"ouranos" poems
I stared East, directly into eyes of Ouranos
The Water Bearer, in her flowing robe, stood
Beaming like a new Mother at his Left hand
Andromeda, angry and ready to do battle on his right
Screaming forth with great fury
On a collision course with glory
Andromeda wields his fiery sword!
We are but particles in this drama.
Incapable of defending our existence
Attracting and repelling each other
As if we are of some great importance.
I, you, us, we, them...
all of us who are here,
have come,
or will ever be
combined
Are but the blink of an eye in this,
The Ultimate Drama.
Our Stars will dance the dance
And read the script as it was taught them.
The Tiny Audience already knows how it ends.
There really is no, “maybe...”
Or, “Well, it depends.”
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
ouranos is pulling a thread
in and out of the pinhole stars
as earth slips it's orbit -
atlas dreams of endless oceans, waves
and his planet sleeps on driftwood,
careening quietly from its perch,
boundless in its fleeing fall
from tired shoulders and arms.
the planet sifts through stardust
and it's occupants rifle through reason,
fiddle with contrition.
what information was misread -
who's to blame for the falling sky?
time moves through amber and sap,
too slow to count with blinking digital numbers
or those in ardent analog.
why do the clocks' hands have icy fingers?
glaciers call the seconds years
and so "time" is no more -
the sun cannot thaw the hands
that push the past away
and pull the future to articulate itself.
the present is collateral to the two
in their eternal twirl through non-being.
the duet becomes a triad
and the triad: a singularity,
but it is not a violent transition -
no, it's edges are soft.
they are soft.
the mind calms at this softness.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Helios and his
chariot pulled the curtain
to mark a new day.
The flowers began
to bloom beneath the sunlight;
their petals gleaming.
The birds tweeted in
sweet harmony, an ode to
another spring day.
The 6:45
breeze signals the entrance of
Artemis' moonlight.
Ouranos paints a
colorful promise to end
the day with bright stars.
-m.b
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 6:38 AM UTC
Adapting re
voluntary reading
to the future, when we've
nothing to do so, sub-con
science frictions call all men liars.
I am by no means chief,
I came from the Calebland Productions,
early Eighties,
Macintosh and Appletalk, and Silicon Beach
grand brainstorms insisting if we heat it
the entire idea of dust as us and our mites…
just willing to revolve with the planets will
enough all those old winds that twisted
like we did last summer,
wind up like
those ones, wow, so real.
Northwest Passage is open, and yet,
none acknowledge life in full control,
something literarily evolving
where the crawdads eat the corpses,
Bayou Blue, Barrios and Pepitons,
cheri mio, we had some fun,
we all sung, on that by
you seem to agree, we won.
we won the evolutionary war,
mankind, wombed and un,
ever so long ago, none knew, we did
but time is a bit of a Ouranos cycle,
looks like a great ocean churning gyre,
of which the last swirling tide reminder
fit to an old spider web designer,
loser backslider
with a gambling wife,
who took a chance on me,
what do we see, but what we get,
generously, love is there
for the looking for,
and for remembering finding, and
really, when a man
from the molds
that made our we this kind of old man,
an individuated
NPC, in a cast of thousands,
acting stand in assistant to the
assisting intelligence time accounting,
massive messaging, is a thing
are you aware…?
your connection can self correct,
your bluetooth can whistle
in your ear,
eh,
we made it up.
The loss, we, laughed and made it all up.
Apr 24, 2024
Apr 24, 2024 at 4:11 PM UTC
in mid-augusts breadth
the last gasps of doomed stars
like lions lacking breath
he is watching
as history repeats itself;
damns itself
the solipsist; the progeny
who cries under his mother's wing
the exodist
to exist
unfortunately, in shortage of sleep
where asphodels crouch
long cut from life's thicket
free from time's gouge
painless, from the thick of it
cast into tartaros
on the cape of ouranos
to fall from his ipseity
so long was serendipity
his father's testament;
the panegyric on death
his debt, his deficit
of what he is bereft
summer feet cross the border
to touch the winter sleet in its corner
and skin meets skin
the solipsist's gravest sin;
the sophist, where he sits,
sips on the blood of collision
more sure of "self"
than his mothers hands
the solipsist, to exist
in the shade of earth,
who inhibits
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC