"monolith" poems
I've always been in place,
in situ
Maybe (just maybe) ...
I'm sui generis?
When my lifeline intersected with spacetime on this continuum
I found myself moving toward a collision course with duality and non-duality
Moving towards a zero-point
What are we talking about?
Nothing (Rafelski & Muller, 1985)
As a geographer, the mimetic expression was dualistic
As one plane flowed through another;
as fiat lux flowed through Medicine Rock
I found wisdom
I further explored the duality @ this place
(also known as University of Lethbridge)
The U of L is an interesting duck
It walks like an Albertan university
It talks like an Albertan university
But one of these things is certainly not like the other
The U of L got its chops as a house of learning for the Liberal Arts
Follow those roots and you'll see conduits to another spacetime known as UCBerkley
U of L memetics share material memories from the birth of the Free Speech Movement (1964)
And as Arthur Erickson drafted up his plans for Canada's centennial gift to the Province of Alberta, I'm sure he would have been partaking in the pleasures of this particular spacetime
I'm sure at the very least that he was listening to Hendrix wax on about Castles
As Erickson designed this modernistic monolith called University Hall
There were influences such as Arthur C. Clarke and his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
He was certainly knowledgeable of the Blackfoot stories of the Old Man
And of course as an architect he would be versed in gravity and how built structures on a slope tend to creep toward base-level
Strange but true, Erickson's first degree was in foreign languages
So what I see is Canada's premier architect wrote a poem for us in 1968
In a foreign language
And that poem would be expressed over the next forty to fifty years
Some of those primary poetic elements were:
Berkley, California
Hippie Movement
Creep (or gravity)
Base level
Blackfoot creation stories of the Old Man
Jimi Hendrix poetry and his savage musical genius
"and so castle's made of sand melt into the sea, eventually."
So let's reinterpret that line to be more U of L centric
(through my glossy apertures)
"and so monolith's made by man melt back into god eventually."
........ ....... ...... ..... ..... .... ... .. . zero~point . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
I imagine you
ever blooming
ever radiant
ne'er had you budded
nor will you wilt
poise pristine
artful to the letter
my memories of you
shall ne'er
idle in memoriam
they are
crisp and clear as daybreak
the sight of you breaks me open
not the raging flow of magma
nor the rushing of a river
neither the shooting of a star
ne'er the passing of time itself
what flows from me is pure
as it must be to be worthy
of your charm and wit and passion
my veins pulse with imbibed inspiration
I drink you in like forests drink the universe
slow and gentle
patient and careful
deep thirsts masked by soft touch
lust of your form masked by song
for your beauty is lyric personified
you are desire's orchestra
a tempest of pleasure
a monolith of midnight
towering with grace
casting shadows that embrace
long, oh, long I wait
in the dark
of the folds of your flower
caressed by your mercy
your silken petals soothe me
as I dream
as I pine
for a taste sure to be sweeter
than the bitter chaste of loneliness...
Oct 18, 2022
Oct 18, 2022 at 10:37 PM UTC
Heavy and laboured the air permeates within
Coursing through the maze of tunnels.
Undeterred of where stone ends and rock would begin
Survival that drives to fill its channels.
Slow rumble that ignites the need to beat
Awaken functions both lacklustre and listless
The engine behind these dread ridden feet
Drag its load through mundane tasks emotionless.
At the core there resides the truest of stones
A jewel of sheer rarity that inspires wonder
Breathes life selflessly into dead broken bones
It throbs and ebbs with silent subtle power.
Claimed it and perched it deep on a pedestal
Protected it like it's the one and only source
It's what that keeps us sane and tolerable
It's what that pulls us through our course.
Whenever I think of if this gem would last
This monolith of a heart that I prop up *****
Stands steadfast hopeful of the light it'd cast
We have learnt so much of it to know that it is perfect.
You are perfect...
.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
I was a no name worker bee
Yet I had a million bees all working for me
I was a caryatid, house wife, never had the life of a queen
Stole my honey from the wasps with the wax in their wings
I was a comatose burn victim
I could hear the nurses whisper sanctum sanctorum!
They fed me nutrients and cleaned my ******
They either didn’t care or they didn’t think I could hear them
I was alive when the lightning struck
But I was dead by second, to survive my luck
I wasn’t anything special
I was a mass produced individual
They had no names worth knowing
They had no future where they were going
And I never thought twice about what I did
The quiet megalomania of a caryatid
And then my patience turned to rampage
I took a page from Genghis Khan
I wanted the roaches gone
I hatched suburban escape plans
Because my angst was delayed
A generation late & afraid
Now in the presence of the gods and goddesses
And in the confidence of infinite this is
Another power grab a singularity
Another force to fight reverse polarity
I’m all about the lust and not the wander
I am the lingering presence of a long goner
I’m here to clarify the **** of daughters
The spider stink in the breath of fire
If we could **** for utility instead of a performance to showcase our species’ ability
Then we’d be hunted by viruses
The gods and goddesses with the instinct to extinct humanity
Chaos is healthy, its part of reality, essential to symmetry, like night is to day
When life is weighed on a pendulum
Like sanctum sanctorum
The delicate faberge
There isn’t anything to bother with on top of the monolith
I’m shouting mantras from the mountain peak
There isn’t any time to practice with a modern creation myth
A lullaby in a language I don’t speak
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
They carved a monument out of stone
Made it stand so proud,
Down by the coast,
Fishermen drowned.
They erected a monolith,
In the heart of town.
For local fallen lads,
In bitter conflicts.
They laid a stone flat,
At pit entrance where,
Miners had gone one morn.
Never to return.
A brother worked that boat.
An uncle fell in that war.
A father left down the pit.
A family’s history drawn
By sorrow and tragedy.
© Nick Strong 2014
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
People wish to be settled. Only as long as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.
-- Thoreau
My life has been
the instrument
for a mouth
I have never seen,
breathing wind
which comes
from I know not
where,
arranging and changing
my moods,
so as to make
an opening
for his voice.
Or hers.
Muse, White Goddess
mother with invisible
milk,
androgynous god
in whose grip
I struggle,
turning this way and that,
believing that I chart
my life,
my loves,
when in fact
it is she, he,
who charts them--
all for the sake
of some
as yet unwritten poem.
Twisting in the wind,
twisting like a pirate
dangling in a cage
from a high seawall,
the wind whips
through my bones
making an instrument,
my back a xylophone,
my *** a triangle
chiming,
my lips stretched tight
as drumskins,
I no longer care
who is playing me,
but fear
makes the hairs
stand up
on the backs
of my hands
when I think
that she may stop.
And yet I long
for peace
as fervently as you do--
the sweet connubial bliss
that admits no
turbulence,
the settled life
that defeats poetry,
the hearth before which
children play--
not poets' children,
ragtag, neurotic, demon-ridden,
but the apple-cheeked children
of the bourgeoisie.
My daughter dreams
of peace
as I do:
marriage, proper house,
proper husband,
nourishing dreamless
***
love like a hot toddy,
or an apple pie.
But the muse
has other plans
for me
and you.
Puppet mistress,
dangling us
on this dark proscenium,
pulling our strings,
blowing us
toward Cornwall,
toward Venice, toward Delphi,
toward some lurching
counterpane,
a tent upheld
by one throbbing
blood-drenched pole--
her pen, her pencil,
the monolith
we worship,
underneath
the gleaming moon.
2.3k
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.
magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance
something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."
maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.
rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.
a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -
catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.
today's paper reads:
"Palace hits hiring
of **** dancers"
fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.
we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.
squinting to look at
no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
in the depth of loose pockets,
desperate for home.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
Why are you acting as rabbit
when you could howl like a wolf?
You’re always hiding. Always regressing.
Never really going anywhere.
You channel these thoughts, yes. You manifest them. On a page.
On a stage. Like a smiling circus clown,
like a trapeze artist, flying, stumbling
through the realm of obscurity. A forgotten juggle. A lost tape.
It does not matter.
Why?
Why do you do these things?
Why are you so scared?
They are not grand thoughts. They are not ideas
meant to change.
They are private insights. Jittery. A look into the eyes of some scared soul.
Your poems are minutiae, insignificant details. They are
the trembling lip. They are the shaking hand. The confused daze.
They do not know who they are,
but they know that they are small.
You want to be a monolith, but you refuse to build,
you refuse to haul the black stones. You do not have the power.
You are a caricature. You are as scared as Paris,
as two-faced as Iscariot- you could kiss with passion.
You could rule with love. But you bow out. You take
responsibilities with you, and slink into the dirt you
arose from. You are clay. You are dust.
Why are you dust? You don’t have to be.
Why aren’t you angry- you should be roaring!
Why are you quiet- you should be singing, singing
with the cicadas- chirping with the birds,
howling with the wolves; you should join the tumult,
the uproar;
but you sit. You play with your toys like a petulant child
and scream when they break. That’s the only noise you ever make.
You could be a wolf. You don’t have to be the prey.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
There's Midnight Ravens
along the telephone
wire.
Big black suckers
with deep dark
eyes that
see death
before it comes.
These hosts
of the end
pay me no mind
as I pass beneath
their roost.
They rudely go
about their
Raven buisness,
yelling and
******** their way
into the morning.
An unrelenting
bark drums
on from
behind
a white painted
fence.
An insane sound
like an alarm that
no one will turn
off.
I step over a small
cities worth of
ants who are
scrambling
around a crack
in the
sidewalk
clogged with
more frantic
ants.
The great flood
has arrived
in the form of
a timed sprinkler.
And all of
the soldiers
have abandoned
the Queen.
It's early morning
The air has
yet to be
choked out
by the
diesel fuel
and needless
emissions that will
soon began to
smother the
city
.
The faint smell
of fresh fish
makes its way
up the city
blocks from
the waterfront
below.
Old Italian and
Slavic women
stand outside
in their
long day time
night gowns
smoking cigarettes
while watering
the concrete.
I enter the
alley way ,
the smell of
***** diapers,
cheap
laundry detergent
and too
many children
surround an
apartment complex.
As I passed I came
upon the Black Princess
of these streets.
The wisest and
surest of them all
crosses my path.
Her tail held high
and strong,
striding care free,
she looks at me
with her
emerald eyes
and yawns.
She stops near a row
of trashcans that
are lined
up looking like
a modern
day monolith.
She laps at her
paw with slow,
long, lazy
licks as I
pass.
She again fixes me
with those marble green
eyes and lets me
know without
saying a word.
That the alley cat kills
for fun.
Ignores all Gods
by choice
and laughs
at our attempts
to tame it.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
Even this latter
lingering emotionality
will vanish somehow,
masked behind an affable reflection,
but already collapsed
into a black hole.
Bigger and bigger.
Mastery of nothingness
in satisfying myself
as mute, stripped leaves
observing their art
of turning into glow of warmth.
Autumn’s heredity.
Fierce hyperbole is Melancholy,
remote and severe sixth sense,
obsidian monolith
in this too mild dimension.
Melodrama of light
is the vacuum of such empirism
saturated ad nauseum
by the ceaseless delay
of the most natural
and contemptuous ease.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
What your eyes see are things that your mind cannot comprehend
Beware the blasted wastes beneath the light of the frozen moon
Fields of flame full of pasts and futures of endless unborn dead
You gaze upon an expanse that tears at your soul
This is the place where all things come to their end it seems
Hope not to find shade under The True Liar’s Monolith--ruins will remain of you too
Oh the hubris of man who tries to map the whimsy of the gods
Dancing landmarks
On the page
Never coming
To rest twice in the same place
At the center of the maze sits the changer of ways
created and sustained by desire
The Architect of Fate
“I could let you wander for eternity with your shattered mind, but that’s not my plan for you.”
“You are a drop in a sea of thought, locked in mortality, but as long as humanity has hope I will be here.”
“Go now, and make waves; I will be watching.”
Cast from the hidden library of chattering pages and numberless faces, he leaves the great plotter’s realm of chaos
With a mind still whole--new knowledge and memories buried deep
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
I kept a screen
Before my mind,
To re-run clips
Of your fine lines.
Glad for new-age technology,
The IMAX use of 3D;
I'll use the big screen monolith
To screen the edit
Of your breadth and width.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
A stone monolith sits in the middle of a frozen field. It has seen many a eon, many civilizations fall and rise, many many years in it's cold position. Its face once that of a mighty god or a worshiped king, is all that remains. It's chiseled grimace forever juxtaposed on its stony countenance. Throughout its still existence, this grimace never disappears. All times will this grimace will endure.
The snow falls down over its impenetrable skull. It bears no notice, only surreal patience, as it slowly awaits oblivion. Oblivion! All its thoughtless mind are set on it, forever counting the days it does not know with numbers it does not know. There is no comfort here. All is frozen, all is cold. It had never chosen to lay here, yet lay here it must.
Eternally till it is dust, it is counting with numbers it does not know the days it does not know. It reminiscences on past events it witnessed, but does not recall. The wars, the disasters and the plagues.... It has bared through all with the same grimace as the creatures subjected to the horrors kneeled before it in reverence, offering it sacrifices and soul. It towered above these pitiful creatures, it watched with eyes that do not see as they trembled in its wake, following orders it did not speak. Ignoring prayers it did not hear.
So obediently did these creatures obey what it did not say! Dutifully did they destroy their own and all around them. Faithfully did they create this ****** field of barren nothingness, thee circumspect watchers of the monolith's will. An empty scourge to what once was. Beautiful landscapes of yesteryear now turned from sprawling green to turn into frozen ash, forever recounting the final moments of misery on this lifeless realm, a misery that surrounded the monolith in its final days. Consistently reflecting off of its stone grimace before it all faded away with the last life.
As the eternal years past and the amaranthine smog lies overhead, the monolith sits in the middle of a frozen field. There is no comfort here. The snow has turned to thermonuclear ash years ago. All is frozen, all is cold. It had never chosen to lay here, yet lay here it must.
Quietly it does. Frozen in place, in a frozen field where nothing grows. The strong face of monolith is all that remains. The face surveys the empty landscape before it forevermore.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
dude
they have this
giant blue
monolith
in their
bathroom
no i wasn't
high, maybe
sugar high
becca's
oma kept
offering me
cookies
like i was a
monster that
needed
sating
eventually
i was
screaming
at her:
no, oma, i
don't want
any more ****
cookies
not the
point, dude,
the monolith, you
shoulda seen this
thing i wanted to
worship it that's
how awesome it
was
becca said it
was modern art or some
**** maybe its
their god but then
why would
they put it in their
bathroom?
i guess if
you really love
somebody
you will let them
see you
*** smell your
****
thats true love
man
becca
come into the
bathroom
with me
becca
baby
we're going to
church
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
If rumors were to be believed, five seconds of gaze into her deep brown eyes could ensnare the wisest of all souls. Could turn them into a monolith of indiscretion; with only remnant of an evidence left behind in the slithering echo of a misdemeanor. As legends go, the mutinous tresses of her hair, with each twist of chestnut curls, inspire the stirring nethers of a churning cerulean sea. On face of what lies as the joy of a crescent enveloped by locks of cloud, her smile could set a storm across the eye of mind. And fill the flickering moment of acquaintance with eternal nostalgia ; the helplessness of an infinitely profound longing with an addicting desire to offend the very fabric of life itself.
If rumors were to be believed, the sky crashed its soul into the foxy eyes of an enchantress; and although she was no Medusa, it still turned to stone.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith
past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors -
through the automatic glass doors of persuasion
up the revolving stairs of many stairs
sail by the portly security guard
(who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash)
along the imitation marble airstrip
passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence
toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts
that take the well heeled to their desired destinations
without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag
and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes
and I sit people watching,
writing this poem on a borrowed napkin
with a discarded betting shop pen
amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets
faced with a thousand fast food offerings
and gaudy coloured tables and chairs
littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries
and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery
under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark
lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting
and giant Art Deco toothbrushes
and 30 foot wiggly mirrors
and stretched rhombus sails
acting as a blanket barrier
to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world
somewhere between
KFC and Burger King.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
From the days I've always held your hands
To every drop from the sorrowful
waterfall
From beautiful paleness to crimson illness
Night to day
Sunlight ray
Love like rich soil
Hollowness finally at bay
Beautiful like a porcelain doll
Like a sunset from a mountain fall
Memories of a blissful past
Emotions sustained like an icefall
At long last
My truly dearest...
From the summer breeze
To the autumn fall
The winter night
An endless darkness
I wish to see the light
Pain from a raven's claw
forceful despair
As if it was divine law
Distastefulness
From a tainted pear
It's too much to bare...
As the last leaf falls from the oak tree
Only a skeletal structure remains
From its former beauty
A monolith of youthful & elderly
Like funeral roses
Dying in many poses
Red scarlet child
As the last petal falls
One last breath
At long last death
Mourning rainfall
Soft spoken lullabies from the wind
Lamenting days that ceases to
exist anymore...
Upon the ocean shore
Whispers of the waking dead
Midnight blue moonlight
Symphonies from the ocean floor
Alone at last
With my truly dearest
Ruby diamond eyes
No more frightened cries
Promise me you'll never leave again
Promise me you'll always stay
forever...
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 8:16 AM UTC
Seagulls hit the horizon's backboard
off the sands of Pacific Beach.
In my lungs breakers burn out
some forty feet from shore.
They will return.
This jetty'd be a monolith
if this ocean were a sky.
Silt on this deserted
coast scene is encumbered by
bits of driftwood and sun-bleached glass.
The living in this town
are accustomed to the weight. And
tidepools are their hearts:
shallow, mossy, little things
fending for breathe.
This jetty'd be a monolith
if this ocean were a sky.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
No monophonic masterpiece
Sung on a monorail
In monotone with MSG
That's monosodium glutamate
I say that monotonously
A monoplane monopoly
A monomaniac with monomania
A monocle for monoculars
A monograph of monogamy
Monocetyledons- plants with single seeds
A monolith that's monogramed and monochromatic
You know the monosyllable of monotheism as fact
There is no monomial for mononucleosis
Are eggs mononuclear?
Monoxide just sounds dangerous
I have a monolingual term for mono
It's bad so please don't catch it
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
she takes a pull of
her Parliament,
face painted in
in fleeting ochre;
an ancient star dying
far from me.
"*i was alive once and i swore
i glimpsed the storm in
the laughter*"
we write each other's names
on our palms and lovingly watch
the ink fade as we drink from
them.
that was the plan.
plans end the same as the rest of it;
vestigial and resentful in their silence.
you said your grin was
that of a misfit.
i said your grin lent
dimensions the intent
to rip open.
i meant it,
but i said it just to see it.
"...reasons. things can have many..."
stealing smoke from a Parliament,
that old foolish ochre
skirmishes with night,
i remember that i'll remember the hospice stint intimacy fondly
when i splinter infinitely through dimensional rifts in that moment
you howled at the moon with the
earth dangling from your neck.
"*the wild hunt was a horrible
film, but it was our horrible film*"
you didn't even notice me
dissolving into the monolith
and i admire the honesty of that.
we can speculate about what the
next life's masks conceal when
we get there.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
Rocks know a lot more about time than clocks
Drive to the top of a mountain
Cinnamon gum
Noseblood
And rocks a lot older than clocks
Tell the older us we say hello
I am stuck between red rocks and a very hard place
Rockclimbing to rockbottom
I am a time hunter, rock hunter, pigeon hunter
(Let me tell you something about pigeon hunting:
Shooting clay pigeons isn’t as much fun when the pigeons aren’t clay
and their bodies shatter in midair like pomegranates in September
with red jewels sprinkling the sandstones
the sedimentary clouds and the fastfood signs)
Remember that time I tattooed the sky?
I wrote “time is a l.e.d. light” in a sacred heart
between the stars and the freckles and the ladybugs
none of their mothers were thrilled
Now I know time is a rock, a very heavy rock
A rock is a star, a star is a rock
And me? I am a rockstar
But I have all timers. Alzheimer's? No. ALL TIMERS
and a monolith growing on my sternum
Firecrackers. That’s what I wanted to talk about.
And when I say firecracker I mean fireworks
the way fire works his way between me, time and a rock
What is it with rocks?
Rock and roll
Rocked by doubt and rolled by time
Rock my world, please
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
Tango like there is ****** no gravity,
Fading up into the winds of levity.
Felt the world's stories on my shoulders,
'Tween Heaven and Hell, an epic I tell.
Smitten, in a flash, she deftly kissed me,
A smooch of death, the fragrance of tea.
Spying the end is to be in heavy debt,
To the unseen origin, now of inspect.
Vexed for larcenous dogs stole my nova,
Patience of the Everest; pressured lava,
Toward the high noon sun, soaring too fast,
Warming our visage, winds behind a full mast.
Colorful beams from heights of the precipice,
The monolith painting chromatic auspices,
Yet the churning oceans voice their unrest,
Against shields of Earth, the Hydra will test.
I can hear the green, caressed by a breeze,
Through the wet looking glass, I was seized.
A brazen gasp of life lifts the starry shroud,
Swim through the maze of a microcosmic cloud.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 3:15 PM UTC