Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Left Foot Poet Mar 2019
The Fidelity of Transmissions

”Cells, the units of life that compose our bodies, are able to make copies of themselves to help us grow, fight disease and recover from injuries. Cells have built-in mechanisms that maintain
  the fidelity of transmission  
of genetic information from one generation to the next, and to control cell division in a timely manner, allowing our bodies to build or rebuild various tissues.”

~~~
when the poetry cri de cœur grows unbearable ,
sound mystery-science calms his tumbling transcendency

alas, here too, his ears sit up straight when stumbling on a invitation to
“come write,” for hid within the science jargon, oft rests a snipers shot

redirecting the didactic mind back to the
everyman’s land where-poetry cells split,,
commanding him to delve into, visit new brain wrenching vistas
“the fidelity of transmission”
at its macro level, for science is micro-poetry,^
n’est-ce pas

~~~
when you love another
the transmission is a slow pour,
or a radical jarring,
the fidelity extremely extraordinarily variable

the loveliest unpredictable

the sip sip of eyelid kissing adoration,
the irrational irrigation of the no-space-between,
when the television remote disappears in the couch crack,
the screen, complete static, perfect complement, to a rigorous experiment of

the loveliest unpredictable

we manually conjoin fluids in her mouth’s petri dish,
stain the slide for observation,
in full Imax color observe the cells busting and doesy-do’ing over to
a new partner, where bonds of fidelity attach a partnership clause to

the loveliest unpredictable

when a child emerges, the first words are
find that remote, just kidding, first comes a comestible demand,
mother’s milk 98 degree heated,
feed me a white solution to any unanswered cell’s questions, what a

loving predictive predicate

scribble this, ****** that, change a diaper,
while debating whose baby’s assemblage resembles,
overjoyed at the experimental outcome,
proofs of the fidelity of transmission,
the outcome notated, but science demands no bias confirmation,
another test required of tissue rebuilding

the loveliest unpredictable

~~~

^postscript
for is He not laureate greatest poet of all,
developer of the scientific architecture,
inventor of varietal sunsets, moonscapes,
individualized singularity of snowflakes,
love making, gravity and the preprogrammed death
of your own cells,
etcetera etcetera etcetera
all just poetry in motion in fluidity,
ah, fidelity fidelity
fidelity
Sat., March 9, 2019
Rod E Kok Oct 2014
Memories of yesteryear
Our long walks
On moonlit paths
Not a care in world
Save for each other
Cautiously holding hands
Approaching love
Precious reminiscence
Everyday grateful
Solitude together
Hello dear reader. Today's prompt for #OctPoWriMo was to write about the moon, and how it affects us. I didn't use any of the word prompts, but the one 'feeling' prompt I used was based on the word nostalgic. Also, this poem marks the first time in this challenge that I have strayed away from FreeVerse poetry. Today's work is an acrostic. Thus, the name of the poem is Moonscapes, and the first letter of every line forms that word. Please enjoy.

Rod E. Kok
October 8, 2014
beth fwoah dream Nov 2015
the thunder of
a small bird.

a poem grows shadows
and moonscapes,

the moon,
withered sapphires,
undone,
her open windows
a thread of bright
light.
rsc May 2015
Pressure puckers &
a migraine blooms
parachute leaves looming
from my mind,
moonscapes of bare rock.
I've been waking up in a tomb again,
mouth mummified &
crusted over with drool as
my body jolts up at 6
6:45
finally 7:
I rise from the dead once more.
Yeats spoke to the Beats & he speaks to me,
feet creaking old floorboards
in a house with no internet.
"Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'"
I ate artichokes for lunch on pizza &
lost a piece of my soul down
the toilet of the coffee shop bathroom.
I came out of the womb once & I think that was enough.
I cough up brown mucus
& I'm glad I quit smoking.
One of my ribs pokes out
& picks my lunch for me,
pointing rudely,
leaving blood on the gleaming glass.
People around me discuss
the value of places they've never lived
& a homeless man sleeps with his mouth open.
I drink an infinite iced tea
that refills itself whenever I get thirsty &
a prehistoric potted plant
belches dinosaurs back into existence.
I clean my teeth to become
the princess of the salad greens,
eating olives with the tips of my fingers
the way monsters eat eyeballs
in the nightmares of children.
Everyone shakes,
terrified to look at each other
mouths bleeding confetti & glitter.
A remedy to bitterness: simple syrup.
I want to write love letters
to the boy who broke my heart &
still has all the shards.
I found out yesterday
that I'm a woman of hard angles,
that my moon might always be fighting
to whole its halves.
My calves are sore
& I'm glad I quit smoking.
I'm afraid of empty bird cages &
waking up without a tongue.
My lungs do a dance under my rib cage
& shake my skeleton out of my body.
Hot toddy & we drink on Tuesdays.
Any available body will do.
Picasso's blue period never seemed more lifelike
than when I try to jump
head first into the nightlife.
Nothing can be proven true
but I think my respiratory system
is at least not false.
If I believe hard enough,
I can feel my pulse.
Night Flyer May 2014
Shahrazad, dancer of the night
Behind the purple lattice of Persian screens
You dance to the rhythm of ancient music
Swirling in the mirth of frankincense
Spinning into the night.

I drink from the silver chalice of your smile
Seeing crescent moons reflected in your eyes,
The echoes of singing voices radiate the vision of desert nights
As I feel my passion flowing
A river of silver and gold melting into distant plateaus.

Desert enchantress,
Spinning your dance eternal in the lapis depths of evening's promise
I surrender now to your smile
Let me drown in the music of your dark eyes
Your seductive voice,
Leading me to misty moonscapes and ruined castle walls.

Shahrazad,
Swaying to the syncopating rhythms of drums and bells
Beneath a Persian moon
Drawing me to the magic of your spell.
This poem was inspired by a Persian music video I saw some years ago. I was invited to read this poem at a crowded Middle Eastern restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard. There was also a performance by a well-known local belly dancer that night.
igriegazeta Apr 2010
Cheers from inside the catacombs of just-alive vagabonds & miscreant self-delusions of sagacious sabotage & pyrrhic moonscapes, brandishing our eternal return

a tabula rasa for respect & character - bottoms up, too. Mona Lisa
Shroud of Turin, ******* on a trunk. Gamble 66
for trays, dealing steam carrots.

Gag reflex to polite televangelists giving viewers auspicious immunity.

Habits cede to Power, acquiesce to Power, love power.
Peculiarity can recognize & organize to displace.
Something suspicious may run amok , antithetical to the divide & conquer trite.
Defeating paragons, i , Plumed Serpent of release & capture beats, borrowing color from a skylark in forever-flight, conjure remedial winds
Guide inimical bows subsumed in a cosmo-prole dew against the fasces of a few.
Sally A Bayan Nov 2016
are always a journey,
hours can move so slow, or pass by quickly
somehow, we think of good times and bad times
back to our innocent days........and stubborn ways...
late hours could bring out perfect landscapes,
or, chilling moonscapes, from a fecund mind        
every corner, every moment, every gust of wind
every act...becomes an incipient inspiration,
then come verses on existence and experiences,
our awakenings.....impressions on love's essence,
newfound feelings...we write about God's presence,
we question concepts on life here on earth, and
life thereafter.....wondering, if Heaven, or hell
occurs right here on earth, in our midst, or deep within
ourselves...or, maybe, in another sphere...different...
my folks often told us  then, maybe as a deterrent,
"Heaven and hell, are places....for consequences
of our earthly actions...they're afterlife occurences..."

Sally


Copyright November 18, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
The future is not orange.

It's the colour of faded newspapers,
Dying embers, Buttery moonscapes and
Concrete scars.

It reeks of chip shop oil and skidmarked tattoos.
of Rotting flesh and accelerant
fumes.

The future comes with arms outstreched,
with daggers in your back.
with comforting palms.

The future tastes of soft toys, lost in time,
of thick cut white with butter
of goat.
It tastes of blessings once before.

and with luck, tastes once more.
Hal Loyd Denton Mar 2012
The cost and distance of true love

It isn’t that the door is covered in flowers or a romantic breeze continually blows or that the heart can

See a cascading stream that flows as a water fall in front of the door at times it will be the rough exterior
That speaks of sincerity without great cost you have error trying to make a deal and you are its victim

That is on a fool’s errand sometimes the path will be fraught with brambles and thorns your speech only
Fails to be heard and make a connection the strenuous the forceful prevailing passion must assail the

Bitter heights you face specters of doubt ghosts of hurts of past loves disbelief in the other that they
Deserve to be loved any and all of these create thick darkness that pervades and prevails the path
Is as a transitory story that produces only elements of truth and the unreal is followed into shadows

Mystery puffs and illusion spreads as wings you find you have been carried a great distance and now
Without any markers to tell where you are the heart falters expects nothing but the empty hills to

Further your misgivings maybe all was just wishful thinking how many hasn’t suffered from that every
Guide has withdrawn leaving you alone unbearable sorrow fixes itself to you only primitive grunts sound

Off you reel and then remember the encounter of first meeting maybe the ground didn’t rise up or
Move but the heart shifted from distraction and careless wondering to definite possibility her person

Was earthy genuine without any effort she was a force a power that challenged empowered his solitary
Life with promise ennobled the contemptible variance of his existence he lived as if all places were

Moonscapes they had if any or little substance but in her presence he felt a bursting growth of all
Manner of interest this was development not tricks of a conjurer he understood his rootless life craved

The Simple bounty that a man and a women can achieve he started to see the mist clear and he would
Not Be denied this chance of happiness so he set out with the armor of distinction a true love demands

Nothing less uprightness and intensity will clear and gain much ground and passion flame will consume
A bitter past and bring new life and love the door once cloaked in darkness that produced near blindness
Now is brightly lit she sees also but not just a man but a knight in shining armor from a savage land that

We all face in one degree or another they find life together and create a union that bares a coat of arms
Emblazoned with these fiery words true love affords great wealth to he who finds it
Bows N' Arrows Nov 2015
What to write
Whom to think about?
Tommorow becomes today like
Pieces of clay awaiting to be
Played with
I've sunken in my third eye
I've forgotten about my day job
Silence speaks
The keeper of secrets seems to
Sleep
I've done more through my slumber
Than any wide-eyed-far-off-dreamer
I've stolen the sacred keys and
Felt the whole-hearted heaviness
Of belonging to someone
Many someone's
Times seem to creak
As old floors in
Even older housing
Like an ancient breeze
Breathed to life
By keeps
Having a one and only to
Seep through my dreary
Eyes
Tonight's my last night on
Earth
What does one do?
Whom to confide to?
To be amused in frankincense
And lavender
A dew drop on rose petals
Awakened by the settled air
Growing wiser
Breeded by violence
Along a moonscapes splendor
But it's now November
Tides washed over my memory
I'm misplaced in time
And space
Is this all I can utter?
No resounded calls of wonder?
All I've seen
All I've met
All I've loved
All I've hated
All I wished for
All I've  felt
All I've escaped from
All I've dealt
Was I just a vision that grew up?
Learned to wash the dishes and
Lessened the cigarettes I've smoked
The mediocrity as gleam'ed as
The moonshine
Caught in the back of my throat
A longing for the Neverland of
Alice's talking flora
Michael King Apr 2018
These flowers, scented roses are Devine,
a white one, red as blood, here is the thorn.
All sung, now loved and stout, this love is true,
from a torn past, like cloth he shall be shorn.

When fortunes’s lost and hope is all that’s left,
when moonscapes cast a dreary eye on life,
when sunlight is a play on future songs,
and he do find that he is less a wife,

He’ll ponder into great and stolen gauze,
and wonder when, if ever smiles did fail,
that to the great and boundless even planes,
did poets ever watch it move and quail?

Would he pretend to hold his heart in joy?
Would he just fake a tear, in laughter’s voice?
His child is gone, she moved into true space,
and he was left with just one bitter choice.

He would arise; his grave would lie bereft,
and god would know his plaintive wrath and hide.
And all the while, while centered on this stage,
he took his time but now he knows his side.

Sincere these words, no truer shall you find,
Not even when in books you seek to know
‘bout increased life and all its ugly charm,
this knowledge is not food for taint to grow.

So seek him out, this wanderer returned,
in distance, travelled he in worn out shoes,
while soulful in the desert he did cry,
beside the fire he sang the lonely blues.

~ Windsinger

— The End —