"ingmar" poems
S3
Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm
Somewhere in my body,
A bifurcated clock ticks,
Two clock faces,
White on black,
Vice versa.
Mixed media messages,
Crazy train station internal,
Brain activity fevered,
Arrive/depart according to
Somebody else's schedule,
Somebody else occupying,
Every street of my body
Lying asleep,
Typing these words,
It is the middle of the night,
Bright daylight suffuses the room
What part of my metaphysical schema,
Ain't jet lagged legally,
And poetically entitled to be
Stockholm Syndrome Confused?
Times have really changed,
Oh my, when you propose,
Let's go to Stockholm,
Anything goes!
So my schedule reordered
In the land of either all
Light or Dark, twenty hours four,
I turn to my boon companion,
Who soothes at any hour,
My music, my Nano,
And I find myself, musically,
Shuffling in Stockholm.
Meatloaf and Piazzolla,
Muddy Waters and Purple Rain,
Marvin Gaye and Pink Martini,
Beethoven, Straight No Chaser,
Beatles, Stones, Bennett vs. Buble,
The lack of sleep a permanent fixture,
Courtesy of this Bach-us admixture,
So should you see a gappy, khaki, clad tourist,
Meandering o'er the islands of this charming city,
In Ingmar Bergman fashion,
Black and white erratic,
Alternating, swaying and shuffling,
No tongue clucking,
Nah, he's not drunken,
Just dancing while sight seeing,
In a sleep deprived manner,
Someday a movie to be,
Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm
A/K/A
S3
June 30 ~ July 2, 2012
Stockholm, Sweden
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Dead people are no doubt bored, so I'm sure these folks would be happy for free food and conversation. Of course, this is just a partial list, subject to addition and deletion. Feel free to add your own in comments.
Buddha, but a light lunch.
Jesus, but kosher of course.
****** come on, who wouldn't.
James Joyce, just to mock him.
George Washington, to try to catch him in a lie.
Hemingway, but just for drinks.
Reagan, to deliver some Depends.
Bakunin, for mutual aid.
William Butler, my ancestor who survived The Wheatfield at Gettysburg.
Audrey Hepburn, but a date, not lunch.
Ingmar Bergman, just to cheer me up.
Ervin Schrödinger, about that cat.
Shakespeare, because I've always wanted to meet an extra-terrestrial.
Ezra Pound, to tell him he was right about usury.
God, to let her know how disappointed I am.
Richard Nixon, so I could drive a stake through his heart.
Julia Child, just to hear her voice again.
Lenin, because he was a self-starter.
Mozart, because he would be fun.
Emma Goldman, to dance.
James Dean, as we look so much alike.
Janis Joplin, because I might get lucky.
Come on, I'm sure you can add to the list. Don't be shy, try.
mce
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
Over and over again
the ongoing psychosis named reality
throws at us the vile complications of existence
like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll
when you are born among proletarians
and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist
like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights
men that walk the same sidewalk as you
the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions
trapped in the same staircase of materia
causing the universe to circle reason
and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence
like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film
as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern
battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses
while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues
like the sorrows of young Werther
in the blood of your martyred nightmares
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
Ingmar Bergman scenes and Jewel’s poetic dreams figurative memes spilled like ashes across the page to be holy, unheavy, and alive is a granted feeling of being on high
Like God, he told me, only words get washed away if not kept sacred
Inside the blood and the host
irrevocably so
Whatever blindness calls itself
There was nothing left to be said
And so I dropped that filthy knife
Hot with the stain erased spilling on its face cooled by a star
I am not in the creator’s mind
I found the him within me
The ageism and the orientation of today’s world is met with chaos from the stories of so many...
How do we move on from such loss?
I don’t need new age *** or dates with the illusion of a soulmate that follow what the tarot’s say I need to make me happy today
I lost someone, I lost something, and that is enough to feel it.
We are not here to deny another’s pain
Death’s foreshadowing pretenses could never prepare for a dream
Filled with the hollowness of holiness and shallow breath
Makes a night of manipulation evaporate
A year later, I sang as I carried myself away
I went the mile
I walked to the depths
3 years later to the date
April 20th
The day I released all of the hurt I chained
To my self worth as a bad dream
As an epiphany of the love I wanted
Like a little girl
Lost and waiting on the front porch looking out towards the sky wondering when the truth of my own love would come
Someday..
To lose hope in intervals treading for reciprocity was the garden gate I needed to find myself anew
What I once feared was in me, was never in me and I yet the idea was at the same time
Strong diligence makes the heart grow that much more aligned to what creates your will, your beautiful will; a peaceful manifesto of a great new world
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 4:27 PM UTC
Ingmar Bergman externalisés by
Using women in his films to
Understand himself.
The two sides of himself.
So much of myself and my awareness
Of the graces of women come from my
Mother. The way my father treated
My mother was an sustaining influence too.
I remember my mother’s grey curly hair,
large ******* hanging like two full plums.
As she washes in the bathtub
Rounded belly, dark, floating, soapy ***** hair
Mother is forty - four.
Taking me into ************ softly, quietly
Mysteriously, my ******* are budding, two pink *******
A pretty navy padded brassière to wear under my blouse
When I go to school. This blouse is nylon and translucent
Womanhood that wet place of secret
sounds, scents and shapes.
Thank you mum for helping me to become a woman to take into my ****** form and become all that I did,Love you.
Love Mary xxxx. Your daughter.
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 9:43 AM UTC
Women - sounds, scents and shapes.
Ingmar Bergman externalisés by
Using women in his films to
Understand himself.
The two sides of himself.
So much of myself and my awareness
Of the graces of women come from my
Mother and father.The way my father treated
My mother was a sustaining influence too.
I remember my mother’s grey curly hair,
large ******* hanging like two full plums.
As she washes in the bathtub
Rounded belly, dark, floating, soapy ***** hair
Mother is forty - four.
Taking me into ************ softly, quietly
Mysteriously, my ******* are budding, two pink *******
A pretty navy padded brassière to wear under my blouse
When I go to school. This blouse is nylon and translucent
Womanhood that place of secret
sounds, scents and shapes.
Thank you mum for helping me to become a woman to take into my ****** form and appreciate it and become all that I did.
Love Mary , Your daughter. Love you ..
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 6:14 AM UTC