"groundlings" poems
A word was born, some years ago,
Perhaps from Mister Marlowe’s pen.
Will Shakespeare stole it for his play.
The groundlings picked it up that way.
It gained currency by the hour-
For such is a poets’ power,
though Marlowe died in a tavern brawl
And all but scholars forget his name,
Words conquer worlds, thoughts persist
far longer than his Tamburlaine.
Genetic lines may hit dead ends
From war or pestilence or fate-
But words poetic or prosaic
Survive (though sometimes they’re Archaic.)
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
it's the old Lehman
interlace again I
wonder how many I's
might some day buy The
Daily Mirror making
David the first poet to become
rich but like so many artist long
after they're dead
we're like nerve fibers
fasciculating fine word
that juxtaposes well to fardels
we bear-- words
heavy with too much bass
restricting us to only 3
degrees of freedom: Music
Word and Color
we' ld build a higher Babble
if only unbound from
a flat syllable world
we'd settle the Prometheus score
with 4D notes like cut-red-Bminor-spin
we'd render the higher ordered
flesh with 10D swirl-syncopated-reflect-bass-kisses-Lorena-Tom-ass-soft-cookware
to a fatty shard able
to cross synaptic chasm but maybe
we shouldn't for there's the rub in our xenophobic
extra dimensions
we'd find Superman
banished enemies or Buckaroo
aliens waiting to invade they always come from that extra
dimension don't they the ones
we don't fully understand the ones
wavering on the edge of perception of curiosity of fearfulness of exploring
a neighbors yard watchful for their dog
ready to run back
to safety back
to our one dimension back
to one Word
Singularity
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 8:44 AM UTC
Demanding, Expecting
Standing there, pointing
At me, always wanting
To see something daunting
Something more than expected
Something dead resurrected
Like a God he speaks soundly
From the sky to the groundlings
And as I bow reverently
Breathing so fervently
Holding close to the air
Which fills my lungs fair
What has his Grace asked
What is my new task
What else may I do
To repay the sky blue
For the chance to listen
Bow and then christen
Each word that is spoken
Such a life is a token
As a peasant just kneeling
Humility revealing
That who I bow for
He is hungry, wants more
And I tell you he'll never
In willingness sever
This bond will stay fast
For want just to grasp
But today I stand up
I lift my head up
And I look straight forward
Into his eyes lost for words
Except to say, dear Commander
It is time you did gander
At the sky as I do
And see that it's blue
May you breathe it in too
May you steady your hunger
May you reach and come through
Leaving lightning and thunder
For the chance to see me
And the chance just to be
As a man that I am
Please, come, take my hand
We can journey together
And forever be filled
From our lungs to our liver
And in this so thrilled
May we stop sending troops
To fight other groups
May we just learn to breathe
Learning to receive
There is no battle to win
Peace living within
Caressing us gently
Holding us reverently
As I have held you
As all that I have
Today I hold new
Freedom, be glad
For as you have watched me
So closely, your servant
As you have stopped me
Your palm forward bent
As you have held me
As I have held you
With wings I fell free
From the nest straight into
Free fall and weightlessness
Came as I stand witness
To miracles in moments
And presently grown men
That God may come
And meet with the Buddha
That Christendom's run
Is all but seen through a
Small boy's young eyes
Tiring in the search
As he looks to the skies
And leaps from his perch
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
The groundlings gather close around
It’s an unruly crowd.
The gentry sit in her majesties box
decked in Purple and all looking proud.
The poet enters the wooden “O”
armed only with his pen.
Will it be thumbs up or down?
On this so much depends.
The crowd screams out for blood and gore
As much as they can stand
They lust to see your soul laid bare
And naked on the sand
You weave a tale of arms and a woman
About the Trojan war.
Three hours traffic of our stage
They leave still wanting more.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Where are you going in such a hurry,
Human bean?
We are raining for you.
Listen.
Why do you hold so steadfastly
Your form?
Let your edges dissolve.
Read the ink of rivers scrawling the changing story
On stone again, again, again, embellishing tales.
We are herded by the dogs of wind.
We rise and drift wherever they corral us.
We heard you wish to live among us.
We heard it from your jet fuel engines.
Why do you want to sail our oceans?
Yours are so vast that you’ve never visited
Their heights.
We spin wool into yarn, then spool it out again.
Wee groundlings, you ought to unstitch
More of your stitches.
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 7:37 PM UTC