"observances" poems
Kung walked
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu Tchi
and Tian the low speaking
And “we are unknown,” said Kung,
“You will take up charioteering?
“Then you will become known,
“Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery?
“Or the practice of public speaking?”
And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,”
And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province
“I would put it in better order than this is.”
And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple,
“With order in the observances,
with a suitable performance of the ritual,”
And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute
The low sounds continuing
after his hand left the strings,
And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves,
And he looked after the sound:
“The old swimming hole,
“And the boys flopping off the planks,
“Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.”
And Kung smiled upon all of them equally.
And Thseng-sie desired to know:
“Which had answered correctly?”
And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly,
“That is to say, each in his nature.”
And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
Yuan Jang being his elder,
For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
“You old fool, come out of it,
“Get up and do something useful.”
And Kung said
“Respect a child’s faculties
“From the moment it inhales the clear air,
“But a man of fifty who knows nothng
Is worthy of no respect.”
And “When the prince has gathered about him
“All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.”
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
And if the prince have not order within him
He can not put order in his dominions.
And Kung gave the words “order”
and “brotherly deference”
And said nothing of the “life after death.”
And he said
“Anyone can run to excesses,
“It is easy to shoot past the mark,
“It is hard to stand firm in the middle.”
And they said: If a man commit ******
Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
He should hide him.
And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang
Although Kong-Tchang was in prison.
And he gave his niece to Nan-Young
although Nan-Young was out of office.
And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation,
“In his day the State was well kept,
“And even I can remember
“A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
“I mean, for things they didn’t know,
“But that time seems to be passing.
A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
But that time seems to be passing.”
And Kung said, “Without character you will
“be unable to play on that instrument
“Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.
“The blossoms of the apricot
“blow from the east to the west,
“And I have tried to keep them from falling.”
4.6k
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.
but the only one you wanted to see was her
“Can’t repeat the past? Why...of course you can!”
and so you did.
or at least attempted too.
but it didn’t work for you
now did it,
old sport?
because the harder you tried to
keep up this game
the more they rewrote the rules
“they’re a rotten crowd” I shouted across the lawn. “you’re worth the whole **** bunch put together!”
you fell in love with the girl
whose voice was full of money
in the valley of ashes.
looked at her the way every young girl wants to be looked at
a beautiful little fool, she was
perfect for you
afternoon tea
silk shirts stained by her tears
your resurrection
was born.
or so you thought.
you were endlessly
attempting to recreate
a sequel to that summer night in 1945
the kiss
the sky
that night.
your death was almost heroic
only you and I know
you were doomed from the start
“gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...and one fine morning- so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
i cannot dream
when my thoughts
are stilted
my brain feels tilted
stemming rational thoughts
from flourishing
things around me
seemed blurred
my observances
are skewed
regular rights
are wronged
rational thoughts
confusing
i don't belong
and the comfort i feel
with that agreement
leaves me all the more
befuddled.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 8:25 PM UTC
see how many events
we celebrated
and commemorated...
we divide our lives in spaces
like those between markings on a ruler
in mm, cm, and m...
and time so divided
and the year is the most meaningful in our lives
one is nearly gone
and another looms
stares at us with a fireworks yawn
what is time then? -
that we make do with days, weeks, months and years
and that we manage
with birthdays, markers
and observances and events and Special Days
work and holidays
what is this time? ...
that offers us some breathing space
and then eats us whole....
I know, I know
we all have our answers
that we find in our Books, our traditions, our symbols...
ready-made answers Authority teaches us to repeat
and come time
we’ll all die like stray cats run over on the roads
and we won’t even know what hit us...
don’t ask, don’t ask...we won’t ask what time is...
we’ll just mark it
and go wow at fireworks
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
I know you haven’t heard from me
For a millennium, but here I am
Still around, still observing, still involved.
I am ancient of course but no older than before
When you knew me as a warrior-striding
Over flaming mountains and trembling seas.
Do you remember?
Do you remember how I inspired you from
The clouds? My voice like thunder,
My voice carrying lightening from a darkening
Sky? ……………………Well, anyway, good to see
You all once again.
I actually haven’t been myself recently.
My legs have troubled me. My eyes
Have been plaguing me. I cannot see the earth
Clearly anymore. In my wizened vision
It resembles a roughly-used marble,
I am after all, now and forever, the ancient of days.
Here’s the thing. I’m getting bored both of
Your antics and your obsession
With me. Please, lighten up! I made the
Sun so you would smile, children to give you hope!
But, it didn’t work I fear.
I can abide your petty squabbles.
Truly I can. I can abide your desperate need
For war. It’s quite exciting really and once I played
My part. The agonised features of the dying
Appeal to my nasty side to be honest.
I have a very nasty side as you are well aware.
I like your skyscrapers, your irritating as flies planes,
Your huge cities, your good as well as your promiscuous
Women, your strange observances
Songs and poetry. It is all very jolly. But,
And it’s a huge ‘but’ I must admit,
I have grown bored.
You no longer inspire me. I am no longer
Eager to view your funny ways
When I wake, and before I sleep. I’ve decided
Your little planet must go. Sorry, I’m like that.
I follow my whims. Tomorrow, at 10 I turn off the light
So, please, stop praying. It’s so depressing.
There will be no reprieve this time. Accept your fate!
You will not feel a thing! So, let’s make our final goodbyes.
I have really enjoyed your company-
Au Revoir. Oh, please stop crying-
It was great fun after all for all of us. Remember,
Nothing lasts forever. Not even me!
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
Please, bright holidays - summon irresistible cheer
that dancing souls can celebrate with free hearts.
Let hallow'd observances pass with seasonal soundtracks, tinsel-prismed cascades of multicolored lights and evergreen scents.
Too often these days, our joys seem hostage held
by some fearsome heaviness, like that of a guilty thing.
Give wholesome nights back their power to charm,
enjoy festive feelings, and pass those, as gifts, on to others.
Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 9:07 AM UTC
oh, you smart modern congregation
tell me, what exactly is stored in your barns?
how profound is thy soul’s ache for divine treasure?
is your instinctual compass correctly tuned?
does the tongue give life?
your own eye plank removed?
have you worked it out?
been filled with light?
or, do you remain crippled by fear?
deeply frightened by inconvenience?
fallen too deeply for your high security fortifications?
oh no! your growing paralysis returns!
and the rise of your stage presence
while exerting your home crafted gavel
on the holy observances of beer, curriculum, square footage, and service length
eroded by lofty incantations, stanzas of gibberish
perpetuating the operation of the institution
without a corner on truth, the convenient followers
indulging on driveways, bashing your empathy
let go of your systematic card house!
meditate on the
other than
on your knees…let the soul cry!
beyond the void, illuminate anew
consider Creator, and the power of your dormant empathy
love love love
let it be re-written on your heart!
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
solitary
standing removed
from all others
less than alluring
marked
with the ravages
of time
outwardly
these are the features
she indicates
years have passed
withdrawn
her doors
have remained
to ordinary men
her inner walls
remaining obtuse
to them
undeserving
were their observances
her interior walls
are stirring
staying concealed
wonder is alive
inwardly she primes
her time has come
she is select
to one man
that man looks
at her features
he is awestruck
his eyes are forced
seemingly bewildering
her aspect
he draws closer
her structure
he calculates
baffling entrancing
she assumes power
her vestibule
opens
to engage
with him
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
Writers
Writers write (duh)
There is verbal form of any language and a physical form of any language, and writing is the physical form of any given language.
And in some ways, writing is extremely beneficial to society. It expands vocabulary and ability to process things, it makes a better form of passing on things and keeping things as permanent as possible.
But, sometimes, writing is horrible, and even language in and of itself can horrible at times.
When one loves another, words, eventually, don't suffice to describe the overwhelming flood of emotion you have towards the other person.
In this age of technology and talking over it, texting or calling or face-calling, words sometimes do not suffice, those three words said all the time, over and over again.
Sometimes it’s a deep, passionate kiss on the lips. Sometimes a small peck to the tip of one’s nose. Sometimes a slow, gentle kiss to a forehead. Sometimes a small squeeze of the arms when cuddling. Sometimes a nuzzle to a neck or cheek.
To truly be a writer, one must submit to the fact that there can simply be no words. And it’s okay, it’s fine to not have the right words sometimes.
If anything, it can make your writing a little better.
So, go for it. Be wordless. Be in awe and blown away.
Be a ponderer. Because, in the end, that’s what all us writers are.
Ponderers, who attempt to describe their observances.
:;,
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
As gazing over industrial land,
Futile are my thoughts.
Sights seen with knowing eyes,
Imbue with mocking taunts.
How can we be here amongst all this,
When not so long ago was intended bliss?
Knowledge so elegant and so beautiful,
Offers hope yet is not irrefutable.
Here, trapped within this stranglehold,
Where anger is but a waste,
Religion here, democracy there,
Into what must we sublimate?
From the mount, the answers have been delivered,
And this is what we must do.
Simplicity shrouds the bureaucracy of old,
And makes way for an eternal new.
Walk by faith, not by sight,
For this perilous road of tempestuous might,
Is not all it seems. It’s destination; truth.
Not that of dreams, but that with proof.
But most will not fulfil,
For not meek are they.
Concrete self-righteousness paves,
Yet does not lead the way.
Infinite roads down which to walk,
No signs now, just digital talk.
Lest we be watchful, will we become lost.
And I daren’t even think at what cost.
For ages gone by, truth have we pursued,
With razzle-dazzle leading the way.
Men deemed more intelligent than I,
Have still been lead astray.
Close I have been to those I never knew,
At a distance was that chance kept,
But knowing now, that which I do,
Where I’ve cried, now I only wept.
Forces nor you or I can see,
Are present for our observances.
For each and every one of us will be,
delivered from idleness in Hades.
When will it happen? When will it be?
Not one of us who knows.
When distemper’s calamities culminate,
With humanities utmost woes.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC