Our old uncle, Daedalus,
     he'd grin when he spoke to us
His mouth was missing teeth
and so his wisdom flowed out free
He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
He'd tell us he had seen the world
     and this was his decree:

     "Don't fly too high, you little *****.
       You just might live to pay for it.
       The Sun is always hot,
       the ground gets harder every day."

"But, Daedalus," we would complain,
"You are old and we would fain
see the sights you saw before
          we sleep beneath the clay."

And dear old Uncle Daedalus
     he'd laugh and spit and swear at us
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell.
This life is one big ******* maze
with twists and turns and tricks to play.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

We'd try to listen, try to thank
him for the words, but his breath stank
and, anyway, we thought that he
               had prob'ly **** himself

But dear old Uncle Daedalus
hung Death from lips that spoke to us
and ****** if he weren't right
about the things he always said:
"Inventiveness works, by and by
with daring, you may taunt the sky
                                   like I did
                                  but the fall is long--
my dreams and son are dead."

He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell..."

"Don't fly too high, you little *****.
You just might live to pay for it.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

Poor little octopus.
Big head and eight tentacles
but no *****, ***** or testicles.

What's that, you say? Then how do these poor little cephalopods
buck such terrible odds when they feel like a ****** agenda
and they don't have any pudenda?

Well, it's quite simple, really. He hands her ***** on a tentacle
and what do you suppose?
She says, thank you very much, and sticks it up her nose!

Honest. No dinner first or shoulder massage,
she just whacks it up her nasal passage. You can be quite sure
this is an amazing olfactory aperture.

So the moral is, don't complicate a simple process.
When you're feeling frisky, *** need not be tricky.
Just consider the inventiveness of the octopus with no ***** or a *******.

Because it's the ingenuity of the octopus, not it's ****** act,
that we should court. Compared to the octopus,
the human nose is naught.
It's too high up and tight for such naughty, wicked sport.  

Also, such a human act is fraught with political incorrectness.  
A gentleman who tries this little rort to get the girls to snort
and says, up your nostril, madam, might all too well
receive a rude retort. Or even worse!

I say herein lies food for thought.
                                                        ­                             Mike T Minehan

practicing mental gymnastics
insipid memories
seeping their way past
defensive buffers
remembering repressed poisons
as a catalyst for making
wiser decisions

lackadaisical reactions to
sharply defined parallaxes
warrant an immediate shift

fractal spectacles
the labyrinth of my innards

inhale the cosmological smoke of suggestion

words become meaningless
when repeated exhaustively
semantic satiation
slicing away at true intentions
paving the way to
false inventiveness

shallow river beds are loud
prouder than their counterparts
insecurity overshadows

a lack of faith in the faint of heart
everything worthwhile
falls apart

Dear Spanish breeze,
You rolled up my inspirational sleeves.
You gave me a glorious sight and placed me in an inventive light.
I call you a thief in the night for robbing words out of my mouth.
You guide my fingertips and the lips of my pen
by kisses of daydreams and endless ideas.
I am a home where the sweetest poems abide in.
Ready to come out and imprint a thousand pages.
What a delight to travel through poetic time of this artistic city.

Dear Spanish sun,
You burned my lack of poetic desire.
You colored my inventiveness like you darkened my skin.
I admire the way you have inspired me to become the poetess i aspire to be.
Your ravishing art undressed the indecisive poetess in me.
So here I stand emotionally naked in front of written truth
ready to loose myself in your Catalan atmosphere.
"Rest your ears darling and let your eyes whisper poetic visuals," you say.
And i close my eyes. I travel through this dream till forever ends.

Ten minutes is all Sabyasachi Mukherjee has. “Can you keep the interview short,” I’m asked, as the announcement of his participation in the finale of Lakme Fashion Week’s upcoming Winter Festive show is made. Is ten minutes enough to recap the 14-year journey of this master of colour, cut and construction, I wonder. But I realised that Sabyasachi in rapid-fire mode can make ten minutes seem like twenty! Excerpts:

What is it about LFW that made you return?

It’s here that I first made a mark as a designer. I’m familiar with the format, and know the people. It is like a homecoming. The good thing about LFW is that everything is taken care of – from building the set to inviting people. So I have the freedom to focus on the clothes. It is like putting together a complete show, but doing only half the work!

Finales are a challenge – given the expectations of people in the fraternity, profiles of attendees and the intangible themes created by Lakme for interpretation into garments…

Well, it’s not at all difficult for me. This is my fifth finale at LFW. Once the make-up and hair are set, it is easy to imagine the look and what the girls must wear. I’m way too senior to worry about pre-show stress. My biggest pressure comes from whether I will like what I create. Beyond that, even the critics’ reaction doesn’t really concern me.

Will this line too be about Indian-ness?

Whether I do Western, Eastern or a combination, I always use Indian handcrafts, and all my clothes are handmade. Traditional textiles, block prints, weaves and embroidery are a constant in my collections. The theme being “Illuminate”, this line is about red-carpet clothes with a strong shimmer quotient.

Sunday was National Handloom Day. Considering our diverse range of homespun textiles, do you think everyday must be celebrated as handloom day in India?

Absolutely. It is mandatory at my stores. My staff wears only handloom saris or kurtas made of hand-woven fabric. My Instagram hashtag says ‘Wearing handloom everyday.’

Social media plays a significant role in promoting tradition. Smriti Irani’s ‘I wear handloom’ campaign on Twitter and the 100 Saree Pact are recent examples. Isn’t it time designers too found new ways to promote heritage?

Yes. As more and more Western brands enter the market, our designers must first establish an identity of their own. The Zaras of the world are bringing active prêt into the country, so it is important for us to revive the market for Indian clothes. Reinventing tradition and rethinking marketing strategies are critical at this point.

Has the hustle of today’s business taken fun away from fashion? How do you strike a balance between creative expression and commercial viability?

Oh, that’s very simple. I set my own rules. For instance, this year, I had too much on my calendar. I didn’t do ramp shows, I only had a showing on Instagram. Established designers must create new templates that suit their creativity instead of allowing the market to set the pace for them. Because, at the end of the day, only if you have the time and space for creative expression, can you create beautiful clothes that determine the durability of your brand.

If you were to spell out two major problems faced by the fashion world, what would they be?

Lack of originality. Lack of self-belief.

Fashion has evolved into a glamorous industry, and today, many youngsters want to be part of it. But most of what we see on the ramp and in the retail space are risk-free repetitions.

Well, for designers to evolve, the market has to evolve. But the mood is changing. There are designers who are willing to push boundaries and clients who are ready to experiment. Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram are changing the way people see and respond to fashion. The horizons are widening. This is a wonderful time for young designers to launch their labels and sustain their inventiveness.

Very few Indian designers have taken the effort to document fashion. What about you?

Yes, I will at some point in time get down to writing about my brand. But for that, I will first have to find the right publisher!

Many corporate players are keen on collaborating with designers.

I receive so many proposals for collaborations that I refuse one every day! I am collaborating with Asian Paints, Forever Mark and Christian Louboutin. Another huge one is coming up – but I will not be able to speak about it at the moment.

Do seasons really matter any more in the world of fashion?

Global warming is making designers understand the importance of season-defying clothing. And people too, I feel, don't shop for seasons any more. They just want beautiful clothes.

Can you update us on your forays into jewellery design and interiors?

I have collaborated with Hyderabad’s Kishandas & Company to create some iconic pieces that are hugely popular — and of course, plagiarised! I have a line coming up for Forever Mark. As for interiors, I wanted to design homes, but people did not seem to have enough confidence in me! (laughs) So I ended up doing up my own stores. I have also done up the Cinema Suite for the Taj in London. Celebrities who have stayed in the hotel have appreciated it. A significant collaboration in interiors is happening in October.

Your suggestions to keep traditions going…

People need to be educated about handmade textiles and crafts. A time will come when China will lose out to India because as people become aware, they will only want to support products that are ethically sourced and foster craft communities. Surprisingly, the new millennials are in favour of luxury that is completely handmade. I see that as a positive sign.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

What is originality anymore?
The pop songs we listen to day in day out,
That are only updated remixes of
Songs that our parents
Already know every lyric to.


Is it the pranks we play on each other at school,
Poking holes in the top of water bottles,
So we don’t get caught when we try to catch our class mates.
Drowning them
In carbonated energy drinks.

Don’t think you’ll get away with it.
The teachers already know,
About flicking elastic bands at the backs of girls knees,
So they scream a little louder
And turn around to see
Boys smirking faces,
Because they have been there before.


Define originality.

Originality
. /əˌrɪdʒɪˈnalɪti/
noun
1. the ability to think independently and creatively.

•the quality of being novel or unusual


synonyms: inventiveness, creativeness, creativity, innovativeness, innovation, novelty, freshness, newness, imagination, break with tradition, resourcefulness, cleverness, daring, individuality, unusualness, unprecedentedness, uniqueness, distinctiveness
.

Is it smuggling ***** in water bottles,
Or sneaking down to the back garden
To have one last cigarette with your friends,
At 1am
On New Years
When you have had more to drink than your parents
Yet you are only 15.
Watering down whiskey from your parents liqueur cabinet
With apple juice.

Getting caught drunk
After being out with friends, Stumbling in at 2am
On Sunday morning.


Storming up to your room
After having a row with your parents.
Slamming the door,
Screaming at the floor,
Calling a friend,
And ******* about the people who brought you into this world.


Maybe
I’m not as good with words
Than I thought I was


O r i g i n a l i t y I s D e a d


Your parents Grandparents
Aunties and uncles
Have seen it all before
It’s a fact of growing up
And one day
You will too know
Exactly how it is

She is a tress of hair out of place,
combed in slow sweeps from my forehead.
I thought her an enigma to perchance unravel
by the press of well-paired lips
or by a mind besotted with moon glow
and Grenache wine;
one wicked with wisdom.

Saccharine words stirred into woody coffee,
I, Whitman, imagine her
the chill of Robert Frost
clung like sugar grains to my Leaves of Grass.

Almandine eyes of the nine Mousai
revved up by unbridled inventiveness…
I twinge too much to hold it inside,
she triumphs beyond the rim of her vessel,
so our ache and exultation
steal past the musing sentinel of apprehension;
and leap from once dormant imagination
into spirit shadows and splendid motifs.

She is a stranger to all,
but to those whom she whispers as lover.
We, two strangers of sun and moon,
curl nubile into night
to take our nuptials at dawn.

One hundred million miles and
one earth between us;
now bound as one, we pull the tides
into an unexpected tempest in my heart;
a tender act of indiscretion
undoing a tame, near tepid, bearing.

Thus muse and artist
feast upon the provender of providence
and all delectable in between them.

To concretize my theorized love,
I could play the accidental odds and strew
slippery tongues of spotted petals
onto thickly trafficked highways,
or use the best predictive modelling
to deduce when and where I can poke out
a well-heeled boot to trick unwary spills
and ****** a kiss from the unsuspecting
lips of any suitably compatible
passerby oft times inconvenienced and passed
on by.

These well-oiled and crudely experimental
methods do produce expected results,
but not the breakthrough nor the looked-for
satisfaction of appropriate reactions,
so I'll keep my dotted eyes tucked in
their pulpy stems and my shoddy toes curled back
while I beam my bits of invitation through
circuitous routes spatially arrayed along
parallel paths where one might search
with an extra-terrestrial inventiveness,
and wait.

I know the trials of these errant waves
won't add up to a guarantee
my burpy blips of a pulse can reach
the receptively comprehending and responsive
soils I seek, but it's the remoteness of a stead
to come stalking that appeals, and despite
the Hawking drone of unveiled warnings
I might regret such contact, I'll risk it all
on vaguely washed wishes this astronomical
anomaly with an alien sensibility has
one match.

It is not always easy to express one's self
When his artistic creations are never placed in galleries
They are often forgotten of
Sitting there gathering dust on a storage shelf.
It seems as if ten more people are at the same task
As which you create with
Comparing their outcomes to your own
Your light of hope fails to light
Due to many missing you that must express
such visions
A dog starved to the bone.
Eyes meet the other exhibits
As your kiosk is primarily never sought for business
The confidence of challenge is there, however, it soon melts away
When all of the hard work which you have placed
in expressions for the world to see
Fade to darkness like the "dark side of the moon"
As night simply ends the days.
Questions remain about what you are truly "gifted"
at or "ahead" of other game pieces on the board game of life.
When so many are inventive such as you
One too many is a crowd.
You pull down a fake smile. A fake shrowd.
Now the net is neutral
Damaging my once vibrant flow
As my hands are now tied to how I can grow
The rules of the game are now many and harder to get around
Like a roadblock in your sight of your future
The air begins to become too thin and your mind weighs heavy
As the cut in your creative inventiveness
Bleeds too heavy and needs a "miraculous" suture.
Needing others on my team
Every time  I seek out such
I'm the "driver x" at the "speed races"
and the "forced gun" to bear uninspiring
and lonely expressive paces.
Is their justice to the laws limiting one's freedom of expression
just to protect those in the "top few?"
When the own half of the platform on which you try and "compete"
However, you are too small to be seen as "you."

During this sort of fallow period
my inventiveness has been
hibernating within for the months
that are beginning to feel endless
where are the fresh shoots ?

Do I need a salvo to stir
the soil so that like poppies
long lying in wait under
too undisturbed soil pop their
red clarion call being vivified ?

Here I chop down pen not *****
and loosen the words waiting the
flowering of fresh inspiration.

There - just a flick of the wrist.

(c) C J Heyworth September 2014

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh.  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh. Creation is groaning.
Its beauty is losing its wonderful face.
Tears there are streaking and staining its liberty,
Yet there’s the Spirit of Truth in His place.

F = ma and G = gravity
falling at 32’/s/s.
Natural law doesn’t change from its infancy.
Earth was made perfect and that’s on the record.

Why then this fracture of precious inventiveness?
How does it happen that something went wrong?
Was it intended, this frightful disaster?
Why this dischord in a beautiful song?

Earth waits in agony for re-commissioning,
Blood on the ground.  It’s the spirit of death.
Yes he was placed here to sort out the heartening
Souls of creative men tangling with Truth.

Creation is groaning ‘cause Truth is the soul of it.
Those who embrace her inherit the earth.
As for the others, when death’s reward comes to them,
They’ll know the Truth, but destruction’s their path.

One day the Son will arrive to inherit
This earth, and restore it to vigor and Life.
He’ll have no party with lies and their consequence.
King of the times He’ll just rule out that strife.

Then will the earth once again reach its majesty.
Then once again mighty mountains may dance.
Then will the joy of the great restoration
Complete the perfection, the longed for romance.

I would always favorite some signs over others. I would always say "Oh I'm so glad that I have no gemini in me" or "I'll never have a scorpio baby one day." But after analyzing you, I have learned that you are a little bit of each sign and that is beautiful to me. I've learned that each sign has contributed very special and important traits to craft you just the way you are. I am no longer so close minded towards some signs, you have taught me that beauty can come from any and all of them.

I love that you are a Taurus and that I am a Virgo and that that is a great compatibility. I love that we are both Earth signs and stable and practical because of this. I love that your Taurus sun allows you to be patient, calm, and cautiously slow. I love that you live simply and if it's not broken, you don't fix it. I love that your Gemini ascendant is the reason you are so restless and why your eyes wander all over the room and back in a matter of a few seconds. I love that your Gemini moon provides you with a quick intellectual mind and persistency. I love that your Mercury is Taurus provides your constructive mind and your second nature of observing. I love that your Venus in Aries allows you to be strongly sensual and flirtatious. Your Mars in Leo allows your great drive to put your ideas into actions and your warm, lucky personality. Your Jupiter in Sagittarius is why you think big and profit accordingly, and provides your higher mind capacity. Your Saturn in Pisces is your vivid imagination and intuition. Your Uranus in Aquarius is your inventiveness and originality, your wry sense of humor and your unique mind. Your Neptune in Capricorn is why you are extra practical and concrete, and good at Chemistry (your major)! Your Pluto in Scorpio is your tendency towards secrecy, psychic abilities, and passionate side. Mars in your 3rd house is your determination and need to stay active and speak your mind. Jupiter in your 6th house is your success in work, loyalty, and dependability. Pluto in your 6th house is your excellent concentration and intent on seeing results. Neptune in your 8th house is why you are a visionary and you seek to give your life more meaning. Uranus in your 8th house is your unusual outlook on life & death. Saturn in your 10th house is your self-reliance, ambition, perseverance, self discipline, and likelihood of achieving success. Venus in your 11th house is your sociable side and your desire to marry a friend. The Sun in your 12th house is why you enjoy privacy and quiet, you have difficulty expressing yourself, you are only close to a few, and success may come later in life for you. Your Mercury in your 12th house is your tendency to be contemplative, and your ability to work things out for yourself. Your Moon in your 12th house is your sensitive side, your reception and intuition towards others, your tendency to hide your real feelings, your need to get away from others to restore yourself, and your creative imagination.

Slurping accolades on Book of Faces,
****** poet **** romances himself.
Lubricating through superego Groups,
disorganization and breakdown of controls
chips him into corner. Bleak
moments of "Like" successes
are momentary arousals,
while blessings of truer constructive
criticisms become real get-offs. Spooging
on his own "Like"-abilities and
word-stock inventiveness he mops up
whatever approval he can.
Internet-tionalistic
becomes his coinphrase. He'll
Google-gunk it up in translation
to any language. So long as it buys him
some sensation. Forgive him,
for where else would he get it?

You can put me
in the ground.

You can surely do that.

If you have hands,
sure

and a knife, yes.

a gun, of course.

or,
i don't know..

run me down
with your car

toss me in
a vat of acid

or maybe
train your
Lioness

to maul me

and

to eat me.

you could get inventive with it.
inventiveness is good
i'd adore you for that.

or,

well..

i'd say,
make it
an old fashioned
kind of affair.

swing a shovel
well into my head
and bury me
where i lie.

you'll want a shovel.
yes you will.
your hands,
they're ***** enough already,
i'd say.

and,
it's an awful lot of work-
those graves.

can't make em too shallow.
you don't want to hang.
cuz they'll find you.
and they'll hang you.
they can't dig enough graves
when they forge for themselves
the RIGHT to do so.

...above ground cemetery...

They make Junkyards
out of neighbors.
strangers..

-anyone..

..anyone they can CATCH!
that they can get
enough sets of HANDS on
to hold down.

To judge.

With the collective mind
of the many-headed-beast.

and you're one of the moving pieces
in that swarm of hate..

..that frenzy of Blood-thirst.

that Madness of Zombies...

You are a vital *****.
I've seen how you Pulse,
like the red in your eyes..

and,
so,

my friend.
my enemy.
I tell you this:

You can bury me,
i'll allow it.
I might flinch.
I might scream.
The body is involuntary.
It's a shaky contraption.
And you can bury it,
however you want,
but you can not **** me..

THAT....you can not do.

No matter how much you might hunger for it.

No matter
what DEVIL
your name may be.

You can not **** the Heart
which beats outside of this body.

You can not **** the Heart
which beats beyond this world.

There are 30,600 seconds in an
      eight and a half hour day of work.
           Each subsequent is a sharpened
              tool of useful motivation to help me
                  alleviate my inventiveness...but
                      the value of my individuality
                         is ejected into a bottomless
                           pit of redundancy and wasted
                               on slave labor and dolor.
                           The duration of time with my
                        12 eyes is pillaged and plundered
                  by the imperialist pirates of propriety.
               They kick you when you're down
             and make you smile about it.
          That's why you need a day off
        before and after your weekend.
     Mercifully, half my work day
   is spent in the bathroom,
    where all the business and
      communicating with the
         outside world gets done
            and I can write my poems
              and escape into the abyss
                 of my own creativity.
                   All of my poems have
                     either started, finished,
                        fully written or re-edited
                           in the bathroom.
                             If I told you this poem wasn't
                          written in the bathroom than
                        I'd be lying to you and there's
                      no reason for that.
                   There's not much to look at except
                 two bare walls, one bare stall door
              and a toilet paper dispenser but
           that's more motivation than all
        the dullard coworkers combined.
      ......And if the
   shower is cold and
the hobo's clean and
  the beer is warm and
    the grass isn't green and
      the ****** are dry and
        the **** is wet and
          the money is scare in the
            rich man's eye and
             the air is breathable,
              religion is believable
                and the mosquitoes are
                  tolerable to the young
                    man's mind, then....
                      me and the popcorn man will sit on
                    the highest skyscraper of wet hair,
                  eating flavored ice and watching
                the yellow skies as it rains snakes
              into my gums and I can live a life
           without fear and have prosperity.
         It's better to live a local
        legend without notoriety
      and be discovered
    after your death than
  to die a sell out with
global stardom
of longevity.

Inside the box of dreams contingent to divergent nightmares
In the confines of a large painting and solitude and suns
You smell the beauty of her soluble features in the eyes as one
Does it do to have a surplus of truth
The ego of driving id letting your inner self spasm without word's worth and worthiness
Relate to someone, whose heights you must torch and focus on oh so much
Buffering winds and engulfing flames, and paint of wolf and werewolves
The moist stench of inventiveness and red veritas of the current year, in the current art of the raw and cooked
Often, thousands of years could be prepared, before you learn a decade of failure, brewing strangely
Decadence doesn't exist in this defined structure wither the body withers in song and dance
Sundry and adamantine guillotines do sew her flesh in hatchets, axes, and bows
Arches and gallantry of cavalry in a dither and dearth dense censuring, of diseased purgatory
Looking at yourself beyond the riches, and rags to ditches.

I am still a marble block
Being sculpted into a beautiful bust
My creator chips away
at these rough edges
To illustrate a new and inventive "crust."
At this time, such is merely a face and half a block.
Artistic Beauty
Such as Individualism takes time
There can be no Race against a clock
Aristotle, Socrates, and Di Vinci took their gift of time
to create
as a gift
Some of them, these artists were not discovered until years after their deaths
and their works remain dusty in a supply closet
Sometimes discovery happens by accident
It is not always planned
Isn't such evident?

Not for fame..But for inventiveness and a view to finally be seen by naked eyes
A name added to those legends who changed the world.

Rays of light under darkened skies.

Society takes too much "pride" in only mingling with "equal levels"
as far as fear of being "weighed" in as lower than they demand
If they unearth a newer rookie or are seen conversing with what "appears"
to be dusty paintings, sculptures, and creations that are considered "Not yet"
When such comes to the rules of the "social books."
The Lady law is blind for a reason
The scales are run by her for a reason
If each one of us would have a chance to make sure that we end our fears of someone else taking our "rightful spot"
By defrauding the art community and success-social life balance
Then, we, ourselves, have committed treason.

Tides time laps at your feet
a constant stream

The ocean spit you out
millennia ago

A slaves bracelet
adorns your wrist

Merciless tides time
clockwork countdown

Oh the inventiveness of Man
to enslave its soul.

Simplifying

I think the isolating medium -
(Pandemic’s global impact)
Has done the job for me;
Few demeaning ultimatums;
Calls returned, lunches met,
Malls paraded through
With nought of worth to do.

Oh, the benefits of saying in!
Throwing sins of wasteful time
Into the garbage bin of slime and time.
Everything brings inspiration.
Anything a motivation,
Open to inventiveness of one's creation
Which, in turn means making choices
Truer to an inner voice;
Not fiddling, waiting for some muse
To lift you from your busy-ness.

There is a principle I hold to:
Everything you wish to do
Will always be simplicity
But never easy.
That, my friend
Is, you could say, the end.


Simplifying 5.22.2021Circling Round Everything II; The Processes: Creative,Thinking,Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

Going On Forever

I don’t want to disappear,
But stay here
Growing, learning,
Watching its eternal earning
With a quiet eye.

Yet and yet, not able
To face label Death,
There is a daring me - preparing,
Filled with stashes of creativeness
That make up for
The fear of disappearing.

Without forethought I find notes to play;
Better than before or ever.
Unpredictable the throat, but I don’t care
Because inventiveness is there.

What might have been a vanity,
Self-consciousness and worry,
Is an energy of nonchalance
Letting in pure chance
And taking in delight
In finding just what’s right
In word or song,
As if the wrong-est word
Ought still be heard by others,
Thanks to confidence
That smothers fear of being judged;
That if I’ve fudged a phrase expected,
Anything can be corrected.

Hence the fire of desire
To go on forever,
Bedded in indebtedness
Undying.
Going On Forever 5.20.2021 Birth,Death & In Between III; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

POETIC PREFACE:

An inner conflict dust brew
within this scribe, who offers ye to chew
(like sweet treats metaphorically) thee do
tee incumbent, when Doomsday clock
counts down minutes few
according Al Gore rhythm
unstoppably ticking,
when life gets turned to global goo
tenderized viz Doctor Zeus
if not Horton Hears Hoo
then most definitely The Lorax

(couching urgent morals underscored
by satellite photographs
showing melting ice caps or igloo,
which planetary sos, sans in extremis
requires joint effort of Gentile and Jew,
plus every other sectarian credo,
dogma, ethos, faith...knew
clear family, and whatnot
to become linkedin with Linda Loo
yes, we moost not forget

Old MacDonald with his moo
moo there bovine creatures
agedly hobbling along, or new
lee born, cuz juiced one day
per three hundred and sixty five
(six with leap year -
imagine dragons festooned leotard
with brand name Oroblu)
or poor ole Winnie The Pooh
eternally stuck in Rabbit's
hole sum Hutch as a queue

doth loosely form dreaming up and rue
mien hating solution
to eradicate toxins humankind doth spew
into the atmosphere
(burning the midnight oil) true
lee trying to remedy plight
of said bear character,
perhaps unstated message being woo
king in tandem solutions to resolve
wretched condition of world wide web
possible by bridging differences
between me and you, and you, and you...

Earth Day 2021 – Thursday April 22

Every day ought
necessitate reverence towards Gaia
a vibrant living and breathing planet entity
experiencing upon her land and seas.

Bajillion banshees scream ****** ****** methought
upon Biblical (lionized) forebears stalking heads
birthed courtesy accursed beasts hood besought
winds howl across the oblate spheroid
methinks courtesy **** sapiens horror wrought.

Climate change/global warming siren song
Adam event since time immemorial against
sacred covenant doing Mother Nature wrong
April 22nd waning hours warn us King Kong
antithetical, egotistical, & heretical caretakers
over populated quintessential rowdy sinning
rawbit & powdermilk biscuit munching throng.

Antiestablishmentarian gambit voiced, I tootle
(albeit figuratively), and feign playing trumpet
challenging when born with submucous palate
lamely feeble attempt made tinkering with words
aware crushing humanity legacy takes Herculean
effort to implement global revolution, staging and
coaching proselytizers to shine klieg lights where
industrialization tattooed unseemly sights land
once (unimaginably) pristine acres irrevocably
repurposed into grotesque disfigured terra firma.

Fifty one years ago come
(The First Earth Day in April 22nd, 1970)
courtesy Senator ******* Nelson
orchestrated first metaphorical telescoping
lens zooming close
far more horrible than
"fake" special effects we
as collective species
impacted planet harkening
back when nasty, short
and brutish proto humans

mastered steely ironic
mettle to fell one after tree
after another, I need
not axe the question if queasy
induced state imagined
envisioning yourself, née
Pandora's box (purported
inventiveness) suddenly vaulted
and unhinged inkling,
when beastie boys plus goo

goo dolls loosed goods
no longer under lock and key
i.e. raw materials to fashion,
whatever struck fancy
re: innately "gifted"
descendent afforded momentary
recognition (nameless
naked apes) that hit upon idea
way manifold generations
before iconic light bulb lit

western civilization taming
current of (ohm my dog)
flow of electrons to supply
amply charging electricity
countless intervenvening
millennium one after another
survival of the fittest likely
accidentally melded insight
with (then) near infinite
natural resources labored away.

Unbeknownst, when chance
cerebral serendipity gave way
where inchoate deliberation,
how ardent smarts applied today
gave dawn of consciousness
quantum leap launching landlubbers
****** into the seven seas eventually
marshalling routes to unknown,
nevertheless pirated quay
zee whirled wide watery web
long ago hushing nay
saying doubting Thomas
(English muffin chomping chap),
especially at financing
and cost courtesy bourgeoisie
the same old bay...
sic yacht ta yacht ta yacht ta.

Perhaps there are types..
inventions of mousetraps that
catch with compassion..
celebrating the inventiveness
of the finite mind..

but what of those appearances
of brushstrokes or words
which seem from afar..
as from the whiteness of
this page..
or the sudden juxtaposing
of nature's dissimilarities..

those sudden types
seem available to all..
do not depend on our
diligent preparation in
schooling or craft..
or culture or beliefs
but only upon a
recognition of ourselves
without  the opaqueness
of a masking resistance...

The space between thought
and sound is inventiveness.

Vocalising the end product
requires careful consideration.

Ulysses took seventeen years to
write, for some, a lifetime to read.