"microcosmos" poems
A composer
of the stars,
& astronaut
of dreams,
the unsung
swan of the
night, who
draws the
paintings
of her
thoughts,
the clouds
of dandelions
fields forever
in reverie,
her sigh settles
the seas of
lilac dreams,
as music
plays, she
enjoys the
indigo hues
of a bohemian
way of life,
and every
person
on this
earth is,
in their own
way, an
eccentric
of their
own hue,
upon the
painting of
life in the
microcosmos
to the lights
beyond, one
possesses
the traveler
in the chest,
a seeker of
the secret,
unrevealed
revelations,
a hidden
lover of
truth,
a flower
always
in perpetual
rebirth,
the secret
dancer
of the
night,
musing
upon the
wisdom
of how
every
human
holds the
aubade
within the
intricacy
of their
silver
scales,
in the
deeper
tides
of eyes
meeting
to become
one in the
balladry
of being
within each
other’s gaze,
for eyes reveal
the drifters,
who sail in
the ocean
of words
and catch
her star-dew,
where she
hears the
hidden,
secluded
symphonies,
they reveal
the lights
of their
own as
time, the
mysterious
one, flows
her fabric
and they
grow closer
to one, she
watches
upon them
unfolding,
as she
opens
her wings,
they close
their eyes,
when two
had once
seeked
to be other
than the
truth of self,
from their
chests are
opening
butterflies,
they awaken
in their
cocoon,
awaiting
the voyage
to the
moon,
the poet
sits by his
window,
and softly
sung “all of
what the
eyes see
in bloom
is poetry”
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
Listless.
the psychology of a social construct so easily broken down.
cracks so exposed and well worn wedges do pleasures deeds.
electromagnetic synapses delving into the degree of damage.
Prose for ill minds comes in droves and withholds no force.
fates memory holds in high regard the lasting forgotten.
drowned stone fire pits lost within reflections craters
Tis so easily tapped through wayward degrading honesty
neither gasp nor exclaim as treacherous glare busts horizons
Proclaim righteousness for the still air of true possibilities
crushing microcosmos with known unfounded pestilence
Flare and stone berate the cold states of spectrum reach
Reminders on the dust tails of impact praise residing
well woven whispers dilute the hollow hold resonating
but of course destruction impact anguish abides
but of course destruction. sculptors require fire.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
*concerning an article in the sunday times, titled baited, 13 - 16 year old girls, a mix of cyberbullying, revenge **** & creepshots... ah... here comes lady burqa, to set the standard of civilised behaviour... now... i can't agree that islamophobia exists... but sure-shit i can testify to a burqa-phobia... hell! i can even attest to a niqab-phobia, and to be honest... that, that is a reasonable phobia... let's use the proper terms, please! anyway... regarding this baiting... oh man, these ***** ought to have known better, as those taking the selfies... why? because i'm starting to think that people take more photographs, than actually blink with their eyes... whatever happened to the mirror?*
some people strive for ambitious lives,
head over heels types,
the ones in microcosmos of
their own ***
me? i, just, want, my, life,
to represent, the lazy consistency
of a sunday...
for my life to be as busy as...
sunday traffic;
it's not a self-doubt that's plaguing me,
i'm not an automaton yet,
but with that i wonder:
if they have all the hormones and
chemical compounds excavated
to represent love, which ones are
the ones to represent doubt?
doubt? oh, those minor "panic-attacks",
the fun bits of being alive
living inside the dynamism
of uncertainity...
i was ambitious once - now?
well, i know i stop enjoying
fiendish sudoku puzzles, and rest
my case on the difficult tier...
there's no point striving:
if you don't enjoy it -
as harsh as it might sound -
poetry will always speak to me in
the tongue of impromptu -
with eyes of lightning flashes -
as long as it remains in this state -
i'll be content -
i can't imagine a novel,
the tedium of it, the constipation -
the rewriting, the 2 to 3 years -
with the only merit attached to a novel
is solely based on how long
it took to be written...
constipated / frustrated
novelists, i can image...
on the other hand...
it's quiet easy to imagine ******
snowflake poets too.
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
No fue jamás mejor aquello.
Esto de ahora es doloroso;
pero el dolor nos hace hombres
y ya ninguno estamos solos.
Alto fue el precio que pagamos:
miseria y llanto de los ojos,
nuestros mejores años verdes
y nuestros sueños más hermosos.
Porque nacimos bajo el signo
del cerebro. Pero ya todo
se vino a tierra una mañana.
Lo devastó un viento glorioso,
y somos ruinas o cimientos,
algo inconcreto, algo borroso:
tronco cortado a ras de tierra,
que nadie sabe que fue tronco.
Predestinados para sabios,
para teóricos,
nos enseñaron muchas cosas
conceptualmente. Y como a un pozo
de agua estancada y silenciosa,
fuimos echando piedras, lodo,
trozos inútiles de muerte,
mármoles rotos.
Ahora no vemos sobre el agua
El paisaje que se alza en torno.
Predestinados para sabios,
para teóricos,
conoceríamos la vida
sólo a través del microscopio,
y nuestro amigo, nuestro hermano,
serían entes, microcosmos,
nombres velados, sin sentido,
abstracciones…
Pero ya todo
se vino a tierra una mañana.
Lo devastó un viento glorioso.
Se desbordó un día la vida,
nos tornó locos,
y les pusimos a las cosas
nuevos nombres. Y el vino rojo
de la sangre, y el agua pálida
del llanto, el sol majestuoso
del mediodía de verano
fueron más que simples fenómenos,
abstracciones, malabarismos
de los teóricos.
Éramos hombres, y el de enfrente,
aquel que hablaba con nosotros,
de su tiempo, de nuestro tiempo,
no era un ente ni un microcosmos.
El que sufría, el que gritaba
o lloraba por estar solo;
el que durmió sobre la hierba
las noches húmedas de otoño
a nuestro lado, alma con alma,
hombro con hombro,
aquél, cegado por la tierra
que nos echaban a los ojos;
aquél que anduvo por los campos
solitario, pisando odios,
era un hombre de carne y hueso
como nosotros.
…
Es extraño. Noches y días
se suceden. Seguimos solos
como unos árboles raquíticos
en la cima de un monte. Pozos
semicegados. (Pero el agua,
invisible para los ojos,
como una remota esperanza
suena en el fondo.)
Es triste alzarse de uno mismo,
poner los ojos en el rostro
de los hombres que han de venir
tras de nosotros,
que no sabrán que entre los árboles,
sobre la hierba, en el mar hondo,
en las ciudades, en las cumbres,
hemos cantado, temblorosos
por la alegría de estar vivos.
Así pasamos, como un soplo
de brisa azul sobre la piedra.
Sin dejar rastro, como el oro
de las hojas, cuando coronan
la frente grave del otoño…
Porque no queda ni una sola
rosa plantada por nosotros.
770
i'm pretty **** sure you'd gobble this like i did, wolfish;
it's a reinvention of the original: sweet & sour...
but this is sweet & salty.
mmm...
rice noodles! rice nnn! that almost see-through
squids of tangles...
not egg noodles! not egg noodles!
rice! rice noodles!
and then we fry some bacon,
add a bit of mushrooms...
a few pinches of paprika...
and then the magic happens...
honey....
followed up by some soy sauce...
mmm, keep frying...
some pepper...
then nicely cut cherry tomatoes
to break apart the sweet from the salty with some
acidity,
and then some parsley to garnish.
woof!
went down like a storm, it probably took me less time to
down the bowl of noodles than i took to cook it...
but what an ingenious concept, rather than the classic
sweet & sour... sweet & salty...
comrade mao would have approved:
just think how simple it sounds...
it's not exactly, hoisin sauce,
honey
soy sauce
cherry tomatoes:
oh **** me... you need a buffer zone...
some sort of acidity...
if you were going to bottle it i'm sure citric salt
would do the job... but in real time? when you're actually
conjuring such a recipe? cherry tomatoes...
and no... egg noodles won't do... they're too heavy,
they won't soak up the juices... so you need the squid-like
tentacles of rice noodles... and yes, fry the concoction
in some chili infused olive oil.
a microcosmos in under 15 minutes...
the universe disappears... and the idea of a polyverse
is but a **** and a burp half an hour later.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
Noctivozmusgo insomne
del yo más yo refluido a la gris ya desieta tan médano evidencia
gorgogoteando noes que plellagan el pienso
contra las siempre contras de la posnáusea obesa
tan plurinterroído por noctívagos yoes en rompiente ante la afauce angustia
con su soñar rodado de hueco sino dado de dado ya tan dado
y su yo solo oscuro de pozo lodo adentro y microcosmos tinto por la total gristenia
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