"seeings" poems
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
•<>•
*the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages,
scar of pleasure, a forehead Cain mark, scarlet letter of pride,
for this reliving of our stories retelling is the skipped beat
of our connection not born from practical reason,
but from truths we own equally and though reason says
mine, it is not, it is only to be yours when the sharing
resonates resonates resonates resonates resonates
and every molecule, becomes a human tuning fork
in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with
the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit*
July 4th, 2017
•<>•
"If you spend enough time reading or writing, you find a voice, but you also find certain tastes. You find certain writers who when they write, it makes your own brain voice like a tuning fork, and you just resonate with them. And when that happens, reading those writers … becomes a source of unbelievable joy. It’s like eating candy for the soul."
And I sometimes have a hard time understanding how people who don’t have that in their lives make it through the day.
David Foster Wallace
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Why they call me the fearful poet! (The Razor Thin Difference)
*”but who am I to complain
the razor thin difference tween
blessings and curses so thin,
sometimes are they not, the same thing”*
Aug. 2018
~~~
this familiar line, well traversed, lives on the maps
sketched indented on your palms and brow,
at the edges of the crow’s nests, the eye’s keyboard witnesses,
recording every stroke
we tap in seeings, forming letters,
letters into lines, lines into verse,
as we alliterate, we walk unawares,
of the razor thin difference tween blessings and curse,
indiscernible until concluded, perhaps, not even then,
the stanza’s probable outcome,
always unsure, unknowing destiny’s decision
so we walk, tread, plumb, shoutout
“vive la difference,”
hoping the blessing messengers hear us first,
consummating our pleas on their favorable sight & side,
ever fearful, we do not shout loud enough,
do the blind hear,
need me, possess my sacrificial offerings,
my trepidations, burnt on the Temple’s altar
who will breathe their smoke and understand
their fearful origins?
so we-write, cajole that our every moment’s fear,
find the difference, that we don’t bleed from life’s razoring,
the thinner thinnest
needle threaded,
**and fear is the threat,
and fear is the thread,
that holds me together**
until the unraveling
requires me to write again,
the fearful poet
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 7:18 AM UTC
.
Oh! wicked vicious blindness,
pleasant part of darkness,
Softly called sightlessness.
Your symbol is blackness,
Oh! wicked blindness.
.
Bearing the least resemblance of white,
Stagger and stumble becomes ultimate,
Best friend turns to be the dark night,
Lightlessness's the only thing you await.
Oh! wicked blindness.
.
The very moment they become blind,
Then, sight declined, death affined.
they begin to see the never seen,
For them, the seeings go no theme.
Oh! wicked blindness.
.
My only saviour is the Ear,
No ground for delight in ******
why?. Sorrow is all I hear,
In both physical and spiritual.
Oh! wicked blindness.
.
Hello! To all the sightless fellow,
Known and Unknown in sorrow.
With you, I do feel the pain,
With Maker, we'll break the chain.
And the lightning sight, we'll regain.
.
To hell with the wicked, vicious Blindness..
.
Okoye Chikamso (Mr_Focus)
.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
I tend to flip the pillow on its cold side,
the side that wakes me up,
and the cold tingle startles me at every flip.
the side that keeps me awake
once that cold sticky feeling has gone
with warmth it has been replaced
so i switch again
back to that cold sticky feeling
where i seem to find peace
where my eyes stay open
again and again i switch sides
until no energy is left
conserved within my weak body
i wearily close my heavy eyes
and what i feared had started to happen
once again
-of you i started to dream-
yet on my mind you weren't all day
through my thoughts
once, you hadn't passed
yet you managed
to sneak into my dreams
to get rid of your presence there i must
but always
after i awake
from these odd seeings
i catch myself
smiling :)
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
Cosmic Ball
Dressed in a suit of pinstripe stars,
He’s discussed war and played chess with Mars,
Far, in foreign solar systems,
He chuckles with their planetary distortion,
He’s gambled for the diamonds of Neptune,
Bowled infinite starlit lanes with Jupiter,
Witnessed sacred scry’s and change from Saturn,
Witnessed lies, severed ties,
Much he has seen, he who walks starlit skies,
Martini’s of primordial soup,
With a scoop of star,
Shared in lieu of chaos, with Venus,
Knocking back a few, so far,
He’s raced Mercury around the sun,
Every lap done, feeling victory, whether he’s lost or won, praises they sung, harmony rung,
He’s sat on the surface of Sol, sunglasses dawned,
Other then growth and to learn he has no defined goal,
Just playing a role,
Breaking energetic chains,
And immortal bars,
He slow dances with a myriad of stars,
Celestial bodies of divine will, power, grace,
Orbiting around him in suits, silk, suede nylon and lace,
All dancing to a distant interstellar song,
A long distant echo of light,
A throng of stars creating the constellations mighty heights,
A universe locked in constant cosmic push and pull,
Never empty, never full,
He reflects, riding the back of a wild cosmic bull,
Riding back to mother, back to varied perspectives of what is true,
Back to a planet of green and blue,
Till the next invitation come queue,
To another night in primordial stew of sights and seeings,
Another quaint Ball with fantastic cosmic beings..
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 9:12 PM UTC
THE LIGHT VANISHES
Summer had suddenly
gotten old.
Shadows nibbled at the light
limping along by an orchard wall
biting it
to the bone.
The light seemed to wince.
An apple fell to the ground
as if on cue.
Forever seemed somehow
shrunken.
Time withdrew into itself.
The house was talking
to the wind
in its creaky old voice about
the this of that and the that of this.
The wind saying nothing now.
Keeping sthum.
Inside... a book
lay asleep upon a table
waiting to be awoken
by a child's hand.
The words now
allruntogetherbit
ready to jump back
into their proper places
take up their position.
when called upon.
Even the pterodactyl
had its eyes shut tight
in the drawing of it
on page 42
flying in pre-historic
black and white.
I was amazed to find
I owned
all these aunts and uncles
that were all mine!
I even had a cute cousin
called Mary Frances who
always made me
smile.
A mottled mirror
had flung itself upon a floor
scattering itself here & then
there in a loud "oNo!"
Still showing the world
its face
in many tiny
little seeings
that could
draw blood.
I breathed the summer in.
I breathed the summer out.
I would never again be
as old as I was now.
It was the last time
I was 9.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC