"tripod" poems
The Buddha slept under the night sky on His back
eyes open; fearless love looked up. humbling the majesty
of the Void's gift.
eyes fixed... both peerless.
first among equals.
but transcendent.
The Buddha,
wearing grass-stained robes
chose a blank spot
for a blank stare
" Nowhere Girls are EveryWHERE "
He thought, astonished.
a moment after
where once He stood
there Was No
spoon.
[ PART ii ] NOT THE KOAN BUT THE KOAN THAT YOU GOT
on the X-ray zen splints were clearly spidered webs in ghost bone... how should I feel that my sensei saw the X-ray first?
life is where the answer to this question is a real thing draped in ominous clarity like a town fool, the beggar foreclosing
on your house of cards, the winged swine and some guy named Patrick having a smoke in your face; the mailman, who
always looks so serious about your trivia in a blue hat... who always trips over your precious dying very potted plants!
yes, all that, or maybe not. saute some fresh green kale in olive oil with fresh garlic
[ give it to me ] and i'll tell you that was very thoughtful, and right then;
it would also be
true.
for a minute there... you and i were typing you reading this part.
these are the diamonds.
my exposure to the radiation is everlasting in the middle of it's brief long duration
my ghost bones wear new flesh like iPod headphones, don't hate the player
[ better yet ]
make a macaroni necklace. go wild. be reckless.
it'll cost you an ounce of real kimchi
from the motherland
with the ugly
sister.
i wouldn't put it pass you. cause that would be clairvoyance, and you already know!
a loose tooth entrenched in candy apple can't taste your stupidity but has bad dreams!
some people will always look at you the wrong way and appreciate
how you sat perfectly still for hours; you only took a break to suggest
a better room with southern exposure to eastern thought.
when you threw in a Tripod, they knew you were somekinda somethin'.
and they knew it all along
but juuust wasn't
sure.
and kumquats are quantumly eaten.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Spilled ink.
Old film.
Crumpled paper.
The click of a shutter.
Pens dying.
Wiping lenses.
Flashlights under the covers.
Struggling with a tripod.
Daydreaming.
The Rule of Thirds.
Tattered pages.
Beautiful sunsets.
Coffee shops.
Skittish animals.
3 am.
Cropping.
Always thinking.
The horizon line.
The frantic search for pen and paper.
Frustrated with trying to capture the beauty of the world In a small package.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
A quiet evening
A man watering his lawn
As I walk up my street
Listening to jazz
The noise box
Is blaring
When I come home
Too much television
I'd like to turn it off
I walked up the street
My familiar akward shoulder
My familiar imbalance
I found a a branch
It made a tripod
And supported me
As I walked
It also served
As the horns
Of the cornuto
Or cuckold
As I put it over me
"Look at me, a cuckold"
Haha
The horns of a cuckold
No woman to cuckold me
Perhaps I am cuckolded by
The women I watch
In *** videos
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
Physician Nature! Let my spirit blood!
O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme;
Let me begin my dream.
I come -- I see thee, as thou standest there,
Beckon me not into the wintry air.
Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, --
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
A smile of such delight,
As brilliant and as bright,
As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,
I gaze, I gaze!
Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
What stare outfaces now my silver moon!
Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least;
Let, let, the amorous burn --
But pr'ythee, do not turn
The current of your heart from me so soon.
O! save, in charity,
The quickest pulse for me.
Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe
Voluptuous visions into the warm air;
Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath,
Be like an April day,
Smiling and cold and gay,
A temperate lilly, temperate as fair;
Then, Heaven! there will be
A warmer June for me.
Why, this, you'll say, my ***** is not true:
Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
Where the heart beats: confess -- 'tis nothing new --
Must not a woman be
A feather on the sea,
Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
Of as uncertain speed
As blow-ball from the mead?
I know it -- and to know it is despair
To one who loves you as I love, sweet *****
Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,
Nor, when away you roam,
Dare keep its wretched home,
Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
Then, loveliest! keep me free,
From torturing jealousy.
Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,
Or with a rude hand break
The sacramental cake:
Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
If not -- may my eyes close,
Love! on their lost repose.
2.4k
Someone came and
knocked one of my legs
out from underneath me
and I fell to the ground
not feeling at all stable
but shaken and confound
I'm usually quite good
at keeping it together
but now my composure
is worse not better
My tripod is all wobbly
and I feel discombobulated
One of my support legs
has a genetic anomaly
and until this leg
gets healthy again
She will need to lean on
the other two sides
We will get through this
together dear sister
With love as our guide
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
FROM his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod -
Crouched beneath its dusky cover -
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence -
Said "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.
1.8k
The significance of the number three
Is everywhere
In religion and life
but the number three
Has a deeper meaning to me
Three sisters
Two green eyed
One brown
We are forever bound
Together
A tripod of love
Two would not do
Three is geometrically stable
The Love we share
I am eternally grateful
Sisters only we truly understand each other
because we all come from the same place
We all have been running the same crazy race
As different as we are the same
Saying things at the same time
Finishing each others sentences
As if we can read each others mind
Keeper of all my secrets
Loving me despite all my weakness
Laughter through tears
and tears through laughter
Help wipe away the tears thereafter
We will always be Sisters and Best Friends
but more importantly
We are Survivors
We can do anything
if we have each other to lean on
Our own Tripod of Love
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
FLASH
"the exposure looks kinda funny"
"maybe just adjust the aperture a bit"
"add in the lighting"
"is the white balance set?"
the chair squeaks as it moves to the left
the weight shifts the couch in their direction
heat radiates from the family
whose fake smiles are nearly as blinding as the flash from the camera
despite the tripod, the camera sits off kilter
like the uneasy tension in the room
it feels hot--no, sweltering
unsettled emotions sit like
discarded mail
away and out of sight
CLICK
"Okay, we're good"
and the family heads off in their separate ways
with no goodbyes for the others
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 1:01 AM UTC
Someday I hope to love you
The same way small children love to name their turtles Speedy
and
Three legged hamsters Tripod
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
She was the face of the century.
We'd all believed the age of heroes was past
but she was the real thing -
brilliant, brave beyond belief and wise,
and the planet - the whole planet -
was proud to have her as ambassador.
And when the broadcast arrived,
proof that we had spanned the solar system
and set foot on another planet,
every Earthling eye gazed, every ear strained,
so as not to miss a word.
"..."
Martian sky. Red dust. Second transmission.
"...
"I know...
"I know you are watching me.
"I know that this is the moment,
"the moment you have waited for.
"Seven months ago I left you. It's hard
"to hold your breath for seven months!"
Across the globe, people laughed and gasped.
"Seven months."
A pause.
"Seven months, and enough money
"To end poverty
"across most of the Earth."
Heads were scratched.
Where was this going?
"Well, everyone, here I am.
"I can see you, you know. A star,
"A dot in the black - that's you.
"And that dot -
"Oh, that precious, beautiful dot!"
Eyes moistened. Friends embraced.
"Where every speck of dust is a home
"for something.
"Where even the forgotten scrapings
"Of last week's dinner
"plays host to LIFE!
"Air to breathe!
"Water to drink!
"So many, many things to love!"
Thirty two seconds of silence.
"Why did you send me here?"
Fifty three seconds of silence.
"This is hell."
And with that
she placed the camera on a tripod
stood before it
and removed her helmet.
The once fierce eyes
quickly bulged and reddened
skin puckered and peeled,
frost scorched and suffocated
lips, best known for forming momentous words
turned first blue then purple
and blood flowed freely
from her nostrils.
She slumped, fell,
knocked over the camera.
End of transmission.
The whole broadcast had lasted just seven minutes.
She was already dead by the time we heard the first word.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
The Easel and the Tripod
She created from paints his capturing was done through a camera lens from the towering canyons of
New York to the windswept desert their love and fame grew proportionately how large can love grow
When it has such backdrops and talents fused together the height and strength of New York’s
Skyscrapers to the vastness and richness of New Mexico’s desert that is missed by most but through the
Eyes of Georgia O Keefe the dead items took on a vibrancy and life and through her husband Alfred
Stieglitz she was revealed as artist and beloved only as a man giving full vent to his heart and the
Emotions that were found there oh heart shine through this prism of painting and photography the
Lucid the albescence of pretext with brush and pallet and the keenness of eye to see into the depths
Give expression then adjust it in a minor way then capture on glass plates the indescribable desire that
Lies hidden but is the center of emotions intent none so inclined will ever weary this well tells of
Never ending depths a stranger will ever only be able to scratch the surface because the power of love
Truly is mysterious beyond compare to look upon another release all restrictions give command to
Decrement the probe will find only the enlightened exquisite inner and outer collusions that occur
Briefly but are ever after defined by that moment the merging of two into one by common interest
You have crossed the unknown unchartered waters but in them are found the most accomplished life
That can ever be found an easel and a tripod is a silent witness and a grounding point that energy is
Released across the span of the earth and touches the Cosmos and will call infinity home love started
Of truth will never be extinguished by time or eternity so therefore go into your own gallery of the mind
Stand at the headwaters of bliss it is time to celebrate undying love
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
iv 5-2-18
wrest the black tang the cosmic vacuum of background static and an ungainly dream of walking down a mountain path with my father we descend the silent belly of campus seats filled with mounted bodies lolling the inside stench anna walks ahead of me her voice cuts the waking body of midnight shuttles a hydroponic plant and the sparse parking lot of a supermarket radiating cold.
the fright, the nervous flesh, the stuttered pace of cars, the empty lot, the empty hour, the empty admission of make-belief, collapsing into precession at the peak of worthlessness.
ii 22-1-18
An endless stream, the back of an apartment block, fingers twine across the powder red of brick and sunlight.
I try to catch a glimpse of myself in her eyes, but beyond recognition there is nothing.
I see my father behind a sliding door. He moves further into the kitchen to take pictures from a tripod.
Clothes litter the ground. Nothing fits.
iii 4-2-18
the cracked linen STOP the momentary arrogance STOP the surfacing violence STOP the weathering STOP
A YELL torpid stultifying CRASH cruel ******* trace of the same
and all i can do is shrink as green tea soaks the tablecloth.
i 31-1-17
The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
The photographer
says to sit
and be at ease.
You sit on the chair
he has left for you.
Eye the studio
old photos on the walls
a tripod and camera
in front.
He standing there
bespectacled
dark haired.
You want
your photograph
with the headpiece on?
he says.
Yes it was my mother's
you reply.
He nods
and arranges
the headpiece
to set it straight
and even at the sides.
You have very
distinctive eyes
he says
standing back
gazing at you.
Your nose
is straight
and aligns
with the center
of your chin.
You say nothing
your nerves are bad
you want him
to get on with it
but sit waiting.
He takes the camera
and sets it before you.
He disappears
behind the camera.
You freeze
frightened to move
your hands stiff
in your lap.
Relax
he says
the camera
won't bite.
You feel hot
in the black dress
you sense
your underclothes
stick to your skin.
You try and relax
pretend he's not there
but behind him
over his shoulder staring
is your mother's ghost
or so seems
like a figure
haunting dreams.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 8:55 AM UTC
I could have saved her
Wasted, waste down
Caroline, oh Caroline
It could have been me
Distorted noise
friends upwind of the screams
It's never enough
They never had enough
Beach chair, mangle
Tripod, classic
Ripped from the great novels
Footage with a sun kissed tint
The foliage underfoot
Face down
In the bloodied mud
Where is the love
It's not enough
There's not enough love
Guide her above
Clouds like gloves
Caroline, oh
Caroline oh where do you go
Traffic warped noise from the boys
Explicit wickedness
Extrapolated desires
Extraordinary circumstance
Circumvented rent cheques
Caroline are you at rest yet?
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
lassitude lassoed her
she let her tripod hide in her hatchback
and woke not her camera
from its long nap
instead, she sat, a bowl of popcorn
in her lap, watched reruns of Madmen
and ogled a multitude of mushy moons
on Facebook's finicky feed
some were orange, some ivory
some gibbous, some round, all purporting
to be profound
this rare occurrence, captured copiously
in 2D, for all to see, and wonder, why shadows
on rocks rub us right, while myriad stars collapse every night,
and planets thought to be elegantly aligned,
are but bobbing bubbles
in an infinite sea
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
*Who cares for black and white?
Start from the shades of grey
Sweetest of all surrenders
Believe in imagination.*
In an ideal setting the mind should rush form past to future to merge finally into something called present . However the reality principles follow another path. The thoughts rush from all three domains and we can't make any distinction which comes first or which comes last. In our minds it’s the bizarre flow and rush in the synapses, the chemicals the receptors never in an unidirectional fashion but to and from every nook and corner like a web. I always believed that the imagination is nothing but the extension of reality. Just think how easy the life would be if we didn't have the power to distinguish the reality from imagination. It would be the moment of bliss when every night the psyche would be in unison with the surrounding.Through some means if we could break that thin ice layer defining the boundary of real and imaginary; the mind would have a different face. What if the imagination could give the same intensity of the perception (like hallucination, the luxury of few lucky ones) in the mind of all the individuals with simple the stimulus of thought? When I think about the dinner at French restaurant with the fine quality wine and if taste buds could sense them then the world would be sane. Some say sanity is the idealized fiction. By all the permutation and combination, deriving from my insanity, I came to a conclusion that the world is waiting to end that fine line - tripod of mind in unison .I dun think it takes much to ask!
Well just a thought …
-PS
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
He wanted to take charge of life again
and use slide film with his Canon EF SLR this barren year,
and give long stares to all those Tripod Digitalits
outside Victoria Station
creating their own version of affordable youth,
thinking pixel dust would swam them along.
He felt the strain of believing in the recent past,
please intentionally use your typewriter and record player
you need to create 1982 again!
The Christmas meal would on the 21st
like a flea in a dog's ear
too near the exile of Christmas
He feared the break would make him stir crazy,
2013 would emerge
surely more of the same.
A risible Tory Government
perhaps alternative comedy was far from dead.
"Splitting Image" would be their neutron Bomb,
Such thoughts made him want to love the common people again
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
The tripod of deception,
Sown by our fathers,
Tended by our mothers:
Hausas, Igbos, and Yorubas.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
I do not abide by societies ******** requirements.
I scream
**** SOCIETY.**
at the top of my lungs.
I refuse to be like anyone but myself
I refuse to sit behind a desk and hold a 9-5.
I refuse to wear dress pants and carry a briefcase.
living in a big empty house.
I'd rather wear flowers in my hair.
rings on every finger.
barefoot.
traveling all over the world with my
camera. my tripod. pad and pen in hand.
documenting my travels.
the people I meet.
the places I go.
the beautiful scenery I see.
I'd rather live in a small shack with my children and lover.
I'd go outside every evening after the kiddies are asleep,with my mason jar of ginger ale in one hand and a book in the other as i watch the sun set.
alone.
with nothing to distract me but my thoughts.
O.Rob.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
a glass tripod menagerie
set inconspicuously against
the room's only blue wall:
i reached out to touch
the carnival mirror in the east,
splintering its unbaked ceramic surface,
raining shards of pseudo-sunlight
across my back, in my eyes,
in my side betwixt my ribs;
(scene shift)
lying among the poppies of
my younger years, collecting their dew;
i was fed pungent sage cakes
baked by a strange man
named Mordecai, who rants about
gardening techniques, espousing
the spiritual value of tearing
the treacherous heart out while
it still beats, as he prepares
more cakes for the remaining guests;
(scene shift)
in the bleachers, watching old friends
watch a beautiful female athlete
play raquetball with my treacherous
rubber heart, silently glad
that at least she had not
eaten my oatmeal or broken
my fingers off with a car door;
the roar of the cheering crowd
made my ears ring out loud
vertigo gripping hollow chest aching
AWAKE!
bolted upright, clawing in search of the wound, gaspingfranticdiscombobulatedandsuddenly...
calm...
the memory of my eaten heart,
and the look in your eyes
when you did it.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
ever hear
a voice in the garden
that
made you become
startled,
inquiring:
what
the **** was that?!
huh?!
i was the object
of said "what"?
RAP?
exclusion remarks
in the realm of poetics.
i died....
and Homer went
blind.
oh...
oh
oh.....
oh...
the part
where i don't
care to mind,
and the part where
you...
but i wasn't
the white boy
who subjected
your people
to perform
jew...
oh... sowwy, whaat?
legal nomad..
thingy...
peoples doing
**** with jewels,
in hobo,
in...
roma bracelets...
******* squirt worth a ****
vodoo!
******* vodoo!
tripod:
that one thing legged...
standing on 'a' 'un leg...
merry ******* christmas
come northern ireland...
savvy?!
you bet... beat
the bacon!
fucking hare krishna...
i die, and the warning sign
says:
scrap through
the "gravy"...
lucky loser,
no. 2!
bricktop:
people doing ****
with diamonds...
utter.. bonkers...
me... you...
hush-hush...
bonkers-brigade....
******* east london
vowel crisp
cut and pig-me...
loose ends...
******* shy of a boxing munch...
take your tirade to
a recital of Macbeth
via...
Tehran...
you...
*******
wanker!
otherwise?
w'ha are 'e'
lovelies?
eh?
you skill or somethin'
more, or w'ha?
bricklayer 'ert or
sum'fin worth the fix?!
give me 'um some *******
cajole!
meaning! news!
you fork's worth
of a nibble on a use
of a *****
******* pansie...
fucking ******
start ********
or bitch-yourself into
an ease...
with warring-to-come...
ye'... gobshite i ain't buying...
tough man tought
mouth...
punched bit a little...
god...
i'm gagging!
itchy sort...
like... you want to sort
the sort from the sort!
******** **** glug *******
wanna scrap them
on the guillotine of
scratch of
the tongue lick
of: a...
shaven-lick...
sheryl crow...
grammy award album...
1997...
30 or so years later?
good luck hitchhiking
with a jukebox interlude.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 10:24 PM UTC
becky; Rebecca; cappuccino
extra light soya milk mocha
tripod two for a table,
and some numbers
telling them: buy full fat milk
dilute with water,
why waste the energy
of economies
on semi-skimmed &
ghoul skimmed milk:
scare the children
ageing, engulf and balloon
all phobias, scare the children,
scare the children ageing...
scare them by becoming a child,
scare children by becoming
a child d r a' c u l (l).
i dare to own the night:
fireplace friendly
people, fear the posh ***
on a bench looking smug
in the night with a marlboro red
packet of cigarettes
and bottled beer, esp. spanish...
you never know when guilt tripping
managed to get a high-street label
coat-hanger for the skeleton.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 6:25 PM UTC
A hunk of bakelite
Clothed in dusty silk
Skulks in the basement,
Silently shrilling
In disconnected tones.
Beside it, on the shelf,
A well-worn Polaroid,
Neatly boxed in original packaging,
Wonky tripod pointedly retracted.
A faded leather wrist-strap
Clings to a yellow stained face,
Where bent fingers forever recall
Three-thirty-eight-and-seventeen-seconds.
Products of a generation
That raced off to chase the ever new,
Never standing still,
Onwards and onwards, until
One day when they come
To sit upon the shelf,
And to reminisce
Of all that might have been.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
A long while ago,
A very long while ago,
There was a man,
The man was perfect,
In every way but one,
As his heart was full of daggers,
And his eyes burned like the rising sun.
He sat upon a tripod,
And questioned what the world stood for.
Many would ask,
"Why?"
But the only answer they would get,
Would be nothing,
As his heart was full of daggers,
And his eyes burned like the rising sun.
Once,
Someone dared to question him,
And their heart was soon full of daggers,
And their eyes burned like the rising sun.
So he sat upon his tripod,
Where no one dared sit,
And questioned the world,
Just like a hypocrite.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC