stencil her in me
When a solitary pigeon coos
From the office wall
Am out in the sun
Listening to you
And through you
Her.
At times
You become her
And she, you
There is a you
Who laughs like glass bangles
There is a you
Who is silent
Like a broken bangle
Myriad yous.
We become alone
When we love
I have stood
The sun
Rains
Nights
Deserts
Abandonment s
Forests
Seas
Conduits.
Alone
Alone
I can see that girl
That tree shade
Her solitary sobs
That embankment
Her solo conversations
That desolate stone
Her lonely laughter
What is more agonizing
On this earth
Than to be in love.
Translation : Shyma P
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
Sweat drenched bodies tangled snake
like, lips entwined like pair of swans.
One palm grasping the waist
Other holding the mound on chest
Like some ruthless dictator holding humanity.
Traverse on my body’s conduits, beloved!
Regale, relish, feast in its twists and turns,
And with your lips map the boundary
of your kingdom lying conquered in your bed.
With your mighty sword ravage
The territory of yours so long sealed,
Enter in it and let the din and moans to
not melt your heart. Be relentless
and unmerciful—press, pinch, bite,
Spike, goad, tease— make me beg then
Hurl like hurricane swirling in longing
and hunger, subdue only after taking me.
A night in your arms I want, beloved!
Gratify the five senses, bless me the bliss
of life this night. And with your
Measuring tape measure me inch by inch
Touch me those little places I haven’t
touched before, kiss me recklessly
And when you think its time enough
Then rain the seed of your love like farmer
Over my fecund body of field,
So that in time a flower of this
Night spring and wave and smile
in gentle breeze.
Only, a night in your arms I want, beloved!
A night in your arms is all I want!
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 5:51 AM UTC
we are conduits for pure electric
listening with our fingers
ears against the rail of time
hearing past and future echoes
ringing out past time the word once spoken is immortal
whisper secrets to the fountain of her sublimnity
listen with your eyes, drink in my body
whisper with your hands
guide me on the gentle path of the glowing garden of your sunrise
sparkles fleck the dew of delight
sweat washes clean the hesitation to love
drinking deep from the fountain of her unfolding
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
To the pen
That became the blooms of ink spreading across every page
To the tears that created tributaries for conduits
Which became the atlas to my heart
I’m not sure how life has become so strange
But I know that the ink is running through my veins and I am being held
But I flow freely like the tears that silently became rose petals of liquid metal
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 11:42 AM UTC
He makes a wide ring around my feet, as
if him tied to me
or me tied to it - moving me over
the polished grass, taking my mind away
from its machinery;
his urgency is mine for a time, mellow
violent arcs within arcs, splintering
between fork tail and mate, deciding which mood
their pattern will make, finally the image of dance
ends, where the world is carried further
by the replicants of their colour
on the hand of skin,
between thumb, and fore finger
tapping a key board with one speaker
in the best room the dusk can buy,
the sonata shuts off,
eyes made of oil passing over the brim,
shivering with innate worlds smashing on a plate
unslaved gambles and flushing light,
suns night colouring thought in endless epigram,
letting the conduits and candles melt down,
into the folding pool, to journey out
wolves storming bones with silk, and
silence, passion without conscience,
a planet seducing the hive, so acutely mad
that, until it stops to roll the bread in its hands
letting its animals eat
and love first
it cannot grow
a swallow followed me back, the village gathers
into concrete ***** of feral child scream,
and the weeds burst through the concrete, not knowing
that heavens humour mocks everything below,
the local news, the national news, and any news,
make your atoms ache if they join hands for too long
but later
we form one walk,
where our feet whip the path
and signal to the storm with the gestures of our own
that we make in confidence;
turning the lights on,
where they are not,
buying the last tickets
to the last opera, and letting it sing
purging the stage,
and letting us dance up;
feeding the sky
as our joy tells the rest,
it can just wait,
for today.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
Poets are assassins
Words wound and ****
Cut open arteries
Spilling life blood
Sharpening and refining words
Honing them to a killing edge
Poets are sorcerers
Words; their incantation
Grammar; their arcane ritual
Sentences turn into spells
Transforming you into someone else
Teleporting you to a distant place
Few poets are prophets
Gifted and cursed with visions
Vessels to be filled
Conduits waiting for lightning to strike
Poets are codebreakers
Deciphering life's enigmas
Translating experiences into words
Skilled technicians
Finding the right words
For exactly the right moments
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
Brother moons chalky,
saturnine crescent
could barely penetrate
the giant’s
match-stick forest:
its burnished copper foliage
would remain latent,
for now.
This night antagonized
our souls,
darker when I stared into its
vacuous depths
than when glanced
from my minds periphery.
Pervasive,
it exploited the valleys repose.
Crystal.
Morning’s volition was heralded
with a transient
thaw.
December’s waking drafts
spoke ardently
of a daughter lost:
for centuries
a solitary bloom,
sustained by unseen conduits,
grew
upon the surface
of a fallow field.
Now it lay,
defiled by my hand.
Her blood-stained spray seeped
into the earths russet tunic.
Dawn’s sentries:
two soot black crows,
stalked a field’s beaded
hawthorn seam as a
church knells cadence
punctuated
the airs discourse from its holy precipice;
death, death, death
sonorous
on my ear.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC
Encyclopedic mainframes
Lap-top heads
Power-boxes for multitudinous outlets, plugs, chargers
Conduits manipulating
Fiber-optic arteries
Artificial energy
ZAP
Pale lights
Computers aglow in dark cloistered bedrooms
Powered pacemakers stalling at microwaves
Electrocuted blood - cookied fantasies
Ads proclaiming everything free!
Pharmaceutical elixirs for limpness, lumpiness, loneliness
Snake-oil for suffering
Nigerian kings, Syrian refugees
*********** clever memes, whimsical gifs, shocking news, witty banter
Socio-politic-religous-diatribes
Spewing on every thread
Existential *****
Aroma-less cuisines
Vacuumed vacations
Youtubed communions
Suicide selfies.
Crucifixdrones - pedolandia
Jdate.POF.AshleyMadison.Match. Eharmony.SpeedDate.OKcupid
CG. Missed encounters...
Serial killers,
Pixalated ******* vein-throbbed **** shots, cardboard gloryholes
Instagramed I
Inviolate I
Internet I
I I I
No sweaty arm pits, cottage cheese, gray nose hairs or belly fat
Computer [ScreenShot]
While behind, posters hang: The Doors, Tupac, NIN, The Smiths, Hendrix, Joy Division, Nirvana
HandshapedHeart.
2D souls
Text-dating
144 word manifestos
#revolutions
Archetype emoticons
Doodled centaurs
Caged in matrices
Transcendental notes
Need a hit
Of internet smack
A line, a pinch, a drag
A like, a comment, a kudos
A reply, a thumbs up, a share, a poke
One measly view
Baby, come on, give me a fix
Just one
Notification: ding-beep-buzzzz
I want to dissolve like alka-seltzer in tap water
Otherwise I'm a used-up toothpaste tube
Sitting in a dank medicine cabinet
If not, I am
A stick-figure created from matches
Drowning in a drum of gasoline
Not buried beneath pregnant soil
No. dumped into blue recycling bins.
[Ctrl +Alt+Delete]
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
Axis
Through the conduits of blood
my body in your body
spring of night
my tongue of sun in your forest
your body a kneading trough
I red wheat
Through conduits of bone
I night I water
I forest that moves forward
I tongue
I body
I sun-bone
Through the conduits of night
spring of bodies
You night of wheat
you forest in the sun
you waiting water
you kneading trough of bones
Through the conduits of sun
my night in your night
my sun in your sun
my wheat in your kneading trough
your forest in my tongue
Through the conduits of the body
water in the night
your body in my body
Spring of bones
Spring of suns
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
Reptiles the pathfinder of humankind
Come from quagmire cognitively blind
Claws become digits, hind legs took on knees
There eyes looked forward, they wanted to please.
From upright gaite he saw his first sun rise
Walked towards horizones enticing skys
Began to gather, his perceptive root
To plant his rational, interlect route.
Grunts become recognised vocal conduits
Which co-operate with reasons pursuits
For eruditions ultimate clarity
Wisdom works for familiarity.
Knowledge deciphered in words to provoke
The birth of conscience a central yoke.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
a slave to wordiness, verbosity
self referential
(poems where sparsity lays the heart raw
something to thump against
our mouths and hands
little parts of ourselves
sadness is the only understanding).
cut, copy, paste
everything is lost, rediscovered
conduits are the building blocks
within the building blocks
contradictions of rationality.
everything is connected
drifting.
not machines
not of this world.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
is the poem a visitor
that the poet guides across
the river Styx
and into the afterlife
of the reader’s eye?
or is the poem a piece
of the poet that they break off
to share with the world
in hopes of understanding
but at the cost
of their wholeness?
or is the poem the energy
of the universe channeled
through both willing
and unwilling conduits
that you know best
as the poet?
or is the poem just words
scribbled purposefully
but for reasons uncertain,
created in a brief flash
of white-hot inspiration
or in a soothing release
of the dull, aching
need to create?
when the poem sits there,
steaming hot and fresh on
paper or screen, the poet
knows the answer to this
question.
ask them again, any other time,
and they could not tell you what
a poem is, just how they feel and
if the next one is coming soon.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
the most sincere things i have ever heard came out of your mouth at 3am in slurred words
and though your eyelids must have been weighing you down they didnt slow the stream of truths tripping off your tongue
traveling through electrical conduits and antennae
hoping that the ear at the other end is listening
to an increasingly garbled
but no less sincere
outpouring of honesty
no one
wants to hear
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
The others are asleep, and tonight,
like most nights, I feed,
reaching into this exalted jar.
Am I? Or is it? lit by sight
and binary digit.
One must reference eyes eventually, no?
Shakespeare was wrong.
Conduits are not windows and
there is no movement without change.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC