"excessiveness" poems
This morning as I walked along the road,
The winter’s shadow hung about the air;
And casted out its gloom. It was so cold;
But yesterday was spring like and so fair.
A flock of geese I watched the other day,
Perplexed they were as sure as I could tell;
Disoriented like they’d lost their way.
They soared in circles until evening fell.
What have we done to our sweet Mother Earth;
With our excessiveness and sins of greed?
And now that we’ve created this great dearth,
What will we do to rectify our deed?
We must act now before it is too late.
I hope we haven’t sealed our childrens' fate.
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 1:37 AM UTC
of this earth i will cursor with octopus
suction a lung in spring
to tame the readied earth
for harvest, should i fail
blotch with soaked feet
in ink a followed route readied
for future grime
known as generational gaping
a form of yawn -
but never leave poetry singled-out
worded with only one word -
craft more syllables to mind -
at least enough syllables to rhyme,
i know that haiku does not rhyme,
but excessiveness of knowing so
will leave poetry without technique altogether...
at least keep what pop music decided
to make of poetry: rhyme -
at lest keep rhyme, at least write enough
syllables to craft a rhyme!
curating syllable usage to make
identifiable a poetic technique -
without enough syllables no poetry -
because of lost technique stressed via
syllable rubric spoken of
no rhyme to be multiplied into echo
for a coercion to mitigate:
i.e. rhyme -e- with please & ease -
mitigated meaning a lessening
with the echoing rather than the rhyming
resound -
for indeed in optics the words rhyme,
but in practice we care for echo rather than rhyme:
i rhyme we eat
and we seat -
but in fact opting for echo to be the curator.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
ever read an existential comic?
i love that jokes
are necessary in them,
when all thinking can become comical,
but as i found out:
too many jokes and... too many jokes,
but it's not the sort of comedy
you get to play out with
spontaneity and excessiveness,
the spontaneity and excessiveness of
laughter at no apparent reason -
well, reason being a bunch of reasons
in the realm of too many to handle
a vector narrative -
philosophy, not so much "choose
a narrative", but become comfortable
with a vocabulary,
like a billionaire with a bit of his wealth
stashed in the vaults of Switzerland
of bonds, some wealth it bit-coin,
some in paperwork under the mattress
sleeping uneasy, some in shares on the
stock market, some in a bank debit account;
me? i too want a stable vocabulary,
high heels a purple corset and a red evening
dress, vis-à-vis a well tailored suit
and worn leather shoes expanded to a
comfortable fit by someone else -
as they say: make a footprint on the sand,
make the foot mould the shoe making the
footprint... but as i said, too many jokes,
it almost makes philosophy a futility,
but it only becomes futile
as the futility to live on when a depressive
agent of will decides that thinking per se
is a futility: because thinking per se is the self;
people can make you feel idiotic when
they incorporate you into their use of language,
they do so because they haven't really
bothered to itemise a comfortable vocabulary -
they've itemised something for sure,
but when you deviate from the art of making good
jokes to feeling comfortable with a vocabulary
as if it's a tailored suit, you avoid the dictionary;
i actually thought the dictionary was a holy book once,
but i realised it's a book you do rubrics with,
until you simply unlearn it...
i could go on and on, but it's worthwhile to use
it for a period of time, choose the words
you're comfortable with, words you can use
without question, without that existential
tactic of "god", transcendental "ego", "meaning",
you know that chance to create a sixth meaning
of the word or dig a tunnel of synonymity...
plus all these existential comic strips always leave
me begging the question: did we just have
a Bohemian-style **** or did we simply sit down
to get a haircut?
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
The time has passed
in which the twig could bend;
awaken uplifted to a bright-eyed sun;
lay claim to its full legacy
with the comfort of nature's backing
and, at day's end,
caressed by tender winds,
frolic in a moonlit garden of blossoms.
I have heard it said:
if only I knew then what I know now,
how different I would have been.
Yet, I often think:
if only I had not been afraid
to partake of the things which I did know then,
how different I would now be.
For from a distance,
desire can breed obsession,
weakness can encourage excessiveness,
and regret can induce passivity.
I have read:
"Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind."
Yes, the twig is now brittle,
but I will no longer bemoan this state.
Instead, I will gain inspiration
from its determined posture.
For no distance is so great that
homage cannot be borne from desire,
nor strength from weakness,
nor action from regret.
And, even in the worst of times,
the Muses will appear,
the senses will rejuvenate
and the heart will beat heavily.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
Swirl of bitter smoke as smooth as a scent.
Richness, indulgence.
Why deny the body corporal pleasures?
What more is there to living
than cake, creamy coffee, scents, softness-
excessiveness in excess.
Finding meaning in knowing that
it's all Absurd.
When the pang of wanting arises,
do not deny. There are no rules.
Willpower will not follow you beyond the grave.
Brass bed posts, tainted and smoothed
by touch, casual grazes,
as the feet touch the cold floor,
the breath creaks out.
A wooden table, round and stained
that softly accepts the heavy mug.
That gives the fingers something
roughly smooth to touch
when there's nothing-
or when there's everything, it's all too much-
the sensory.
A window with an eroded sill.
Or better yet- a balcony.
A purple sky, the air humid and warm.
A chance to breathe.
Is it selfish? Is it how true life should be?
Lazy, gluttonous, pointless, boring.
Tell me I don't know what's good for me.
Sleep, wake,
bed, sheets soft and hugging
tugging on a duvet to cover from the
breeze- an open window with curtains dancing.
Is it time clocks or is it days and feelings?
11:30 is not too early for lunch because
lunch is when you're hungry.
My body calls for
blueberries, tobacco, dozy sleeps on and off for 3 hours,
dark chocolate squares to excite my tongue,
outdoors, fresh air, being naked in the day time.
A shirt with a joke on it that only you understand.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC