"tripartite" poems
There is nothing here
Not the façade of a façade
Can’t you see our idea fading?
We thought we were Hobbes’ Leviathan
The modern alchemists of state
We’re nothing more than rodents!
Scurrilous, maladapted membranes
Spewing from democracy forth
Ought they to encapsulate us?
They must needs encapsulate the naïve!
Whiling away at the trough as though livestock
I’m to be ground on the wheel regardless;
Nay, stretched on the rack of modernity!
By the comforts of progress and superficiality
Sought after as if vital
By the people, “We the people!”
Rallying cry for throngs, imprisoning themselves
With society, a subtle hocus pocus
The trite, aged argument
Of those who’d force you build your very tenement
Paying rent to breathe,
Countless yet believe
Tripartite consumer, greed and slavery
Surrounding you and me
Separating ignorance from squalor
In a ghetto of the mind
You're right, we're alright
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
Why not envision a new eco-poetics grounded in a heritage thousands of years old which upholds that everything in the universe is sacred?
Francisco X. Alarcón
Space, time and Borges now are leaving me …
J L Borges
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of the personality.
T S Eliot
One does not often think of the tripartite goddess who gave her blessed name to Ireland - Éire, Banba, Fódla - not to mention other goddesses who have left their trace on the landscape, Danu of the Paps of Danu for instance.
Devotional poetry in India goes by the name of bhakti. In the heel of the hunt, a bhakta does not really adore or pine for any god or goddess; as with Mirabai’s love affair with Krishna, or Muktabai singing her own glistening Self; what is sought and what is praised is the brightness of eternal brightness, our shared Self, knowing neither birth nor death.
Some words in this poem sequence are ‘shaded’ to allow for another reading of a line, or a faint echo, a game much cherished by the Celtic poets of yore. Thus, the reader sees the word as the world when written as world and encounters bhakti invocations such as ma (mother) hidden in the word mad!
2.7k
for Jeannie Kristufek Hawrysz who once quoted me Shakespeare -
*"Of all the words in the universe, when stated thrice, only one royal above all gleams best, an uncoded mathematical tripartite repetitive stating:
love love love this."*
----------------------------
third attempt and just not happening
then recall a Ben Folds hand-me-down
heard on Tuesday, passed onto me by Sara B.
about writer’s block
“Kick the editor out of the room”
the best don’t even flow,
they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that,
are ya keeping up,
you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection roadblock
or the delivery guy, the one with the towel and the scissors, who brings ya a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?
another nougat nugget:
when you’re stuck, write about the block,
what’s sticking you; one would have thought
some one thousand five hundred poems later,
this one would have been midwifed a long, long time ago,
but at 4:32am, it’s all I got
rather than throw false news confetti on myself
from the rafters that don’t exist in a citified apartment,
I’ll reward myself with some
rock n’ pop,
a revisitation to the scene of the crime, and listen quiet like and maybe leak back to prone sleep,
in hopes that the rest of the gang,
hoping the words to a poem-in-transit,
“confetti is just tomorrow’s garbage”
gets off at my dreamy new subway stop
should the wordy birdies shotgun come sneaking in
thru the correct ear
i.e. not the sunken pillow one,
so I have half a fat chance of
recalling its dimensions in an hour,
when I wake up-officially,
fat chance
later, like 4:56am
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2471979/confetti-is-just-tomorrows-garbage/
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 5:03 AM UTC
#…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)
A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…
Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.
Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)
God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
Three poets were walking down the street
Arm in arm in arm, in a state of grace,
A holy state of silence, all in an entranced embrace.
For as they gazed upon the earth's gifts,
Each called words to the fore, healers of rifts,
Each saw the same bounty, but oh so differently.
Lest their words collide,
They strode the streets smiling, undivided,
Chained by their tripartite touch, speaking nothing.
Smiling quietude at all the blessings observed,
They sensed each others's flow and struggle to serve,
To make the proper précis, of the universe within, without.
One saw thrones and rivers in the sky,
One fed us visions of his gardens, and the bird's tales,
One wrote what he saw, in words plain, as best he could.
What they could not see, not one,
They were a singular trinity, the world better for
Their gracious acceptance of the notion
That each one, saw the other as the poesy superior.
For poetry, if it is anything,
It is humility.
9:24pm
August 27 2013
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
When reason, spirit, and appetite meet
There-in my soul you do greet
A complicated mass of intention
Whose sole purpose is the want of attention
A stingy, selfish thing it is
But I am human
Of man.
And we are as selfish as a creature can get
For when the balance of these forces tip
Chaos of the soul
Mans weakness of will
The weakness of willing mind
To want
To hold
Something for all time
But a man made of mortal flesh
Cannot hope to beget
A love that is as immortal as the Gods
A love that is beautiful for all time
Goodness, and beauty are what we seek
A soul without love
Miserable and full of deceit
Of despair
Of mindful rot
Flaking off in fleshing decay
A loving heart is not meant to end this way
It is meant to mourn over the loss of life
To love a man/woman with all its might
To cry
To care
To kiss the morning with lamentations
To hold onto the feelings of sensation
A loving heart, a soulful mind
Is meant to imagine love for all time
Meant to dream
Never despair
Like breathing without air
But alas all I can do is dream
To write of love
But a wounded heart doth know
That before the burn, the ache
Of raw flesh
Salted
Prolonged in suspended agony
That there was beauty
There was magic
In the darkness of the night there was joy
Laughter in the alignment of her soul
Where her love was not new
But right where it should be
In her arms
Wrapped up
Held so tightly
She never thought of falling through
But no longer can she claim
Mindful retention
She could fall apart
One wrongful infliction.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
in my mind
all i really
wanted
was mind enough
to say no...
and yet
as i had knelt...
and as i had pleaded..
all i could ask for
was ignorance
and all i could say
was thank you
for all the venom---
still
it
feels just
a little bit sad
i couldn't
ask for more...
more drops
by
drops
wishing
wanting
waiting
washing down
falling
even deeper
ever faster
intoxicating
sating myself more and more in this
scrumptouos feast of more and more
and with every single mouthful
i take in
my appetite begs for more and more
yes
i am a wolf.
the lowest of the low
in a tripartite soul.
and i can't help
but fill myself up
no matter how much
i weigh myself down.
i just want more.
more of bullets
for every single word you say
more of icicles
for every single awkward touch
more of daggers
*for every single glare you look me
down with*
more of poison
*for every single lie you make me swallow
forcefully down my own throat saying
that you've always been true*
more of you...
*for every single night i waste
away lying wide awake lying
to myself about not regretting
every sound i taught, trained
my tongue to incarcerate until
you were no longer there to listen*
more of flames.
*the feeling i get whenever you
quench my burning aching hunger.*
more of flames
*that blazing glimmer i become
when everyone looks at all my
scars with disappointment.*
i want more of flames.
and i just want to burn it all down
along with you.
and then
i'd happily engulf myself
engorge myself
on all our
shared
pain
and
misery
knowing that no one will ever
knowingly share anything else with me...
let me bask
at least one last supper
in the blissful toxin
of our cannibalism
and one last time
we'll cast a miracle and
burn
in the gluttony
of our lustful intersuffering
drowning drunk
from the deathly fermentation
of our own flowing blood
knowing
we'll never again
have to wake up
with a killer of a hangover tomorrow.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 6:43 AM UTC
To the joy
We dance, we jest and joust
The complex interplay of two
Souls recognising selfness
Seeing the edges fit
To the sorrow
This memory fades, surely, swiftly
A conversation half remembered
The realisation that ..
I can't recall your voice
To the sweetness
A softly remembered moment
The curve of a finger
Tracing line across memory
To the senses
That I can't feel those arms
Lightly, a tear traces a path
I feel it slide down my cheek
Then unseen weight grips
To the Anger
Against moments expectation unmet
When the collision occurs
And unwanted words come forth
The rage unchecked
To the self
The clash of the ego and id
tripartite vying for casual dominion
Eros and Thanatos war
Action dictated by thought
To the internal
The experience of
A lucid world of love
of longing, of joy
And it's counterpart; sadness
As I remember that I will
Never see you again
We will never speak
You will not know
How much you are missed
To friendship
To the joy of finding each other
To the gift of you, selflessly given
To the kindness
To both sides of a being
To the present
To Finding ways to exist Sans those who've faded
Always to persevere
The interlocking of past and now
Always seeing and remembering the essence of their being
Just breathe
To the heart
No words exist for this journey
From innocence to sorrow
And back
But when led with..
Nothing is insurmountable
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
This teetotaler turns to tea
torquing temptation
towards tippling
thankfully, though
that tremendous tugging
teasing tendency thirst *******
thru teaching this totally tubular
toothless titular Texan thuggish tyrant
(titled Tsar Terry Troutman)
transcendental theology
tenets taught transferring
torpedoing, taming threatening
titanic tsunami tempest
tastefully tickling temperance
testing trying taut tenacity
together teaming (troika)
triumvirate torchbearers
*********** therapist
(Tony the tiger)
tough trailblazer theoretician
toady treacly Tory
(Tommy Two Tone),
thence thirdly Theodore
"Tornado" Tornetta)
themselves trained to tamp
twerking tremens triggers,
their tripartite treatment told
tattooing thorny transforming
took this then truant teenage turtle
through time traveling
to those truant tumultuous tragic,
toxic, tipsy twitchy, touchy, tetchy
typhoon terrible two times two
times two times two tantrum
throwing, thieving, threatening
taxing textured teen tinder times -
tossing, tilting, taking tankful tolled
throaty, thoroughly,
thickly telltale temblor
toured terrible tournament
testing taupe tumbling termagant (Thaddeus)
tangling (Tangoing) tiny Timothy,
the treacherous tarantula
tying tussling travail – tata!
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
Tripartite my body
along with poetry
inebriate and groggy
taking me endlessly
Body, soul, spirit
difficult to balance
exploitation of merit
Nirvana by chance
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
*Boethius wrote his tripartite definition of music
in a prison cell awaiting execution.*
Musica Instrumentalis
Supple tunes with dulcet harmonies,
echoing through hills and forests
soothe, enliven and assure us all
with nascent thoughts of unity.
Deep within its tonal weave
a soft voice whispers, “there is more.”
Music Humana
Bound within our pliant shells
with pumps and bones and sinews joined
chants an elemental litany, “You are one”!
Spun from helices of DNA.
our throats and tongues are set to motion
raising pleas to heaven, “Tell us more!”
Musica Mundana
Harmony reigns in interstellar space
with all in motion – all in place.
Celestial choirs with essence energy,
tuned and voiced to gravity's cosmic chords,
intone with interstellar euphony,
“We are music of the spheres from which all others spring.”
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
Man, tripartite entity,
of earth, water and air,
of body, soul and spirit,
of proteins, cells and organs,
of families, tribes, and cities,
of Kings, Houses and Nations.
Man is a part and One,
A fractal entity of Unity.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC