"lobed" poems
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it’s not even 6am, restless night, or wrestled night, ain’t much difference, see the **** geese on the water’s edge, I dutifully slip out of bed, awakening no one, dutifully slide in to my slip-on sneakers, grab the white umbrella next to the front door, dutifully, steadily, my first chore of the day, walk deliberately (and carefully) to make them get them get heck away, into the sound, and to cease polluting the grass where children may play…
standing at the waters edge, task finished, the sky commands examination, there is within the cumulus textured, multi-pastel, thick curdled pastiche cloud banks, overhanging the world as far as one can see, a substantive hole appearing in the sky revealing a blue heaven….what one believes, prefers should be, but what is, in fact,
not a…given and we are a but, partly cloudy day, a partly clouded observant person…
this reminds me that there are holes in all places, everywhere, in my disturbed sleep, where I spend hours of triangulating in dreams, what I cannot pin down:
who I am, what I am, my purpose on earth, though I know where
I am, though not even, most critically, why I am…
is this a poem?
this thoughtful cursed query sits behind my eyes, frontally lobed, perpetually asking, judging me, these words, repetitiously heard,
one is not fooled,
it is a simple self-evaluation test, only an ask,
what are my justifications, ma raison d'être,
(reason for being) which is an amuse, for I discover
in French, ‘reason for being,’
is a feminine word,
(qui en Français,
c'est un mot féminin…)
and that makes me smile,
for I’m a woman-centric man
(I have no gender confusion,
this is not one of the holes
to which I refer)
perhaps it is, or, perhaps it is a rambunctious rambling of no worth, for no answers are obtained, given, deduced, and holes, skyward and inward are deep, none delimited by neither bottom or a top, just widening gaps and gapes in my existence…and answers are not
forthcoming…
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5:50am
Thursday July 18
Year Two Thousand and Twenty Four
Jul 18, 2024
Jul 18, 2024 at 6:51 AM UTC
Do you remember the first piece?
Did it wrap around wrists, a Twist or Curb
hug fingers or hang round your neck holding on
for silver or gold?
Maybe it was gunshot through ear lobes
hot blood rush, diamond studs sit in until
body heals and holes held open stay open
for hoops and dangles
Is it worth your face in gold?
Does he bling too, that black boyfriend?
Is he Bead or Box or Byzantine chain
blazing bronze or phat platinum
Did you two star gaze for long
at rocks and stones and coins
stunned and dazed in all that tomfoolery?
Did you ever put his glitter on
and how long did that ice last
before melting down to a memory?
What would it mean to leave the house naked
no sequinned cloak covering
no shiny ear lobed shimmering's
no solid gold hood hangings
wearing just your skin to hold yourself in?
Cloth does not count, it is matterless–
would you be worth your face without gold?
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 4:42 AM UTC
A mirror will suffice, no doubt.
The high furrowed forehead,
The heavy-lidded Asian eyes,
The long-lobed Indian ears.
Brown skin beginning to spot,
Of an age to bore and be bored.
I turn away, knowing too well
My face, my expression
For all seasons, my half-smile.
Birds flit about the feeder,
The dog days wane, and I
Observe the jitters of leaves
And the pallor of the ice-blue beyond.
I read to find inspiration. I write
To restore candor to the mind.
There are raindrops on the window,
And a peregrine wind gusts on the grass.
I think of my old red flannel shirt,
The one I threw away in July.
I would like to pat the warm belly of a
Beagle or the hand of a handsome woman.
I look ahead to cheese and wine,
And a bit of Bach, perhaps,
Or Schumann on the bow of Yo-Yo Ma.
I see the mountains as I saw them
When my heart was young.
But were they not a deeper blue,
shimmering under the fluency of skies
Radiant with crystal light? Across the way
The yellow land lies out, and standing stones
Form distant islands in the field of time.
here is a stillness on this perfect world,
And I am content to settle in its hold.
I turn inward on a wall of books.
They are old friends, even those that
Have dislodged my dreams. One by one
They have shaped the thing I am.
These are the days that swarm
Into the shadows of legend. I ponder.
And when the image on the glass
Is refracted into the prisms of the past
I shall remember: my parents speaking
Quietly in a warm familiar room, and
I bend to redeem an errant, broken doll.
My little daughter, her eyes brimming
With love, beholds the ember of my soul.
There is the rattle of a teacup, and
At the window and among the vines,
The whir of a hummingbird’s wings.
In the blue evening, in another room,
There is the faint laughter of ghosts,
And in a tarnished silver frame, the
likeness of a boy who bears my name.
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 5:27 AM UTC
I want to slip
deep inside
your wonderful brain,
to unleash your creative mind
& stimulate your lobed-walls.
I want to create
a sweet friction
with your lovely cortex
& build a synapses
of unbelievable dimensions,
to flood your receptors
with my emitter,
flow my strong current
into your throbbing pulse,
again & again.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
When I have time to think,
when the dark thoughts
are hailing me
like Starfleet academy
across the universe
of my undermine;
In the dark regions
of my dreams
where legions
of thought demons
come rumbling in,
there is a red wave,
a reservoir of pain
reserved for the perturbed
parts of my overactive brain.
When the melancholia music plays,
switch flipped to repeat
as I listen to the beat
of my heart’s history,
I remember all that
was given to me,
the bits I took for granite
chipped rocks eroded
connections no longer
able to be loaded
because they are just
echoes of binary encoded
in my overloaded
grief molded
dual lobed
computing *****
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 6:03 AM UTC