"synthesis" poems
The belated summer sky is alive
with a D r a g o n f l y ballet
Beneath,.. the rain parched sod
lay sullied, cracked open
by an unsated thirstiness
awaiting the painted autumn days
and the cleansing rain's renewal
A lace-winged hatch rises skyward
— meandering airborne —
drifting upwards like a burst of dust
dissipating in an invisible cloud
of eventide's silent breath
Darting shadows hover
above a seeker's curiosity
just this side the
softening sunset backdrop
A synthesis of fluid motion
– darting kinesis –
swift agile fliers
steal away over the thirsty pond;
their mesmerizing beauty enchants
as the dimming dusk falls silent —-
embellishing the unrelenting ending
another summer's
imminent curtain call;
reminding how inexorable-time
is only a contrived human notion,
a recurring extrapolation
of passing seasons
Heightening awareness:
how we too are only
passing through these
unholdable moments
coming to know
we cannot stop
how life unfolds
The raindrops will quench
the pond's aching thirst
again one fall someday...
— hereafter —
there will be another
beauty of dragonflies
some other eyes will see
preying on another burgeoning
gossamer-winged hatch
and
another beckoning autumn
when the dragonflies hover
below the gazing totems
in the treetops
Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018 .
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.
At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)
A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.
I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.
However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.
A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.
To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!
Purcy Flaherty.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
1241
The Lilac is an ancient shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight—
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final Plant
To Contemplation—not to Touch—
The Flower of Occident.
Of one Corolla is the West—
The Calyx is the Earth—
The Capsules burnished Seeds the Stars
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun—
Above his synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time’s Analysis—
“Eye hath not seen” may possibly
Be current with the Blind
But let not Revelation
By theses be detained—
11.2k
Purple is often misunderstood
People confuse it with pink or blue
They cannot comprehend change
The synthesis of something new
Purple has been picked to pieces
Analyzed with Pantone paint chip cards
The public is vexed, this defiance of ***
Twirled around by color guards
They say that violet delights have violent ends
That from this “choice,” there’s no return
But they’re the ones who set us aflame
And we, in their triumph, burn
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, ‘Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.’
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
‘Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.’
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
‘Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.’
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.’
The lamp said,
‘Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.’
The last twist of the knife.
8.2k
A widespread condition
related to nutrition
is lactose intolerance
that is in essence
the inability to digest and assimilate
the milk sugar-lactose-the substrate
that is acted upon by lactase-
the specific enzyme
over a period of time.
This may happen suddenly
and generally
at any age most unexpectedly.
Lactose intolerance
is caused by the absence
of the enzyme lactase
that breaks down lactose
to the simple sugars-
glucose and galactose.
The condition may be
secondary, congenital,
or developmental.
Secondary lactose intolerance
invariably has its occurrence
related to a gastrointestinal infection
and its disappearance
is linked to the causative factor’s correction.
This type of intolerance-
(certainly a nuisance)
is reversible
if we are a bit careful.
Congenital lactose intolerance,
an inherited form of intolerance,
is a rare genetic abnormality
that one can unearth
soon after an infant’s birth.
This need not cause any fear
as it lasts only half a year.
Developmental lactose intolerance
also known as primary intolerance
is one wherein the enzyme synthesis
is progressively less
during childhood
and this persists into adulthood.
Gita Ashok
24/10/2011, 2 pm
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 4:58 AM UTC
~wherever, whenever and forever for Sally B.~
"Don’t urge me to leave you. "If I could, then I would
To turn back from you. I'll go wherever you will go
Wherever you go, Way up high or down low
I will go, I'll go wherever you will go
And where you stay, Run away with my heart
I will stay. Run away with my hope
Your people will be Run away with my love
My people I know now, just quite how
And your God My life and love
my God. Might still go on
Where you die, I will die, In your heart, in your mind
There I will be buried." I'll stay with you for all of time"
(Book of Ruth 1:16) (Charlene Soria Lyrics)
Let it be writ,
Let it be sung,
All should know,
This I swear,
Where you are,
So, I shall be too.
Your hope, my hope.
Your heart, my heart.
Life and love,
But one.
Where you run,
I'll shall follow.
Now, today,
Forever,
If our bodies apart,
If our hands cannot
Grasp each other,
Yet, still,
In your heart,
In your soul,
I will be,
I cannot leave.
Where you are,
So, I shall be as well,
within from the without
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
The shortest distance between two points of travel.
The fastest method for achieving a result.
Quickest answer for a resolution.
Marrying equals.
All terminology meaning essentially the same thing; synthesis. That is what the two-party system is meant to be doing. It is the point of checks and balances. A check is a stopgap. A balance is a measure.
No one wants to ban personal firearms. No one wants mentally-ill people to own them. No one advocates violence by school teachers to assuage future potential violence. No reasonable person wants children to grow up in a police state school system. No American believes that State and Federal government can agree on what should be done in all states.
We will not be arming teachers. Nor will we be banning guns. There will never be armed guards at public schools. States and the Federal government disagree on so many levels there will never be consensus on change when it comes to this issue. So, change the issue in a way that offers a stopgap as a measure.
The President of The United States issues a proclamation that all land directly adjacent to the front of all public schools will be bought by the federal government at today's market price. That price will be fixed provided the states do two things. Use state eminent domain laws(every state already has them) to file a claim on said properties and assess the value thereof for the federal government.
Secondly, establish police precincts on said property.
Ask yourself;
"How many children would die if the local police were directly across the street from the school at the time of the shooting?"
And,
"Would Conservatives or Liberals be against this proposal?"
Also,
We should all remember that these shooters plan their attacks and would have to plan around the police being there immediately after they begin one.
Problem solved...
...and no one touched a gun(right) to do it.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
Silver skies, tranquil nights
Gently gazing down from afar
Silver rooftops, twinkling lights
Buried deep among the stars
Silver memories paint silver portraits
Hung from my interior walls
Silver melodies, not unfortunate
I hear, my name, it calls
Silver teardrops stain my cheeks
Making melancholy of innocence
Silver snowstorms, heartache's peak
An evocative and celibate synthesis
Silver dreams, silver eyes
Meet silver nights, tranquil skies
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC
Deathbed
Words spill beneath breath-
promise or threat?
Doesn’t matter.
synthesis
A deathbed-machine mourns, briefly-
before it’s switched off.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:49 AM UTC
Assigned by angels to be the vessel
of your opal eyes
I don't mind
These days all I want to see
is the radiance you bring forth
a tranquil break in the folds
streaming through me
As I stand in regard
with the threads of yours wrapped around mine
a spatial interlude
long glimpses at your blueprints
in my sights
the daybreak of my existence
the gleaming brilliance of yellow
the daring cosmos of nights’ sky
Those night skies
its expanse I clear with no expense
I only hope for you
for you to notice
the bones of mine that bloom after you
a synthesis so sweet
as I see you
glance back to me as we dance across this field
as I tread light
a nimbus and a kite
the vessel of your opal eyes
a contract laced with gold
dusted with your breath.
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
The world is an oyster with pearls hidden within
Feeling the intense beauty that moves one to tears when one become the infinite as it is within
An eternity of seeking truth, while all along it’s been inside of one
Energetic synthesis, eternally limitless; came as a seed to grow, the sun and moon to know
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC
The lotus calls another time;
right now, just bring your lips to mine—
a congress of the simplest kind,
yet steeped in fever, still divine,
this tangled frame of skin and breath
urged onward to its little death
on rolling seas of hands and hips;
the synthesis of fingertips—
my shaking legs, a testament
to a winter's afternoon well spent.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 2:26 PM UTC
I am the eccentric lovechild of a mother frondescent and a father evanescent
Sprouted through corrupted soul
Fed from the fish delivered free from a sea of blood and oil
Uprooted I drift in sunlight towards an amiable oasis nurtured by scribes
Roots form synthesis with a surface void of story
My blooms entail alternative motions ranging from the aspect of a chaotic notion and the transcendent shiver given with ceremonial moments
Traces of my lingering expanse traverse and terraform galactic sound gardens bursting at the seams with Gaia’s seeds
Wither, decay, destined to resume once in full bloom
Meandering with solar rays bonded by ebb and flow
The remnants of the last sun ray plague the wanderer who was born of sunflowers
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
I am somewhat perplexed at the clash between neutrality and expectation, as we genuinely present our being on the field of open vulnerability. I seek to find synthesis in this very moment, between emotional thesis and antithesis. Oh, my literary companions of global interconnected and eternal being, I beseech you by the power of respiratory arrest: dare to surpass the line of expected mediocrity, where few will ever tread. I am hungry. Let us acknowledge that "authority" is a questionable truth and let us resonate with the awareness that truth is an infallible authority. The character of perceived vulnerability is steadfast in the face of assumed evidence.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
For Helen
who wrote it first,
who wrote it better,
and in doing so,
makes me see more clearly
the why
~~~~~~~~~
no poem should ever be untitled-
every face needs a name-
every poem needs just
one read for completion
but more than that, it is
a orphan still,
deserving of the due,
the entitlement to be titled,
a parenting of sorts
what was the thought that born it-
what was the emotion that conceived it-
what was the sight that demanded sharing?
this is the age of summary and synthesis,
140 and not one more,
so give direction, enable me to make
snap judgements, with so much on my plate,
we must predigest your concepts,
my multi-tasking slowed to levels unacceptable,
so I can adjudge you,
you worker poet,
before or never reading
after all,
why read anything untitled?
more than this however,
for the few who chew
each morseled vowel,
ken each constant consonant,
celebrate stanzas that halt the breathing
and then,
god bless the whole child,
flaws and all,
they more than anyone deserve
your consideration in return
for the title is the essence spark
of you-
and all the more so,
of what you have chosen to share,
your essentials honored
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 6:33 AM UTC
a toast to the gods of self preservation
twenty one with plenty coming
allowing to pound sounds within
the crown aroused voided a founders of it’s bruises
spells hold the fold, I’m coasting with the best
resting in the east so I sleep with blinds low
the comfort zone is far from solitude
my molecules have aptitude to channel Jupiter
seatbelts are useless wastes of matter, excuse me
just a minute so you can miss me with that individuality
your calloused grip on reality impairs the singularity
old school, gold noose, silver lined diamonds
Jesus pieces reaped the seeds that teach your blind lids
came back with scabbed knuckled and heart scars
hustled the portal of pretension ever so ethereally
inner synthesis purged the day the plague hit
on the courts or the graves, you name the slaves
the game slayed the day the chains changed hands
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
[sweet pungent synthesis]
always with dank hysterical women demonstrating the distilled liquid elixir of their many years in isolation.
they are the nitrogen-rich followers of an ultraviolet shrine, such is
a photosynthetic life-form, reacting/enacting/enhancing.
they reach for holes in the moon &
on four-legged fumes carbonize seeds into sons and daughters. birth/
life.
all flowers ache forth to display color and/or
their varietals of hairy oil content.
to dip psychotropics, thus the worship of brain frequency and light.
fresh progress,
the sugar crystal compounds impacting, intact, and swollen.
trichomes, like huddled little masses of grandbabies bowed upon the ridge.
she drips
in dance and derives her form from properties plucked by time,
by moms, and pops.
to discover is to find purity in a moment.
pure travel/ pure
death.
this growing force,
this apparition of sound within me. organics.
organisms bound by great beauty and failure.
sense not the vivid panic, or the shock of last black, but hold true
to an inner joyous/outer motionous, tessellation that is, this
fluttering of us.
us suit of hearts.
suit of leaves.
the fusion of two bodies far beyond substantial pressure.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
when everything everywhere
whispered in irresistible languages
*hey you there
stop resisting*
i began to surrender
was flowing free
stretching
wings flapping
toward the unknowable
inside
experimented with ditching
body as identification
name as identification
personal history as identification
faded off
mad word searching
explaining justifying
reiterating too much information
i loosened my squeeze grip
on intellectualism
tell-me-how-to-be spiritual books
whatever the famous someone
said once then got bronzed over
i surrendered to universal unity
where i lavishly decorated
my living changing dream
with my own snap choices
i was flowing with fresh
synergetic synthesis
returned outside to pedestrian streets
where angelics mixed in
wore transparent disguises
i began to flow
forgiveness out and in
skipped a light fandango
splashing puddles was
answer to inclement weather
i set wooden faces
to smiling after
i switched my own
i rolled on through
perceived stop signs
of the everlasting no
incinerated all my karma with
nownownow
wonwonwon
made myself
stock still
experienced
yes yes
relaxed awareness
breathed
emptiness
opened all my hands
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
She asks me “what do you think of me?”
I stop;
Reflect upon what just happened,
When a complexity of a girl
Asks a simple guy
What he thinks about her.
She asks me “what do you like about me?”
I’ll tell you what I hate;
I don’t hate your eyes,
Like round circles we used to make
With our dancing bodies
In preschool playgrounds.
I don’t,
Hate your lips;
They could be traced
From a million miles
And they curve so beautifully.
I don’t hate your smile,
The semi grins you keep
Before the flashes,
Before the posts;
I don’t hate your eyes,
Like bullets entering the soul
With an insertion of dopamine.
She asks me “do you really think I am worth your troubles?”
You are not.
You deserve my delight;
You deserve my green days and blooming flowers,
You deserve my watering mouth
Nourishing the vines underneath your tongue,
You deserve the sunrises in my playlists
And sunsets in the warmth of my jackets;
You are not worthy of my troubles
I am not worthy of my troubles.
She pushes me away,
The walls are too tight
And the stares,
They scrape on our throats.
The girl is lonely,
Her social circle spreads wide enough
To leave a gap;
Her friends walk next to her
And not on her side;
Her smiles-
Electronic cigarettes that look genuine,
But the smoke never rests
On the teeth,
Just a vapor that fades away.
She’s anchored to her reality
Her ships are not meant to sail
Just yet.
She asks me “what do you think of me?”
You’re a concept;
You’re a fusion of vivid elements
Wired with secret buttons
Hidden in your desires.
You’re an emotional rollercoaster
That we ride
You and I,
When I think of you
You’re just a white canvas
That whispers into my soul
The true meaning of art.
She asks me “is this your real answer?”
She ask me “is this your real answer?”
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
To be taken silently with violence
Not to utter a salutation
Just the cracking of a door hinge
And a look that indicates that stopping your desires would be laughable
An absurdity
not to be pondered!
The jolting sound of head cracking against metal
And wrist yearning to be ground to the bone
After hours of furtive clutching
The kind on nail bending fervor that just takes the taste right from bread
Grabbed into a cranium synthesis
Im am forever enslaved in the darkest corridor of your existence
I doubt I will ever be able to leave this lighting wasteland
The eagerness pounding through the point were skin meets weapon
I am infiltrated like a shanty filled village
A real slum filled valley
Hopeless against tracking systems and torture methods
You plunder my underdeveloped hospitality
Like Jesus to a farm boy
As I scream **** you Mongoloid
I am gasping into your filth
A sacrificial lamb
Bliss by the slaughter wells
Mouthfuls of disgust
As your knees jab deep into skid row
Grinding the forgotten and the deserted
Until they are flattened corpses
****** dry of the water holding them together
You are pleased
The phantom has been fed and to ask for seconds would only tease the lamb
As I lay gushing organs with a smirk
Broken bent and emaciated
I feel alive and it is wondrous.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:02 AM UTC
I've never felt
But I'll tell you how it feels
Her hips will sway, his eyes will undress
He will sip his drink, she will ******
Muster up the courage to ask for a dance
**** eyes
She will touch, but he will touch more
Moving with the beat, hands will roam
He went too far, she redirected
Not now she says; the night is too young
Love and passion will grow, if only for one night
It will feel real, their eyes will question
And they will lean in closer
Lips will collide, heat and *** will ensue
It will end in the dark of night
With naked bodies in synthesis
Two lovers, entangled in the sheets
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 6:01 AM UTC
Traffic lights spread across the Opal sky
He held my face
His gentle, warm palms, magnetic on my skin
Fervorous glow embraced my chest
Beat to beat, my heart bled into the fog.
Leaning his forehead against mine,
I felt my thoughts blending with his skin.
A synthesis of feelings, an ocean of colours.
his lips find mine and heat ripples across my face
Cloudy breaths caressed my skin
This time, the sky didn't blend with tears.
This night, the lights were dry.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC