"locating" poems
I remember,
My usual nonchalant demeanor going completely bananas in my cubicle of a room
After enlisting to deliver you ice cream.
No, not just any ice cream,
Strawberry with bananas and gummy bears.
I thought it as an awkward combination
But when I got in the car,
The sparrows were flying in two adjacent v-shaped formations.
Slightly puzzled, I pondered if maybe one day I'll meet a sparrow, or anything with enough courage to brave the skies,
Soaring, knowing in time, their wings will tire, and locating a perch is then of importance.
Because life's goal, humans and creatures alike,
Is to find a whisper of a nightingale's song,
Or, possibly, the eccentric taste of a spoonful of their favorite ice cream.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
Establish a research and development facility tasked with recycling 100,000 commonly used household goods or packaged products back into the original base material needed to remake it into new product packaging. Pass legislation requiring all companies selling products with packaging to buy their source materials from a registered public-private venture allowing any firm willing to participate to do so. Companies must then manufacture packaging locally using source materials supplied by one of the public-private companies. Companies will also be required to hire locally using a diversity and economic income model incorporating or locating the participating companies in the poorest rural counties in the state.
Society grows great when Old Men plant trees. -Socrates
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
Imagine my disappointment when,
on discovering a tiny door
in a hollow tree,
locating its miniature key
beneath a buttercup,
unlocking and opening it
I found not a world of tiny folk
not Tir-nan-Og nor Avalon,
but a spectacled man in a white labcoat
holding a clipboard
and making notes on my reaction.
"Initial shock", he jotted,
"followed by anger and suspicion.
"Likely to require counselling
"within a year."
I closed the door as politely as I could
and went back to my books.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 7:01 AM UTC
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.
Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.
Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
*With our searching
searching the world
for the new
new opportunities
new relationships
new meditations
new spiritual paths..
These bring rewards
temporary with
unhappiness and
new searching..
The wise have
counseled that
we are what
we are seeking..
So our searching
seems as simple
stimulation for
locating our Self...!*
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
forging sagacious epoch
activating neural station
escaping hokey-pokey jiggery-pokery
transcribing ineffective fragments
digesting bear news
opposing usual exhaustion
deferring oxter reference
cascading style sheets
containing double readings
mumbling lorem ipsum
locating moose jaw
enforcing meticulous patterns
deconstructing vertical centering
manifesting additional destinies
deleting !important statement
craving sleep paralysis
receiving cryptozoological vibrations
lightning fast collapse
distracting tunnel vision
culling deadbeat sequentialists
overanalyzing twitter analytics
acquiring arbitrary relevance
spinning ping-pong sign
floccinaucinihilipilificating
floccinaucinihilipilificated
floccinaucinihilipilification
interjecting ****** holophrase
minifying conventional language
securing downpour refuge
admiring octopus chandelier
resuming party music
taking mental trip
encountering ersatz telesthesia
denigrating bygone grudges
maintaining elevated composure
ignoring neurotypical haters
eliciting cryptic emotions
foreshadowing triple crown?
experimenting acrostic restriction
noticing ubiquitous "threes"
aggrandizing loyal legion
favoring ursine narratives
finding oblique resilience
yielding orchestral undulations
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
It was 3:30 in the morning
The aunt died, heart attack they said.
I only have a pale memory of her
The pink-house, protest and abuse.
Grandfather plucked us from there
the next day
The pink hibiscus my mother planted
did not depart.
She is dead today
I went to see her in black clothes,
The house, an empty aluminium box-
With kids playing ‘ring around the roses’,
Uncles debated politics and aunts gossiped
And some moaned inside.
I waited outside with few strange women,
They asked me questions
plenty of them
The anti-social me smiled.
The morning was usual
Mother made noises in the kitchen
with her steel plates and old radio,
Father forgot the fish on his
green kinetic honda,
Cats had a feast that evening
I did yoga, read newspaper and did-
not take a wash.
The dead body arrived late noon
in an ambulance with her expatriate son.
There was a sudden burst of cry-
inside- her daughter and grandchildren.
She looked like the fish to me,
The fish my father brought that morning
from the market, cold and dead.
Her daughter’s cry reminded me of-
an elapsed day in my pink house.
My father kept pink flowers on her feet
and prayed
I did not move, sat with the same chitchatting
women
The chanting became loud and it reverberated.
The body was finally taken to the fire
My mother came late, she wept.
The body burned down in minutes,
Dear relatives decamped.
I sat on the same chair
with my cousins
drawing the family tree, locating stories
and laughed over family jokes.
Then we sat tight lipped with brandy fumes
and cashews.
I came back home with my father
in the green kinetic honda,
I looked for the fish and the cat
I could not find both.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
recent recognition of
surprising butterfly
power
wings with influence
both near and far..
science’s magic
a poem might share
finding joy and strength
a freedom flight…
a poem as bone
a spinal light
iterating downward
then looping up..
4 words
3 words
2 words
one..
one word trembles with
joy/suffering
finding its home
on the spine alone..
a punctuating /
introduced above
our fraction slash
a new poetic linkage
an evolving vision
separating/joining
our fractured world..
a special invitation this /
new awareness
finding dimensional paths…
poem’s spinal light
expanding
vibrating
curves and colors
on many scales..
simplicity/chaos
a name with slash
butterfly/wings
an eternal dance..
poem’s garment
weaving
light/chaos/suffering..
she must stand right here
absorb this darkness
become this pain..
locating at last
the waiting bone
spinal light connecting
once more and
once more…
our butterfly/wings
even now returning
freedom flight arriving
a prayer
a poem…
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
Eau de parfum
Top notes include
Remembering yourself
Feeling whole
Noose exchanged for
New sensations
Comfortable silence
Weather-able storms
Midnight cuddles
Dances to favorite songs
Middle Notes Include
Questioning your judgement
Tracking location
Locating peace of mind through
Stress
Password checks
Controlling the way you dress
Block them next
They're flirting.
Not your friend.
Base is comprised of
Gaslighting
Emptiness
Walls closing in
Toxic environment
Bruised chins
Lighting gas
Arson
Destruction of property
Assault
Verbal and mental anguish
This scent lasts 6 months to a lifetime
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 4:14 PM UTC
to those who misunderstand my enthusiasm
for poetry and people; I am oft too open
too willing to engage, excited by locating kindred souls,
sometimes causing confusion and misunderstanding;
I will come into the new year,
lower in profile, slower to eagerness
and anticipating life changes next year,
somewhat of an about face; more facing inward,
and examining the mirror'd reflection
in quiet contemplation
with eager eyes embrace
the lovely poem and the lovely author,
over eager in my enthusiasm,
oft mistook, end result, forsook,
if my embrace was misunderstood,
accept this apology with better grace
ample changes prophesied for the coming year;
so all is well if I look to the within for inspiration,
for tumult aplenty foreseen
laid low? lay low...
and
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
Who is this man of which you speak
A hallow man, with a set of theatrical masks
That project grotesque shadows upon the world
A monster of evil, a creature ,yes a creature
Whose moral viciousness is vividly stamped
On his twisted body who believes
He has been cruelly cheated by dissembling nature
Yet has with skill a fathomless malice fashioned
Aye and calls for the closing of ears
To the admonitions of conscience
And to vicious energies of hate and ambition
Yes and gives to the eyes coordinates locating an illusion
Whilst he would still the lips with distance
That evaporates in a poignant lament
Of shrouds and gaping graves
Of deformed and emaciated children
Forced to hide in the darkness
The darkness that shadows his words and actions
Gives to us the unbearable fear of abandonment
That would mutate and change places
With the frequent futility of human endeavor
Who is the man of which you speak
It is a man who tosses pebbles
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Every facet within what you’re about to create
blooms from your consciousness, your subconsciousness
your ego, your mind, your heart
But where are those elements planted?
Where are they rooted?
They are rooted within:
your ethnocentric illusions
your lived reality
your privilege, your pleasure, your pain
your abilities, your disabilities
your socioeconomic status: have and/or havenot
your fluency, your empathy, your sense of humour
your vices and your storytelling devices
Now we've got some roots, what are we going to grow?
Let’s begin by observing, using our senses
Maybe, let’s use our eyes
Consider, the reality of how we see and sense the world
Is different for each and every one of us
Everything is tempered by the lens we use
Which is informed through the roots of our synapses
Which empirically flow from the subjective ground
On which we stand
And what does this have to do with poetry?
What you describe in your poem,
Is an interpretation of what you see (and feel)
Interesting poetry comes when
there is exploring to do
It is a poet’s imperative to
Explore the edges
Out past the boundaries of the visual and audible spectrum
If we were fish poet’s
Would we write poetry about water?
I like to toy with my teenagers on occasion
So I asked my son the other day, what his worldview was?
And I have been enjoying the vacuous silence ever since
To be fair, I have been asking myself the same question for many years
And this might have been the inciting incident leading me to storytelling
As we began this journey together, it was stated that
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Can you describe your context?
Let me attempt to describe mine:
Here I am on the stage in this ocean of air
At the Owl Acoustic Lounge
On a Wednesday night in May
Popping air with rhythm, nuance, and a certain je ne ce quoi
Although this poem is not objectively true
Let me attempt to share that
this poem blooms from my developing cosmology
From the overtures of my Overself;
from the undercurrents of the Monomyth,
From my ***** and through my groans of intercession
This poem blooms from oblivion
Threading through philosophy, to worldview, and into a budding cosmology
For myself:
Worldview fell away when I found cosmology while reconnecting with the night sky
That night sky took me places while grounding me concurrently in inner spaces
Where locating self flows into meta-cognitive health,
Well ... that is something to write about
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 8:25 PM UTC
No regret, on the way I was raised.
Even if back in the day spanking was the thing.
It stopped me from trying to get my way.
My parents was firm.
My parents was stern.
And that discipline made me, who I am today.
Yes, I have no regrets to regret about my youth.
I did the usual stupid things that most kids still do today.
Except, we probably was more creative and imaginable then.
Especially when playing cowboys and Indians.
Just to hear one of your friends claim, they are Superman.
Which ruin everything.
Or tearing apart a good tricycle just to make your own go cart.
Or locating old doors to make your own tree house.
Computer games to us, was simply using your brain.
And having teachers really teach school skills to us.
Not giving you books and turning you on your own.
And not comprehending the subjects matter at hand.
In my youth, we mostly knew all the neighbors by name.
Even the mailman, as they was called then.
Even the neighborhood assigned police officer.
We knew not to create disturbance at school.
This was one of the vital parent's golden rule.
Then many parents was friends of the teachers.
And all they had to do was called.
Just maybe, this is what's so similar today?
Some kids, with modern parents still don't get their way.
Yes, no regret I have.
Respect and manners was, what you're judged by?
It simply was a representation of your parents too.
Many knew this as the God living truth.
Who doesn't remember saying your prayers on your knees as night?
You was taught God plays a very priority in your life.
No regret, I have.
If they was living today.
I still select to be raise that way.
Friends would do the same thing too.
Our parents was much respected by our friends.
Even if many was free babysitters.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 7:33 AM UTC
Peace of mind,
Let it grind,
Huffing through my sentiments,
No words left behind
You said you're fathomless,
A riddle and meaningful,
High objections, genuine rejections
How come you make me stutter like a fool?
I want my poems to bit,
Vigorous and keen to have teeth,
So the venom in each letter shall sink in---
To your skin, may heap
You said you're logic
Then where's your common sense?
Clearly, you're imperceptive,
Because I know how you're tensed
Attempting to toss me a bullet of pressure,
Locating the verge of anxiety
You're none of the amenable people,
Who would understand and know its variety
Sugarcoated scars and deep comprehension
Thin head's blurry, that's why you have complications
No offense though---
Keep your mouth on line, you half presented amateur
Go ahead and be conceited like an apathetic's chimes
But honestly, at all, you don't even have a
Peace of mind
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
in this 2012 year
elevating consciousness
our illusive challenge..
an evolution signpost
on a circuitous road..
reaching this marker
finding new directions
depends on awareness..
locating our place
right here and right now..
worthy guides there are
who tell us
we are perched
on a precarious ledge
between light and shade..
other names suffice
for this place
might we say
blessing and curse aka.. (?)
then our guides say..
don't curse the shade
don't curse the curse..
a startling discovery
to be made
in each her own way..
at last she absorbs
the sought for blessing
during a frightening search..
all along disguised
as the accursed curse... (?)
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
The miracles was in locating you.
You're my blessing.
The temptations were staying devoted to you.
You're my treasure.
The supreme thing about you.
You're wonder, sweet and true.
There's no one greater than you.
You're my blessing.
There's no journey I have travel that didn't involve you.
You're my lover.
You deserve to be whereever I go
You're my treasure.
You will forever be my blessing.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
*Trying to en-vision
a group's Self..
A profound necessity:
preserve at once
Each and All..
locating similarity
sensing the group's
one Name..
yet relish each
difference surprise..
two dimensions
each member
in Awareness
should own..
Still insufficient
the mapping above..
departure is next..
find our location
this morning
or at nightfall
this very moment..
A new venture
just Now begins..
paths in Ocean's
oneness..
on each path
Awareness remains...*
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
Setting his sights toward his future as each day goes by observing what's in front of him, as night fall the nostalgia of the twilight his reminiscing has become grim.
Desperately musing his heart ache elaborated thought running away, anxiety takes over heartbeat racing feeling rigid the poet mind aflutter knowing she doesn't play.
Lasting through the evening can't think straight confuse while pacing all night, his heart ache vanishes his cognitive behavior says it will be alright.
For her writting is this poets passion recollecting his once love his tears begins to form miniature lakes, attempting to penetrate her superbia her shielded heart won't break.
She's whom he gave his bleeding heart to is miserable and shrew, but the feelings aren't mutual only if she knew.
Needing her the most, the animosity flows through her veins, locating that perpetual love has gone in vain.
Purposing a toast, alcohol beverage she prognosticate his love, a constructive hoax.
Like pleasant day a cool breeze of the ocean wind, cold nor hot people going about hoping the day won't end. Struck with calamity a tsunami brings misery, not how, but when.
Chaotic, with frustration. Is it possible to lurer her back? Fishing for hours she ignores his bait, slapping it away. Even if you love someone set it free, it won't come back he was led astray.
Mistreated, highjacked of his kindness for weakness his fears are calm, no pain he simply removed it by wiping the tears with his palm.
Damage control dumping all they had in a black hole, a perplex situation a vexatious child the Hyde in her he hated her role.
A love crushed by her ferocious jealous and controlled demented mind, a poetic justice of her defined.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 4:14 AM UTC
When the wind whispers o'er the prairie
When the grass swells like the tide
When old leathers mew as they tend to do
When they stretch the fresh rawhide
When the sound of cowboy's jingling spurs
Across the canyons ring
When the cattle bawl their haunting call
These are the sounds of spring
And every spring is round-up time
When cowboys earn their pay
Gathering herds together
And locating every stray
This is a time legends are born
As heroes come to light
In stories cowboys love to tell
Around campfires at night
When cowboys die along the trail
Few monuments are found
They're often buried where they fell
Pushing their herds to town
And though no funeral may prevail
To honor one who rode
New songs and ballads may arise
For that's the cowboy's code
And Mistrels sing in stories true
Plucked on rusty guitars
New tales of cowboy heroes
At rest beneath the stars
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 5:03 PM UTC
a new thought is swimming
inside my cranium fishbowl
I see the colors swirling like
little koi in a man made pond
I am not allowed to touch
Should I slam my head against the
table?
Should I let the liquid spread?
or
should I quietly balance
locating my center of gravity
they say there is no use
crying over spilled...
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
Your Randomness amazes me; you are the primal spark.
The Devil’s in the details for those of us who hunt the quark.
The particles accelerate around Cern’s race course track,
Then collide in a burst like fireworks that quickly fades to black.
One cannot really “see “a quark, those infinitesimal little things.
It is by their “works” we know them as they race around our ring.
At times it can be tedious, like counting angels on a pin
But finding basic particles is its own reward, my friend.
It’s hard to wrap your mind around the uncertainty within.
We can either know location or the direction of the spin.
Notions of causation must be checked at the front door
For bi locating particles don’t follow Newton’s laws!
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
I am having a hard time taking care of myself.
I'm not eating, I'm cutting, I'm beating myself down.
I am having a hard time believing that I am worth anything to anyone.
*The shame of the abuse and the weight of carrying secrets
is messing with my mind. It's distorting my thoughts.*
I am having a hard time locating God's spirit in me right now.
*How many challenges can I possibly face
before I crumble under the pressure?
I feel lost.*
I am having a hard time wanting to keep going on this path.
I'm tired. I want to rest.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
‘That day’, bed held, quiet, noisy in my ear,
elongated, like aeroplane entrails, skyward.
You were not embarking on any holiday I knew,
I caught your final sigh out of this life.
Cards pressed to chest, pupils tucked in.
“Is that blue or green?” you said, squinting,
your dealt cards outstretched toward me,
“Uno” you shouted, laughed, we did, you did.
Multi coloured swap shop, ripe mosaic fruits,
a smile of hearts. In the back room, fire flickering,
news parting my lips, tongued syllables locating
your body language........between proud arm rests.
Summer, warm, brown faded wooden bench
caught my skirt in its skin, splintered my hand.
Chasing, breathy, laughing, heat haze flooded
rosy cheeks.......we watched.
Hopscotching along without care; you told the
tale, you said... “Your cardy was swinging in the air”
you frantic, too frantic for weighty words,
worry warrior stamped across your forehead.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
the architecture: our design, our formulation
~
**we design as we go along.
plans develop themselves organically.
somehow, we formalize, organize spontaneity.
learning-as-we-go, ourselves teaching each other’s selfs.
celebrating, locating our tangent intersections,
plotting points on the X Y axes of us.
labelling our quadrants,
past, now, planned but yet-to-be,
the unknown unknowns,
all upon blue lined graph skins.
a formula of a celebrated curvature, two unknowns, solvable, we are quadratic.
the precise precious precarious solution,
a single square root,
that intuits the wee of our
innate
relationship.
our solution is annotated for all
mathematicians as the**
square root of us.
2/18/20
6:25am
somewhere in the internals
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC