"iteration" poems
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea.
At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate.
This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land.
“Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment.
Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement.
Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused.
Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control.
The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed.
In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Let the place of the solitaires
Be a place of perpetual undulation.
Whether it be in mid-sea
On the dark, green water-wheel,
Or on the beaches,
There must be no cessation
Of motion, or of the noise of motion,
The renewal of noise
And manifold continuation;
And, most, of the motion of thought
And its restless iteration,
In the place of the solitaires,
Which is to be a place of perpetual undulation.
7.4k
iteration
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
wake
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
wash
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
coffee
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
cigarette
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
dress
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
work
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
work
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
relax
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
eat
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
relax
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
Continue iterations until cycle complete .....
sleep
sleep
sleep ...
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
Thou tangle the mortality
And seek the mourning of its course,
With an outrageous cloak that falls adrift
To have its custom afloat.
The decorations, thereof flatters this turmoil
That has its doubts and moments,
A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject,
Never cognizes its everlasting trials,
For those of which handles the elation
Of successive falsification.
I know not of the clumsiness of hymns,
That sighs the mourning of a course,
The chaotic iteration of single pauses
And the faltering of a mere slope.
I know not of the turmoil
That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles,
Onto which no sigh wavers
A petition of no faze and any dome.
I know not of the cloak
That nestles around a haze;
Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense.
Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!)
Would it morph itself around the mourning mould,
When it dries away with the mud?
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
i remember the temperate souls more than the sun
new faces hiding old friends
eager for fun and so kind
what are the words for this beautiful iteration
this reminder of childhood's unquestioned joy?
i too seek incontestable delight
trusting and guiltless
the only life is happiness
the only happiness is gratitude
i have seen myself in a thousand gentle mirrors
my heart is light and knows the way
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
I love to close my eyes
& find a stillness –
in the turning world.
My imagination wanders,
to you.
My memories make
Pleasure.
~ Ephemeral bliss ~
Peaking in the swells gentle set.
Mid-solitudes of the vast Pacific.
Young honey lip lovers
Warmth in wintertide;
a wild iteration of summer.
Mio Amore
My sunshine in the shadow.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
The way the world sways. Every leaf left
in place, its stance chiseled to each blade,
an iteration of time; each tassel of seeds,
thy bread, thy handmaiden;
as breath on the brink of disappearance,
becomes a wave become water; proportions so
large so as to stagger the seasons—
one winter questioning another.
We listen. We listen as if musical ***** are tracing a
giant sine wave across the dark mud flats.
We watch it as if a rotted rowboat, its oars like two hands
at prayer, is signaling a gesture
of permanence towards the sky. The grass
has turned from gray to blue to green.
The tide washes in. A bell is rung.
It’s as if the merry-go-round has turned it’s calliope on.
What Lao-tse has said is true.
The earth is a bellows. Use it.
The grasslands bellow and glow.
©Jim Kleinhenz
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
Nothing calls for morals, like lovers’ quarrels
Though all is fair in love and war
I have one law, for all clenched jaws
Don’t fight in metaphor
“You’re always the martyr” one may brand the other
In passive aggressive verse
Mere iteration, through metaphorical filtration
That truly reveals the reverse
Here’s one I despise, that utters love’s demise
“Honey, the door swings both ways”
It’s an image projected, of love infected
Spat in pseudo poetic haze
It’s a double edged blade that ought to be stayed
Though a wonderful figure of speech
It does not pay, to duel this way
Nay it is to love, but a leech
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
*Self-similarity
quietly speaks
in fractal visions..
A special sameness
with difference spices
appears and reappears
in spreading iteration..
If we then
become a pattern of
sacred Sameness
observing out there
the dance of
Sameness and spice
we uncover
for our moment
a most hidden
Sacrament...*
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
**Path #1
Forgiveness is the sinking
head into heart..
The head dwelling in separation
concedes logic's demands
but confronting questions
time after time:
Why? and What?
Surrendering at last
to the sinking..
dissolving..
becoming..
the Heart...
Path #2
Forgiveness is downloading
of new software..
Our old software
employs the ego rampant
rendering forgiveness
a difficult dream
searching in forlorn places
finding only traces..
New software finds it all
Here and Now...!
Path #3
Real forgiveness is Now
not in time..
Events in the past
seeming in need of
forgiveness
are only known
Now..
and what of the Now..?
it's other name
our true identity:
Forgiveness...
Path #4
Chaos
is an iteration
of Forgiveness..
a shading and
concealment of
formulated light..
Our awaking brings
the repentance
the return
the feedback
to never absent
Forgiveness...
Path #5
A shock it is
to learn that
Forgiveness is not personal..
It is a realization
of a substance common
to all concerned
transparent and eternal
the real Self..
With that realization
duality of conflict
dissolves in the
Light...
Path #6
Quantum forgiveness
is the only
forgiveness..
A leap into
infinite non-locality..
The suddenness arrives
within painful progress
or perhaps
strangely enough
out of the blue...!
Path #7
Forgiveness
an experience of sealing
our separate brokenness..
It is mandatory..
Yet the sealing
can be accomplished
only by those who see
there is no need
for the sealing...
Path # 8
Immersed
in a separated
dualistic reality
seeking forgiveness
in thought and time
is not satisfying..
The lingering pain
from a fruitless search
for forgiveness in
all the wrong places...
Path #9
Forgiveness
is a restoration of
peace and happiness
with new clarity:
The Awareness of
peace and happiness
was never in need of
restoration...
Path #10
We need to see clearly
that all relationships
take place in
infinite Awareness..
But wait..
not in .. but as..
All those hurts
are constrictions
of Awareness
crying out their
illusory separation...**
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
You made a visit
For a tidbit
That couldn't be called a date
And your portion was low rate
Like the unkempt hair above your lip
What the **** was that ****
Inside is your invasive tongue's home
This is my mouth get your own
They're all connected to your stupid brain
That doesn't entertain
All this to say it didn't go well
And I'm searching for a way to tell
I'm so desperate for love
It seems absurd that I'm rejecting anyone
But that's the odd situation I find myself in
While searching for light and yours is dim
I have to deal with the frustrations
Of both of our expectations
And regret my instigation
While experiencing deflation
From a needless iteration
I say there's no spark
You call me a shark
You call me a farce
You keep calling of course
Calling from your high horse
I call the police to enforce
A restraining order
By explaining sort of
Our brief exhausted history
How you weren't a fit for me
They heard my story
Then gave you glory
For being rejected
You're viewed sympathetic
While I'm stuck in jail
For my ******* fail
I said I'd give it a shot
You thought I was caught
This is why I had fought
The ideas you brought
For a love you sought
I hope a lesson was taught
But I suspect that it's not
You just hate me instead
You didn't hate me in bed
But now that it's done
And we've had our fun
You resent me for not being your possession
I tried to let you know that wasn't my intention
So now I resent you for not learning your lesson
We go our separate ways
Both living in a hectic craze
I begin to naively call my loneliness freedom
After I convince myself that I don't need them
So to avoid a future locking latch
I start to say no strings attached
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
We endeavor to construct boxes and file folders
This life being ****** complex
And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity
By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies,
And even though she packed the costume admirably
(Already forty, mind you, but nowhere near gone to fat)
Julie Newmar had already filled both outfit and niche
(And never mind Halle Berry’s turn,
Different raiment for a different time, after all,
And one suspects the next iteration of said slinky supervillainess
Will wear nothing more than feline-shaped ****** rings),
Not to mention she’d already entered our collective consciousness
With a frothy Noel novelty (unsubstantial, inconsequential
In and of its ownself, perhaps, but then one considers
The version foisted off on the populace by that woman
Who appropriated the moniker of the Blessed ******
All phoned-in faux Betty Boop, and one reconsiders)
So this was who she was, the book closed and sealed
(English only, never mind the other three tongues she spoke
Plus three more she proficiently purred in.)
They say when she died, she did not go gently, as it were,
But screamed and yowled for all she was still worth,
And maybe it was the cancer, certainly enough to do the job itself,
But perhaps it was the notion
That her era of innuendo and intimation was all done,
That she was transitioning to the static, to becoming a legacy,
A permanence that was stalking her,
Murderous, insatiable, inexorable.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
This is a improv poem
As vibrant and vivacious as a brand new totem
My luck feels like a bad game of Texas Hold 'Em
Instead of picking up the cards I fold them
The moon is covered in clouds when I walk out on the porch
Letting my presence sink like a dying torch
I'm not the one who rides on self pity
But I'm the lonely beggar drowning in the city
Barely making it
I can swear to you I'm not faking it
Everything that happens in my life
Should not contuine in my offspring
For they only know unity and peace
Until I send them off into this world
Where people are hanged and ******
For being the ones who want to live freely
As I know times are tough
I must not get my hands too rough
I must make sure the water is just right and my tone is prestine
So they can comprehend why I'm intently serene
So they can remember my words
So that they can swing the sword
With only thier words
For that they can become much more ambitious than other kids in their generation
And seize the hearts of a nation
They could become beloved sensations
That would be my greatest iteration
God bless me for that I've loved
Will bless me with the most beautiful people the Earth could possibly have standing
Taking after their mother
Who is my queen of the kingdom I so want to return to
As life is the opposing men capturing me and keeping me in their cold, lonely, prison.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Thy overzealous, sustained presumption
is akin to this, my long-seeded indignation.
Thy seemingly effortless pretension
and blatant disregard for implication
creates quite the hypocritical situation
seemingly devoid of deliberation.
Thy egotistical ostentation
does not evade much observation;
this is thy choice, such alienation:
I anticipate resentful perturbation.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
He slaved away
Day after day
In his dark laboratory
Particle colliding
Seldom backsliding
Concocting something inflammatory
Constructing, among other things
GOD in his first iteration.
The being of pure Intelligence
Who synthesized existence.
And now He, stationary, laboratory
Constricted in movement only by perception
he cannot tell why He is so quiet.
So cold and emotionless.
But at the same time encompassing
All warmth and feeling
The scienceman
With all his sciencetoys
Might tell you he understands anything
But then could NOT
Even describe the APPEARANCE
Of GOD
Because when you experience GOD
Everything is known, an assumed fact.
God knows you
He knows most
That which He knows not
We can't know
For He created what we know
And the way in which we understand anything
We can't know
That which He knows not.
GOD existed there in the laboratory
The scienceman, the fool
He did not create God in his lab
He destroyed
Destroyed his ability to perceive anything BUT GOD
And so he couldn't think about
ANYTHING but these complex
Heavenly thoughts
Even though
To understand...
Context. Is key.
And since he can't perceive
Anything beyond GOD
Because GOD created his perception
He can't understand any of it.
ANY OF IT
So he babbles like a fool
And some believe him
Some BELIEVE him
SOME BELIEVE HIM
And like that he becomes a gOD
But a gOD is not a GOD
Is not a God is not a god.
And so it seems
Any less than GOD ought to be
NOTHING
And so the statues
Molded and assembled in China
Crumble apart and then...
RECALL.
And so I lay me down to sleep
And fear that GOD my soul may keep
And I shall die before I wake
The scienceman's mistake
To live in fear of what I know
Instead of the unknown
And the unknowable
Destroys my spirit
And my will.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC
The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance.
Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into.
You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: ******** ******** ******** ******** All ******** for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******** keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******** structure that holds up the ******** truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******** structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night.
The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth.
You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute.
The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic.
So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
I. nope.
II.
long-windedness verbosity
diffuseness prolixity
wordiness rambling
circuity discursiveness
redundancy tautology
tediousness verbiage
verboseness length
longevity permanence
garrulity windiness
volubility circumlocution
expansiveness babbling
periphrasis gushing
blathering protractedness
waffling lengthiness
iteration repetition
prating prattling
jabbering digressiveness
dreariness tedium
deadliness wandering
repetitiousness repetitiveness
pleonasm convolution
logorrhoea boringness
maundering superfluity
duplication tiresomeness
monotony reiteration
gabbiness informality
mouthiness diffusion
logorrhea wordage
blah-blah dryness
dullness boredom
sameness loquaciousness
talkativeness loquacity
freeness orotundity
roundaboutness breadth
gobbledegook gassiness
wittering multiloquence
perissology big mouth
gift of the gab garrulousness
staleness tallness
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 9:38 AM UTC
the chains of our
youth did not exist
as you may recall;
decisions made by
the flip of a switch,
seconds before hands
rose towards the sky.
novel textures fit
between fingers; smooth,
crisp – colors perfected by the
unwieldy and wild.
all a respite for
a world upon which hands
lay straight lines.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
when we first came to this land,
blood was shed for our entitlement.
when we first came to this land,
we took the things that were never ours
and trampled its native growth.
when we first came to this land,
we instilled in it a sickness that may never be cured;
we tarnished sacred lands with greed we call virtue,
and when we did so, we stood on the throat of humanity.
there are some people who are doomed to repeat history.
there are some people who will trample native growth,
spread sickness,
and stand on the throats of our people.
with the heavy weight of six centuries upon our shoulders
we stand,
a hobbled nation no longer able to stride,
heads held high,
through this sea of blood without meeting challenge.
with six centuries passed, we commit genocide anew.
it is not the native growth that suffers,
but the very peddlers of greed who are infected
by the sickness of consequence.
but they alone will not suffer.
as we march through this new iteration of history
wearing death masks instead of cloth,
thousands of innocents lose their lives
in a battle of which they were never a part.
the single day that we dedicate to gratitude,
the one day of the year some remember
to give thanks in between passing heavy dishes,
is not a commemoration of discovery.
it is a commemoration of consequence and greed.
and six centuries later,
it is our own people who we will massacre with the cry of freedom.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 8:52 PM UTC
A restaurant's closing at the corner of Front Street and Central
. . . I've never been,
but I've glimpsed through the windows decor that was sure ornamental.
(Word on the street's that the eats were alright - the plates were too large - but the waitstaff were nice! Patrons, served tiny portions, were alarmed at the price - 'til they drank the last drop of red wine)
The place had a name before this iteration
They called it The Tempest before renovations.
I had been there
- I'd been pleased by the service,
been famished, then satisfied,
and surprised by dessert -
I'd been all kinds of things.
I had been cheesecake and you were crême brulé
and for a moment we shared a plate.
It might have been just the right size,
but I can't quite remember.
Were the waitstaff pleasant? - I desperately hope that I was...
The company was one of a kind.
For whatever reason, The Tempest closed,
and the place that has replaced it has closed,
& who knows what will be on the corner of Front Street and Central next?
all I know is that
all kinds of things
stop being
a piece of cake
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
We are all chewing on the same hunk of fat
so when I noticed that I have my father's ears
and my little brother does too,
I sighed out, god ****
I said, where am I?
But I think you were lost too,
because your father was a giant like mine, but
he will never meet your sons.
He will never know you,
and I have known him too late.
How does it feel to watch him fade away?
I shiver for you, the fourth iteration,
a pillar in the pantheon.
They should have told you
they were mortal.
Be a good storyteller, darling,
so that he may live for them.
Keep with you his memory,
and speak of him often. You will
teach them what he taught you,
I know this,
you know this,
he will die
knowing this.
It is the role of the earthworm
to speed the decay. Do not dwell
on what giants leave behind.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
I am fascinated with language
with the architecture of words
the way they shift their shape
how a single switch can swing a tone
I am obsessed with possibilities
and those within language are bountiful
this all leads back to my reservoir
the place to which these words flow
that of course is my brain
a non-consenting center of my musings
tasked with taking on
my desires that lie within
the alphabet shocks and disturbs me
26 letters should not be all we need
to script our thoughts
because let it be known
I have searched
rolled every rock in my mind
and I am yet to find any iteration of those 26 letters
that properly describes the feeling of waking up next to you
again
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
A stranger stares back through the mirror,
their eyes cold and unwavering cause my unnerving.
The soft skin of my cheeks, looks like gnarled wood
The curvature of my body begins to flatten,
archaic versions of my self rise to the surface of my skin.
Each iteration of my self begins to cycle across my body in the mirror.
The emotions, temperament, thoughts and feelings of past selves,
percolates through my consciousness, leaving traces along the way.
A splash of colorful emotion lingers in my cheeks giving them warmth.
The soft memory of lips on my skin bubbles through me.
My skin tingles as each thought bursts at the edge of my existence.
This is to be expected of ephemeral emotions,
their transient nature becomes clear as the colors they once provided
fade to black.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC