"distinctions" poems
My father always had a picture
hanging up over the mantle.
It was an oil,
possibly acrylic, painting.
I've always been terrible with art,
and the definitions and distinctions
therein.
It had a gold-leaf frame, and I recall,
as a child, staring at the shine
that the sun reflected off of the
beautiful gold that surrounded the
picture.
The picture itself, however, was
far more extraneous:
a deer head and the body of a businessman.
The suited businessman's body sat in a chair,
within the painting, but instead of a man's head
poking out of the collar, there was a deer's head.
It was adorned with antlers, two to be exact, and
it sat above that mantle, staring emotionless into you
or the distance.
I was never sure which it was.
And after my father passed, I inherited the deer head
and the body of a businessman.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
i have countless scars
on my skin from a
battle with depression
i almost lost. twice.
i have twelve scars on
my leg from a car
accident that saved
my life.
i have tracks of stretch
marks on my *******
and thighs from growing
up too fast
i have a million freckles
on my face spattered
from too much time
in the sun
i have curves that
show my womanhood
gifted to me by the
devil: puberty
i have so many
distinctions that make
me who I am. These are
my marks.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
What is the point in
Poignancy?
*Fragment,
you tell me.
Another one in paragraph three.*
What do words matter?
I have spelled love with Lilacs instead of an “L”
I have drawn the curve of my “O” with the chill of a
Sweeping breeze.
A “V” can only appear as the violet of a
sparkling sky, or I will be unable to read it,
and every “E” will amount to nothing more than
emptiness if the voice it has been given
does not epitomize song.
*Comma-splice,
Replace it with a semicolon.*
I am trying live freely.
I want to breathe in color,
to inhale an orange Savannah sky
And exhale green which
shows through the translucent dew
of grass.
*Unnecessary use of description.
Limit it, Lidiah. Limit it.*
My fingers itch with the ferocity of
A vengeful army.
They are waiting to trample pages with
The lead of my pencil, the bayonet
of a Revolutionary-War-era rifle.
The word limit sounds like tragedy.
A single word that can somehow act as
a precursor,
To the death of passion.
Your words have put you in a box.
People always say
“Actions speak louder than words.”
In a way that is true.
But I also know it to be
a tremendous piece of fiction.
*Lidiah,
Please watch your run-ons.*
Why can our words and our actions
not be the same thing?
Isn’t the act of speaking,
the act of raising your voice,
the act of being heard,
isn’t that an action?
*Lidiah,
how many times do I have to remind you?
Clarification throughout.*
Why have we decided that our words
Mean nothing more than
stepping stones on the road to action?
When did we decide that our voices
which rise like clarion calls,
forever instilling our promises,
are to be left on silent?
Precious jewels set into rings.
Poison in a water tank.
*Lidiah,
what you say is irrelevant
if your MLA bibliography isn’t in
alphabetical order.*
Our words are our actions.
They mean the same.
Words are the distinctions of our beliefs
Illustrations of our personas
They are not mosquitos to be slapped away
and forgotten.
*Lidiah,
paragraph five is too long.
Stop rambling.
Be concise.*
Please tell me,
what is the point of being concise?
*Lidiah,
stop rambling.*
Why do we let justification
equate to useless rambling?
*Lidiah,
you have to detach yourself from the narrative.*
Feelings mean more
than a couple of sentences.
More than a good or a bad.
A mad or a sad.
Comma-splice
What about ferocity?
Never end with a preposition.
What about passion?
Replace this with a conjunctive adverb.
What about the discernable strife
that follows even indifference?
What about that?
*Lidiah,
what is the point of
Poignancy?*
What are we without it?
What does the human soul matter
if we have forsaken the parts of ourselves that
remind us of what a soul is for?
*Lidiah,
you will never be heard
if you do not learn to follow the rules*.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
Two days old, as hours foretold,
Wisdom is a gift, heartily gifted so.
Life’s greatest mysteries left to unfold,
Hourglass sand drowns the catacomb.
Time perceived through linear scopes
Shows present truths and fallacies as heard.
Elope distinctions, divorce similarities,
For the world is backward and time, reverse.
Lessons learned, reiterate the word,
Responsibility, the key to community.
Prosper, live long,
Disease is only deadly when extinct is the immunity.
Freely versed, lyrically rehearsed,
Speaking from the heart blends emotion at the worst
With flint and tinder
Striking up fire, but always a spark first.
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 2:56 PM UTC
Whether you are going or staying or sitting or lying down,
The whole world is your own self.
You must find out
Whether the mountains, rivers, grass, and forests
Exist in your own mind or exist outside it.
Analyze the ten thousand things,
Dissect them minutely,
And when you take this to the limit
You will come to the limitless,
When you search into it you come to the end of search,
Where thinking goes no further and distinctions vanish.
When you smash the citadel of doubt,
Then the Buddha is simply yourself.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
what is this love
for I have beheld it
cast in metamorphosis
a love that makes
transformations on the mind
permissible transformations
improvisations of the self
in ****** intensity
which emphasises the drama
of sometimes, dark, violent
and repressive potentials
vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment
of intense and exhausting experience
of vigorous vertiginous chaos
indomitable in its desires
what is this love
is it a registered predicament
made memorable by vivid language
that would butcher in ritual
gratuitous memories and testify
to an urgency of unwisely relinquished emotion
what is this love
does it flourish in flawed
and unreasonable understandings
accumulated upon the mind
in vicarious thrill of sympathy
where traits are highly exaggerated
and eagerly anticipates
the oppressive weight of the past
that functions upon a common collapse
of distinctions
or does it manufacture artificial precepts
pretending in attractive collaboration
to associate fiction rather than fact
what is this love
is it that by treaty or inheritance
with loving ferocity would embalm all tears
and hide all those collaborations
in flared conflagrations of the heart
and yes create a turmoil in the mind
hotter than a thousand summers
and vividly stamp upon a twisted body
a moral viciousness of fathomless malice
that wouldst close its ears
to the admonitions of conscious
and thus through an improbable
incantatory verbal rite
touch the hidden order of all things
in disassembling nature
what is this love
if only it was known
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas, which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its ***** acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.
*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
You are a monsoon
A reversal of the seasonal winds
Familiar
and unpredictable
and hot
I'm not prepared for you, not ready
You move too fast
Slow it down
Maybe I could teach you how?
But I reside in a very shallow sea
I’m not alone here though
And then I don't feel so bad
We want each other in two different ways
The distinctions are clear to me
Not as much to you
Assumptions can’t be made this early on
And we won’t exist long enough to possess any unit of measure
You and I are just a fleeting moment in time
A blip
But within that second we were great
And you showed me a glimmer of life
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Not "you", the ego,
but your "you-ness".
Not a family member,
or a twig on a family tree,
but the life of the tree itself,
and the soil in which it grows.
Not a person,
but an essence -
a flavor,
a perfume.
A seed unfolds
idea into matter,
and imbues it
with Itself.
Soul
wears Body
like a suit.
Mind
liaises.
*(And these
are only
convenient distinctions
for the sake
of storytelling.)*
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
at this time in the past right here
it used to be real
oh!...oh! for another reality
to leave this false perception
and go...go...go to feel the wind
on another's face
to see with another's eyes
how the colours appear to them
to hear what another hears
with an innocent ear
to feel the euphoria
that slows the world down
to have another's departure
from all perceived notions of reality
to a new understanding
another reality
where brief encounters with time
start with the embarkation of a sentence
that causes a curious disquiet
to race through the nerves
ricocheting in a vibrancy
of vatic vitality, a creative tension
transforming the cortex
creating new unforeseen images
a new reality where thoughts are visible
and circulate, orbiting moons around the mind
dazzling with a universal symbolism
that with a kaleidoscopic vengeance of words
scatters and amplifies the distinctions
of the senses, into a new reality
one of convulsive voices
oh! this new reality
it causes me to walk to a stranger
who is myself
and forms a true disintegration
of a controlled focus
on a beautiful disorder of
chaotic discourse of a volatilized impulse
of the emotions, where blood stains smile
lavishly with a different vocabulary
destroying a predictable reality
and forges a new one that entertains discovery
of other dimensions.. which are the figments
of another's imagination
it is solitary encapsulation of ideas
that glitter on my tongue
where conflagrations of burning water
swirl dramatically in difficult articulation
of the smells and rancid ***** stains
of the ordinary that tries but is precluded
from the stream of consciousness
rushing in a discord of sympathies
through the inner geography of my mind
and forges a symbolic relationship
with these inplosively brief encounters with time
causing psychic post apocalyptic
predispositions to a false mimesis
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
Liberté Egalité Fraternité,
le vrai Triptyque Républicain
En hommage à nos ancêtres qui surent être ambitieux et fonder un triptyque toujours primordial, jamais accompli ni vraiment réalisé.
LIBERTE !
Frêle comme doigts d’enfants,
Plus précieuse qu’un diamant,
Ton seul parfum nous enivre
Et comme, un bon vin, nous grise.
Tu es hymne à la vie
Qui fait lever des envies.
Tu suscite des passions,
Libère des émotions.
Tu fus conquise de haute lutte
Par nos ancêtres en tumulte.
Ils nous donnèrent pour mission
D’en multiplier les brandons.
A trop de Peuples, elle fait défaut.
Elle ne supporte aucun bâillon
Car si l’être vit bien de pain,
Il veut aussi choisir son chemin.
Si tous les pouvoirs la craignent,
Ma, si belle, tu charmes et envoute,
Mets les tyrans en déroute,
Sœur de Marianne la belle.
***
EGALITE !
Elle fut la devise d’Athènes,
Et révérée par les Romains.
Elle naquit en 89, avec la liberté du Peuple,
Est fille de Révolution.
Elle abolit les distinctions
Séparant les êtres sans raison.
Ouvre la voie à tous talents
Sans s’encombrer de parchemins.
C’est un alcool enivrant
Que l’égalité des droits.
C’est aussi une promesse
De secourir celui qui choit.
Si l’égalité fait tant peur,
C’est que son regard de lynx
Perce les supercheries
Et voit les hommes tels qu’ils sont.
FRATERNITE !
Elle coule, coule comme le miel,
Nectar de la ruche humaine.
Elle sait embellir nos vies,
Et faire reculer la grisaille,
Du calcul, froid et égoïste.
Dans la devise Républicaine
Elle tient la baguette de l’orchestre.
Comme un peintre inspiré, elle met,
Sur la toile, vive et vermillon.
Elle nous incite à l’humanisme.
Elle est petite fille de 89, fille de quarante –huit
Mais sut renaître en 68.
Elle est crainte par les puissants,
Qui n’ont jamais connu qu’argent,
C’est pourtant une essence rare.
Dans les temps durs, elle se cache,
Mais vient ouvrir la porte
Au Résistant pourchassé. Elle n’hésite pas aujourd’hui
À secourir un «sans papier»
Sa sœur est générosité.
Elle est la valeur suprême,
Qui rend possible le «vivre ensemble»
Et permet même au solitaire
De faire battre un cœur solidaire.
La fraternité reste la vraie conquête de l’humain.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi) à Toulouse; France.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
On The Sixth Moon's Night
I came to contemplate the cosmos.
I awoke on a mountainous range:
Projected were ten thousand isles, scattered in remain.
All dancing differently,
But constructing one eternal game.
To what extent might my eye expand?
To what end will death cast its sand?
Upon what shore may the waves crash again
In peace and calm harmony?
No matter how many curtains the Devas will draw
Or how many distinctions Māyā will make~
Always, the un-curved perfection subdues and surrenders to them all.
Like the water-way, cultivating life and harvesting it on the other side.
Formless, it surpasses all stiff form and creates a path of least resistance
To the goal of the heart.
---
You cannot carve a stone buddha out of human flesh.
A stone buddha cannot experience samadhi nor still a pond.
Mind is a mirror
that must be seen clearer!
But behind the glass and that transient social class,
What is that divine perception?
"The Ultimate Peerer"
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
I reassemble,
The wind flows backwards to your hands,
I am returning from whatever version of “beyond” you choose to believe,
Each particle caring a manifest blessing back with it.
Perhaps tears flow up your face, retracing the progression of grief down your cheek.
Or maybe I was an awful at the end and in rewind you whisper “dead is ***** old that god thank.”
But either way that is the past… or the future,
It isn’t prudent to examine such distinctions now
It’s movement not direction that matters.
My form is re-forged by fire,
My bones smoothing in the heat
My flesh hardens from liquid to coalesce around my uncooking muscles,
And still I rewind,
Personality and character drifting through the cobweb wrinkles of my skin,
Till somewhere in the dynamo of my body my heart finally beats its last *** ba”… and then it’s second to last.
How strange is a life lived backwards?
Would words taste different in my mouth, have new meaning in rewind,
Would I find satanic messages in my everyday phrases or just speak in nonsense, a string of “a-blah-blah” that takes too long to be made sense of.
How different would my actions be?
My hands could peel away bruises, unbreak eggs, and **** insults out of the air
Yet who would be responsible for these miracles,
Some dreadful foreword version of myself.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Never ordinary
Never easy
Nothing parts the sea
Nothing moves the earth
This is a hard world
And there is no give at all
Don't press your face to the ground
It does not help
Don't shout at the sky
It does not hear
Nothing helps
And no-one hears
This is desolation
In the wavering distance
Less than light
Reality drifts eerily by
There is no need to go
No reason to stay
Grey coiling wraiths
Rise and slowly sway
They could be anything
Anyone
Distinctions have no place
Nowhere to hide
Here is where souls shudder
And shatter
By Phil Roberts
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 4:24 AM UTC
Leong's watching TikTok on her laptop (as always) and she asks Lisa (a NYC girl) “Are you familiar with the the “downtown girl” aesthetic?”
Lisa’s dismissive, “Yeah, it just looks like Urban Outfitters grunge to me.”
Leong explains, “It includes headphones and it’s supposed to be a Lower Manhattan style.”
“Yeah,” Lisa snorts, “Because Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side are SO cohesive.”
Lisa considers herself an Uptown girl (like the song) even though 59th Street, where she lives, is the border between Uptown and Midtown Manhattan. I’m learning that these distinctions are culturally key to New Yorkers.
“And,” Lisa adds, “why would someone wear, and lug around, giant, clunky headphones when you can use AirPods??”
“Amen sister.” I proclaim and even Leong nods in agreement.
“Later, Sunny, Leong and I are on a study break, eating salads and talking about who we hope Yale invites to the next “Spring Fling” concert. We aren’t being realistic; we’re covering who we wish would come. I’d named Charlie Puth, “Kat-Tun!” Leong squealed (A Japanese boy band - apparently Chinese girls LOVE their boybands) and Sunny countered with Ed Sheeran.
“I don’t like Ed Sheeran,” I mumbled, making a yuck-face.
“Why no Ed?” Sunny gasps with shock (She’s a big Ed fangirl).
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “he’s a star by all measurable metrics,” I admit, “but,” I fade out.
“You want my theory on Ed hate?” Sunny offered, “He’s beyond talented vocally - whoever your favorite artist is, Ed’s probably not that far behind. He’s a stellar song writer and he’s making hit after hit; do you want my theory?”
“Too basic, too popular?” I guess.
“No, he’s not appealing to the gaze,” Sunny states.
“The gays?” Leong questions, stepping back into the conversation.
“No,” Sunny corrects, “the gaze - G-A-Z-E, he doesn’t try to look pretty all the time.”
“Ha!” I snort, “Gaze, I thought you meant gays too,” as Leong and I chuckle together.
“No,” Sunny laughs, “nothing like THAT. Ed’s just not trying to be a heartthrob, he knows that’s not his core strong point - and that’s why he’s discounted.”
“Like lesbians don’t comb their hair or wear makeup and wear pajamas to class” Leong observes, “they don’t want to attract the male gaze?”
“No, we’re not imbued by the male gaze.” Sunny states, “Ed just wants to lowkey.”
Dec 14, 2022
Dec 14, 2022 at 10:51 AM UTC
i have given hearing
to deaf ferocious monsters
with well meaning incompetence
i have disturbed the reality
and illusion of human identity
where i am enmeshed
in insoluble confusions of difficulties
where i find strange images
touching on the grotesque
and ask what is myself
what are the guarantees
of my identity
by what right is a name possessed
by what means is my individuality secured
these questions in my mind
have a curiously derivative quality
that pretend to govern themselves
where they collaborate in their own oppression
and make assumptions upon
ethical behaviour and social institutions
which represent fictions rather than fact
function in a world of collapsing distinctions
of artificial precepts
where these now hearing monsters
with vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment of intense
exhausting experience of a mind
spiraling vertiginously
toward an inner chaos that proclaims
I am myself alone without moral constraints
yet register vast predicaments
with the memorability of vivid language
but with an individual rapaciousness
that creates an amalgam of narratives
with the oppressive weight of the past
designed to induce this evaluative vertigo
with such ferocity to produce a turmoil of demons
monsters of evil, whose viciousness is vividly stamped
upon their bodies that declares
their fathomless malice sending my mind
into a cruelly disassembling nature
where i have given hearing
to deaf ferocious monsters
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
To describe the magnitude
of this awe
uncomfortable with what i saw
the density of time inside my chest
compressed and heavy
looking for rest....
I don't like the winter, because there are no flowers.
I became far too accustomed to the strange equations of words and images
that form within the ways i think and breath and am
because in doing so i forget about the ways
you think and breath and are.
im sorry.
the mood is not one for generalization
i stress not to classify, or make distinctions
and as such
my thoughts drip and fluctuate
ripe with frustration
they are ready to fall golden and fat from the tree
Leigh is a brief glimpse into the fantastic
she lives among clouds and unicorns.
Can't we all do good from thinking deeply for a little while?
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 11:13 AM UTC
A maul is not an axe;
an axe is not a maul.
One is for splitting,
the other for felling.
Of course to trees
such distinctions
are immaterial.
Walnut rounds
scattered on grass
stare into juniper
scratching the sky—
tall pallbearers
shiver in wind,
whisper above
dead medallions,
unblinking eyes.
The handle I hold
like a divining rod;
metal blade forged
by inchoate words,
honed on grinding
letters of precision.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
I think I'm full of contra-dictions
And contra-distinctions
You disagree
But you're a Sandinista!
We're bound to clash
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 12:54 PM UTC
I don’t encourage the courage it takes to blow up a building
Or respect those who expect blind obedience
The factories that distill human suffering for profit
The gasses and poisons that are toxic
The philosophies and doctrines that make humans compliant
To higher authorities without reason and logic
People becoming socially caustic
When compassion is traded for competition
And the fit don’t survive cause the trick is
This sickness is a symptom of human corruption
Greed infecting and spreading hatred and resentment
Neighbors aren't neighbors but gladiators in the pursuit of success
Better cars, better houses, better jobs, better spouses
Denied contentment’s peaceful breath
Tricked into thinking we get more than this width and breadth
So it’s okay to play at barbarity to dress up the bombs with flags and prosperity
And our masters have the right to decide who we should and should not fight
After all even though we were deluded we colluded with our own oppressors
While they trade secrets with our supposed enemies
Sell weapons to allies turn allies to adversaries
And even though we think we chose this
We the people did not accept this sort of justices
We did not vote on this democracy, we the ill-informed masses
Illiterate in the true art of classes and rich distinctions
Of those who seek their own advancement not our improvement
Corporate sociopath with little empathy for the welfare of others
Smother our sister and brothers under the cover of complacency
And what really bothers me is that I am just as much to blame
I coat our pain in pretty words thinking pettily that I am helping
But in the end I am only helping myself feel better for doing **** near nothing
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Sometimes
my heart
feels the kiss
of ecstasy.
Sometimes
my toes
brush the abyss
of madness.
Sometimes
I can't tell
the difference.
Mostly, I don't
think
there is one.
- mce
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
Through the mist, guiding the passions, fading and breathing in, staining the walls with the smell, the dank fragrance, memories stick like fly paper, album covers, or ways of speaking, scents can be everything, shaping the way we remember, wafting in and chugging towards the center of something, perhaps for attention, for roominess, for attraction, on one hand the raunchy and the rancid, or on the other hand, romantic, only a very fine line between rustic and grutesque, create all these memories, a hybrid of sensualities work to create the memory, like a necklace worn all night, then left at the bedside, the lover inhales and again he is in heaven
onward onward, the sensualities creating our memories, good or bad, but what about the expressionless? who have high ceilings, who don’t create memory? who do not have sense? these have masks, masks meant for neautrality, masks made for actors moving through space, neutrality has its own unique sensitivity, diluted in sink water, smells like minerals, which makes us think of water, neutrality, the cleansing
onward onward, potent as **** in parks, sometimes you can’t distinguish between the potent plant and skat, and sometimes that can be difficult, dare to know the different strands, dare to be a master of wine, dabbling in notes that are sung with different feasts, wine, and bread, and cheese
taste, driving us onward onward onward, relativity, driven to the ends of the earth by distinctions, with fine lines, onward onward, sifting through the mist, attempting to get a waft of the best of it
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
I lived poor and died poor.
no obituary written
nowhere a black flag fluttered
no one grieved
no bells tolled
no prayers recited,
to still my departed soul!
My body was wheeled in a hearse
with a few following
with hesitant steps
more as a custom than a gesture true
the open gates of the walled cemetery
allowed a glimpse of the newly dug grave
in a remote corner it stood
close to an overgrown hedge
among many a mound
that bore no name on it
Oh, the indigent and the lonely
are destined to huddle together
in death under the sod
with their identities merged
into a single clan!
My body when swiftly lowered to the pit
and as everyone left to join the rage of life,
I pondered, how on this Earth
the distinctions of rank
extend down unto dust
and follow one like a faithful mongrel
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC
In the bejeweled chronometer dial
of the lighted night sky's grandeur,
light years unfathomable, embedded
vie with one another,
every single minute
in a scramble to all 360 degrees
creating a perfect hallucination!
Time impishly breaks all concepts,
of linearity, circularity and the rest,
takes to directions, that pleases
in the process makes one wonder
what the distinctions we make
as past present and future mean!
"Let's mix past with future,
put past in present and create
an ethereal symphony of time,so that
nothing gets lost, gained either"
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 11:05 PM UTC
The difference between a cosmopolitan,
Of which I am,
And a "globalist,"
Of which I am not,
Is in one's compassion & patience -
In one's respect & understanding.
A cosmo is a citizen of the world,
A denizen of the planet.
This is not,
As some may mistakenly think,
Some sovereign citizen nonsense.
This is respect for the law - universal,
Those enshrined & even those not.
This is recognition of another's country & governance -
Of their sovereignty & rights, in like identity.
A "globalist" believes, wrongly, that there should be
Only one "kind" of a world.
A planet under one "supreme doctrine,
Usually "manifesting" in supremacy & inferiority
And the "erasure" of distinction.
That one's "life" is superior
Because of another's "inferior" "lifestyle."
In "globalism," there is no compassion
And neither is there patience.
There is no respect for distinctions in/of life
And no understanding for different lifestyles.
Observe, and share your perspective -
But be respectful.
Judge, and share your verdict -
But be understanding.
In both the formations of them
And in their subsequent deliveries.
Otherwise, expect not to be seen or heard from.
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 12:57 PM UTC