"linkages" poems
~for r a/k/a rrr a/k/a woody~
“I will always remember you”
raise you hand if honesty
yet lives inside your muscle
memory of brain, of heart,
there is no one here who hasn’t
uttered them fool lying words
with difficulty we struggle to up
raise faces and places, moments
and images no longer mirrored
within the frontmost places of
our recollection, that searing then,
itself scorched, lichen+moss covered,
our greatest pains, pleasures sworn
allegiances to these razored inflection
points, now scoured by rusty hazes,
and we wonder what has become
of us, what we valued so to savor
as forever memories, their names
gray lady shrouded, and there is
no internet site to aid in self-recovery,
for our selfish selves have been altered,
time, new loves, guilt and other stuff
intersect with mind’s eyes and no mas-
more synapses paths instant linkages
I know you will vociferously argue but
it is almost physical, our shame at losing
them and ourselves, in the morass that
time digs daily deeper for what grieves
us is that losing as the end rushes to close
our story, makes us pick up pen and finger
scratch as best we can inside the lines on
our faces that are/had proofs, witnesses,
that once, we were there at the places,
whose names are no longer mapped any
where, so deep, no archivist’s submersible dare
fathom those fathom’s darkest we would need
to explore without the possibility that we
might implode if we sunk so far to rip apart sea
forests we knowingly, secret-planted to coverup
her memory, the words spoken, the oaths
and promises, we swore, for instance, simply
by saying, “I will always remember you”
p.s. and my self-shaming so great, that my
asking for forgiveness is buried so fast, it
may, not ever been real, just another fiction
Jul 6th, 8:36 AM,
Jul 7, 2023
Jul 7, 2023 at 6:42 AM UTC
"How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob,
Your dwelling places, O Israel!"
Thy children gather,
telescoping generations,
O Jacob, what do thine eyes ascertain.
what history do they memorize?
Coalescing younger star clusters,
disparate related families uniting,
embedding as a single unity,
a star cloud,
shedding a new light,
the astronomers awed, witnesses,
a super-star cluster birthed.
The beauty of thy tents,
thy wealth, O Jacob,
is their multiplicity,
their construct and content.
The web of thy tissue,
bindings, linkages,
what resides within thy tents,
acknowledge, testify, that
the strength of thy issue,
are the Matriarchs,
managers of thy destiny,
mothers of thy dynasty,
The Sarah's, Leah's, the Rachel's,
the Fay's, the Ginger's, the Miriam's
these jewels bedeck, beautify,
brides and bridles of thy tents,
master mistresses of thy dwellings,
without them, O Jacob,
you, but, just,
another desert tribe.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Linkages.
If I will do this...
then I will experience....
Yet any and all power I have
rests in my next choice.
Outcome unknown.
All deals are off.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 8:01 AM UTC
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition
~~
From “The Art of Fielding.” by Chad Harbach
"You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition.
The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not."
~~
and thus, the circling noose grows ever small,
binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious
more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art,
knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave
this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship,
addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes,
all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup,
climaxing oft with an exclamation point -
a perilous desperation leap
into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition
yeah, yeah, sure, sure,
you knew that,
tho daring to verbalize same,
before the age of thirty,
presumed maturity,
was not an act of the sane of heart,
or the sound of mind with body melded
what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle,
was primal and not tangential, though perhaps,
some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently
of life's linkages and motifs parallel
of
that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony,
that our full access pass to envisioning the finery,
imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis,
whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts,
called words,
into a singular line, a stanza that froze your lungs from
the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing,
was in no way different
than the curvature of the boy's arm
in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for
a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus
confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership
and these momentary moments of momentousness,
will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature,
a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service,
medals of the honor and the errors of his own
truthful, youthful and crucial
human condition
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC
the world is too full of people
a lot of practises, norms, traditions
something i can't get along
i have had it in me
languages, oceans, love, seasons
unfed, uncultured
i refuse to open up
to the danger living out there
it might swallow it up
i went away...i subtracted
from all the additions
and madness, jury's, promises
vows, linkages
this silence that i possess is worth a language
of speeches, made up by words
so carefully sewed by grammer, adjectives and nouns
a beautiful place - trees
love, nature, mountains ..child's careless laughter
open yet so concealed
souls sees it - dances it with the sensations
coming out ..like a sun amidst dark clouds
i stay like i care least
shrugging off everything ..and everyone
not of that, not of this
in my heart..i contain all
feeling of beauty ..feltful sadness
converted into deep joys
rivers, cold glaciers into melting snow .
there is much that can be spoken about
it's only..silences in me
take me along..much more
than language with such torn up words
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
<>
*the supply of words is not inexhaustible
neither are the combinations thereof;
what is inextricably true, of these two linkages
that is not exhaustive, is my endless delight,
in finding the ones that I’ve yet to contemplate
till you brought them waving to my eyes,
so as far as I’m concerned, you originate
delight daily, and that is the spark you create
making every day, the eighth day of creation of the world.*
Sat Aug 22
2020
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC
the mainstream media feeds us
a lot of clap trap
it rarely reports the other side
of the news flap
we're drawn in by what is supposed
to be the story proper
yet there is independent
coverage on offer
mainstream media and governments
are in constant cahoots
to get to the nub of the story
the public should untangle their roots
it has been shown time and again
that we're been lead up the wrong story vein
so much of the truth is diluted
by the big media men
as they are so accommodating
of those policy making men
the facts are not always presented
in an accurate or exact way
regularly the state of the situation
is buried tidily away
the big media organizations
are our eyes and ears
to the world's happenings
but we the world community
would certainly like less of our news
undergoing all the sanitizing
linkages of media to government
do indeed exist
this ever so cozy arrangement
reports but only this combinations twist
independent news is there to give us balance
to the stories that are out there
the angels that it depicts give equilibrium
to the mainstreams daily fair
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
~for rr~
good things to know…
~~~~
where to begin, how to end?
a sincerity well intended,
a first word provocation & invocation
to bless a new day is thereby missioned
it is good to know that there are among us
those who restore to us the history from
pieces of broken glass, fragmented histories,
that tell us tales that when found, birth insight,
who among us can claim this honorific, whose
work(!),
is glorious tasked to give us understanding!
réalisateur,
(more powerful in French)
to comprehend, achieve tween us a shared reality,
linkages of time in ways that makes time a truthful
almond confection, sweet with bitter as an after-thoughtful
aftertaste
but no talk of bitter today, John Denver’s
sunshine on my shoulders after 5 days of wet wooly
mammoth gloom, and so I say simple thanks to you,
for it is another
good thing to know,
and leave it
here
Sep 27, 2023
Sep 27, 2023 at 9:46 AM UTC