"successions" poems
Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud
Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion
Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason
No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach
Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system
Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves
As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery
And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates
But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
My idea of a good night is staying in
And technology serves as my friend
With a glass of wine or bottle of brew in my hand
Talking to a list of favorable foes on the web
Where conversations boarder between flirty and scholarly lines
And typed dialogues lead way to theoretical thoughts and inspirational designs
Pondering ignites a spark that surges in my mind
I’ll begin to research the fast array of thoughts that run through my brain
Fixated on scientific data, predicted trends and worldly traits
Eventually it’s not enough for my thought
I’ll try to fight the inevitable feeling that starts to form in my gut
Leading way to the breeding ground for butterflies
Factual documents begin to get lost in the shuffle
As my attentions now caught by an excerpt or rousing photo
New tabs are opened over the old
And I always find myself ending at the same place
Looking up poems about love and images elapsed from past days
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
roasting asphalt oven
sweat and petroleum pungent
a festival in the truest sense
diversity beyond societal bland
tolerance arches over rainbow
colored heads banging to the beat
the great goddess smiles as we dance
she knows true love when she sees it
sing to the dying sun
draping white shoulders afire
above lahar fields green again
successions of ash and germination
evidence of universal rotation
barren to blessed
sway to the eternal rhythm
bass heartbeat in our chests
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
head filled with thoughts of knives and blood and tears and the finality of the silence that comes After.
short car rides feel that much longer one-handed and with your mind taking detours.
an empty passenger's seat, save for the bag of fresh pharmacy goods; bandages and pills and the sting of the chill winter air.
the suffocating feeling of being stuck inside all day, except this home is a body and relief is only found in quick, deep successions.
basement flooding with memories of Then and When and Red and we find ourselves to be lost in it all. drowning even.
wade through the murk and discover us in the darkest alcoves of yourself. we hide in the shadows where it's safest, drenched.
it's hard to stay present around these parts for very long without something (or someone) stirring inside begging us to forget the rest.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 12:01 AM UTC
(aka Pinky Andrexa)
4/4/10 02.09am
I am walking in a daydream under skies forever grey,
Lying always in the shadow of ambitions all foregone;
I'm going through the motions of another working day,
Feeling permanently static, as the world is moving on.
And you're forever shining like some distant blazing sun,
You're gleaming as I'm dreaming, making all who see you smile;
The wings upon your heels still elevate you as you run,
So many want to be you, or would emulate your style.
From distance I behold you, as a cat beholds a king,
All doors open before you, in successions of success;
Your flame's forever burning, while my own is dwindling,
I could not be further away, or love you any less.
While you, you dice with danger, dancing on the precipice,
Leaving admirers breathless at your daring escapades;
And all your leading ladies ever burn to taste your kiss,
Your destiny speeds to you riding jet-powered rollerblades.
Yet two unlikely paths have crossed and subtle friendship blooms,
And many dreams take flight between the gutter and the stars;
Making the span of distance shrink into adjoining rooms
Opening secret passageways, where chosen dreamers pass.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 5:13 PM UTC
Unfold the map of the world and trace
a kaleidoscopic boot-shaped country
rising from the waters lavished by Atlantic
in a multicultural basin at the heart
of a flat globe. The Mediterranean birthed
by the Zanclean deluge, witness of myriad
exoduses intertwining genes to encompass
peninsular cradles of early civilisations,
a medley of ethnicities trading goods
discoveries and ideas on sailing caravels.
Two thousand years later the remnants of
the Roman Empire vote, the democracy
they had co-founded two thousand years
before, on philosophies of justice, equality
and human rights. Power to the people,
lost in the process of history making,
populaces disillusioned and frustrated
at millenary successions of failed rulings
corroborated by corruption and personal
greed of those chosen to represent them.
Today Italians vote anti-establishment
thereby at long last rejecting ideologies
of the past, too old to bare credibility
electing a party set outside the box,
no left right nor centre, victory of populism,
communism and capitalism burned
at stake for their crippling sins albeit
international cold-war renaissance attempts.
Marking the end of the twentieth century
the twenty-first bets on the refreshing breezes
of new tantalising illusions, cuts to public debt,
income of citizenship, youth employment,
tax reductions campaigned to allegedly increase
family spending, for whatever we do we are
all bound by a unique reigning doctrine under
the unified global empire, of consumerism.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
Gazing through the looking glass, and attempting to reminisce, he lets go, relieves, and perceives.Colossi of raindrops subtly fall through sky’s shadows , violently battling the grey in great amounts, failing to come anywhere near the threshold of one’s most sensitive ear. Nature’s children appear to tremble as dark forebodings of a dreary future pervade the air. The danger and annoyances of such rarities is always given priority and significance. He misunderstands it; he believes in its false infinity.
Unable to stabilize, unable to achieve a desired normality. From every pitter, he regrets; from every patter he forgets. Forcefully drudging through the thick swamp of his mind, struggling to understand what and why, diminishing his hopes of any change, any desire. Suddenly, several elements collide against his one-way mirror in his cell and revitalize his consciousness. Looking through the droplet, his face pressed against, his mentality momentarily produces quick successions of thoughts and random impulses of recovering memory.
Every snowflake understands its place as sui generis; every raindrop understands its place as trite. The beauty of a snowflake with death, the dullness of rain with life. It’s uniformity and strict nature are necessary to sustain life, but somehow it places a bittersweet piece of an unusual feeling inside him. Its unexplainable transparency, disguising itself as invisible, but not untouchable, stimulates a sense of deep nostalgic hopelessness within him. As he discovers the profound pulchritude, and simultaneous incomprehensibility, of the paradoxical elements of natural and artificial state cooperating to achieve more of the same, he realizes more in this moment. The monotonous, repetitive beat of rain seems to harmonize in an odd manner with some contrasting presence.
A new rhythm to this sound, a new color to this sight. A particular emotion of gradually diminishing despair comes about as he observes little rain boots composing a sort of rhythmic song with the catchy beat of the rain’s clashing, the continuous flow of the tree’s trembling, the back-up percussion of the thunder’s loud suddenness, the sight of lightning's exciting flash, and the cheerful singing from their voices.Upon this feat, he accepts the shadow’s tears; no longer must he endure the pain of the past’s ********** of the future, now he begins to savor the varied colors of newfound harmony.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC
On brown earth and fields of clovers,
a glade has grown to be.
Its cool breeze and green leaves
offer peace and solace to me.
Spears of sun pierce through the shade
and paint the thirsty wood.
Its tendriled veins writhe and stretch,
beneath a canopied hood.
Atop the ferns a parascope rises
swaying back and forth.
It moves to the left, it moves to the right,
and then I hear a snort.
My dog eared friend brings to me,
a long and pointed gift.
But such a prize is recognized
to leave just as quick.
The air is filled with warbeled songs
from treetops far and near.
But an incessant buzz cuts like unkindness
and comes to fill my ear.
I see it plain above my zenith,
a machine of flying plastic.
Its rotors spin in four successions,
it floats and moves - stochastic.
This hovering sentinel watches all
with a tiny gazing eye.
But who's to gain, learn, intrigue,
by spying from the other side?
From up so far a world so small:
he sees himself a king.
Out of dangers, out of touch,
to him no harm can bring.
And though he thinks that he remains
concealed, secure, untracked.
He does not know, below the grove,
I am staring back.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
I watched King Charles’ coronation this morning.
I’m not British and some things confused me.
For instance, they kept saying “The new king.”
New? The guy’s a boomer - at least - right?
Apparently, he is, at once, the oldest king
ever and the newest king yet.
Can we talk about the old lady with the crown?
The wrinkled one on the right of him, in white,
the crypt keeper, with genuine platinum hair.
At first, I thought that it was Charles’ mother.
But apparently, the old Queen died.
Has anyone looked into that?
Anyone who’s read Shakespeare knows
how brutal royals can be and successions,
over time, have earned a sketchy reputation.
Anyway, I wish him well. I wouldn’t want to live a life
where everyone around me moves up a notch
if something sudden and nasty happened to me.
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 12:37 PM UTC
I keep trying to move my mind up the ladder rungs, following the logical successions, but they don’t follow you. Sorry.
I remember that breakfast we had of yesterday’s coffee and a chunk of yesterday’s bread, and I was thinking about what we were doing and why and whether I could do it without you. I know you think about that too.
Sometimes I feel like a little sprite winking in and out of people’s lives, leaving (I hope) a little spark in the wake, but you can’t quite remember what the spark was for. Sometimes I can’t either.
And the road gets dusty and we get ***** and we start to cough, for last night’s cigarettes and last night’s arguments, and something in the air makes us forget that it was ever any easier to breathe. Why go back?
Motivation is a hard thing to preserve. You could try putting it in the freezer, but I’m not sure that the cold would help. At least it’s doubtful that it would help me. And you never know what you’ll have when it thaws.
I know you said you weren’t promising anything, but I’m counting it as a promise anyway, because in any case, that’s better than the metaphorical freezer. Don’t break it and I won’t break you. Got that?
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:00 PM UTC
the first of drinks in days descend,
in short successions, teasing rain.
the trees and earth will crane their necks,
to receive like wine on lips, the shower.
they savour not the cool of wine-water,
for the rain itself has travelled long.
and when it lands to quench their thirst,
you hear the sounds of glass and liquor.
the rain has passed, as transient as nature.
another glass later, when the earth croaks dry.
but now, the wine has cooled their lips,
the air revived by a rain perfume…
and down are the necks of the heavy drinkers.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:09 AM UTC
The driftwood drifters
Clearing their way across the asphalt
Crackling bones as they make their way
In eternal pursuit of the undertow
The chains that bind them will be their nooses
The wretched have their way
With the shells of all what remains
The whispers and their lullabies
Drifting off to sleep
I hate the way I feel today
So full of clarity and calmness
The voices don’t distort anymore
My vision is in 1080p
And I hate it
I hate the balance
Between the movements of the frames,
I spit out my verses
In rapid successions
Like vintage foreign films
In black and white
Void of sound
Followed by cue cards
APPLAUSE
"The old dogs" as he liked calling them,
Never bothered to fit the molds of the societal standards
How am I any different from any of them?
Don’t we all resent the hollowness we harbor within us?
The replies come pouring in
It’s always the same
"You think too much
That's whay you're so miserable"
The chains that bind them
Will be their nooses
And I hate all of it.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
Long and arduous had been the climb.
Fifty years or so in the making.
A pinnacle claimed but unseen for what it was.
Was it folly or push that became my past, present and future.
Falling was but a blink in the making.
No anchor to hold me and foundations removed, abandoned, lost.
Successions of ricochets from jagged rock to jagged rock.
Carved to the core by granite hard betrayal and failures.
By chance did my fingers gain purchase to slow the fall.
More of a roll downhill than the plummet that near killed me.
But still trending down into the chasm of who I have become.
The place I am, the present, the bloodied remnant of who I was.
Limbs askew and misshapen-ed, bones shattered and core exposed.
Total vulnerability to even the meekest of creatures with ill intent.
Cowered, afraid and alone in and darkness still falling.
Momentary reprieve as fingers strike stone but too torn to grasp.
Mind operating in fragmented, distorted jigsaws of thought.
No box top picture remaining to focus the picture I am meant to be.
Too many pieces in different shapes to be who I once was.
Uncertain of enough pieces to make myself a semblance of whole.
Still endless the fall and the darkness.
Creature or granite strike constantly feared.
Cowered, alone, afraid and defeated.
The darkness and fall are who I have been made.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
The storm is not eternal
It fades as fast as you do
Dripping wet
With stinking sweat
Sweet nature’s liquor
Thudding percussion
Sudden impressions
Parallels my heart
Rapid successions
Of white lightning
Not at all frightening
But hypnotic
As we count the distance
Between the lightning
And the thundering
One two a mile through
The storm will stop
And so will you
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
Long journeys he longs for
Connect and disband
Histories follies
Yet approaching an end
A decision or movement
Into reality
When emotions give way
To a homeless gullibility
When leaning
Over this blackened soil
Once home to a testament
Of generational coils
Bounced through the ages
By successions of systems
Generated and foiled
(c)near_lane7
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC