"undifferentiated" poems
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
In your world there are magnetic lines that draw your needle North. Polaris and the Great Bear guide you home from clear moonlit skies, so that you may stumble into your hearth at night. I was told that in my heart was a compass rose, with a needle like yours, pointed and true. But my directions are undifferentiated. Ursa hides behind dark clouds and the magnetosphere is interrupted by the fiercest of solar winds. The needle fights to find North caught in an endless loop. The way home is unknown. But somewhere I know you are waiting for me to arrive, for the storms to pass. You would wait a thousand years. And though my compass is broken, I am reaching out my arms to find my way through the brush. And someday I will find you.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
a shadow geist
out of the passing of time
reaches in me
grapples my heartstrings
tugs me away like a
like a stranded coastliner
and as it goes, I go,
and as you watch
in the darkness of interstellar space
you dim
to all but a faint sparkle
undifferentiated from other stars
but I won't confuse or lose you
I'll remember you
Even if I don't
I'll make something up in
place of the memory of you
I can't help but feel sorry
where am I now
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Anything visible, and
anything that can be grasped by thought,
is bounded.
Anything bounded is finite.
Anything finite is not undifferentiated.
The boundless is called Ein Sof, Infinite.
It is absolute undifferentiation in
perfect,
changeless
oneness.
Since it is boundless, there is nothing outside of it.
Since it transcends and conceals itself,
it is the essence
of everything hidden and concealed.
Since it is concealed, it is the root of faith
and
the root of rebellion.
As it is written, "One who is righteous lives by his faith."
We comprehend it only by way of no.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
*from now on,
all poems will,
that yet reside inside,
shall be here inscribed
why?
the line between music, song, lustrous life and love is indifferent
do not misunderstand - indifferent is not meant as uncaring but more as undifferentiated and interwoven into a singularly
so oft lives de-track, de-tract as threads become frayed and
the dye color fades, but once loved, cold is an excised word
from life’s Merriam Webster rulebook
in all my pain and sadness the embrued, embered kernel
yet faint glows
off and on, even a glance somehow brings it back, for of all
life’s lessons learned in everything, loss and grief,
the single thread snakes back, and there is love in everything
and in every unborn scream and script
so a journey ends and commences
in the same locus and locale,
the quest;
search and seek that love seed*
for there is only love poetry
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
the jhoola is damp from
evening rains
still I enjoy swinging under
misty twilight skies
the moon beaming a toothless grin
Funny how it all feels so real
solid, permanent
I’ll always be Sonya ki
in this familiar body,
surroundings and place
I gaze at puddles
of silvery water glistening
over the garden beds
visions from the past float to the
surface
not too long ago I was living in
Arkansas, and before that the big apple
childhood memories of my mother’s
comforting voice and soft lap
eclipses the other images morphing
into a cascade of ever changing
ephemeral moments in time
If nothing stays the same then
what is it that resounds through
the hills and valleys of my being
like an eternal echo
That fixed point where the sun never rises nor sets
Splendor enthroned within
Immortal witness
Beloved
“Consciousness is neither inward turned nor outward turned nor both
It is not undifferentiated, it is beyond cognition and non cognition.
Not experienced by the senses nor known by comparison or inference,
incomprehensible, unthinkable and indescribable,
pure consciousness, the real Self, the cessation of all phenomena,
tranquil, all-blissful, one without a second,
this fourth state (Turiya ), the Atma (Real Self)
(Eternal Witness)
is to be realized”
~Mandukya Upanishad
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:17 AM UTC
every man has his island,
his hiding places projected out loud
with blood power,
vernacular dreams &
ventriloquist voices.
among other things, madness -
an optical illusion
what you see is what you are
or seeing is believing
insideman and outsidemen
undifferentiated
the room has one view
on patched windows
indesire cutting deserted canyons
for the self-acclaimed King
(indesire wants nothing but to be,
to make room for islands in reality)
“be good, otherwise Haruka will come
to take you away, my child”
(what’s in a name
Haruka is “from far away”)
but children very rarely draw lines
caught in the furious chaotic circles of the world
now that every action has a reaction
reality principle is just a skin
holding the inside out & the outside in.
everyman has his island
of vexed fantasies
look into your eyes from outside in
before you see that fire
or anything else,
see this
-the beautiful war-
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
We're living a Dangerous Life,
tiptoeing on the Edge of a Knife.
What will come and take you in
The End?
Will it come from Behind
Or from Around the Next Bend?
Are We Here,
Really Here
Now?
...
The Everpresent Present
The Eternal,
The Undifferentiated,
dao
...
The Way of the Eagle
The Way of the Sun
The Way of the sweat
of the Toiling One.
The Way of the World,
The Way of The Track,
The Way of the Scorpion who rode
the Frog's back...
The Ways of Old We've left Behind
The Ways of New We must
Now design...
The Laws of the Jungle
And the Laws of Gods
and Men.
The Laws of Those Whose Land
We're In.
The Laws of Physics and
The Laws of Time.
The laws of lawyers and
of Organized Crime.
The Uncaused Cause,
...
And The Uneffected Effect.
The Unpolished Flaws,
And the Unfinished Project.
The Unwritten Rules and
The Unspoken Code.
The Unwitting Fools and
The Untraveled Road.
The Final Frontier,
And the Promise it gives...
The Things We Create
and the Life That Outlives...
The Dawn of the Century,
The Dusk of Mankind.
The birth of Something New,
Of a limitless Mind
Or is it really New?
Or was It done before?
And who is
the Ultimate Authority
on the Universe's lore?
And is Novelty
all that we aim to adore?
What about the Nothingness that came from
Before?
Did it have some Great Big Colorful Blob to explore?
Did We sunder the Stasis
forevermore?
...
Is there One God,
or an Infinitude?
...
What does it mean
to Truly Be
"The Dude?"
Or
Maybe the Many make up the One,
And from the One All
Things flow?
...
Have these Thoughts been Thought before?
How am I to know?
And
How about We Just Be
Good to Each Other
And
Help Each Other grow?
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 11:17 AM UTC
how can it be,
the mathematicians,
the statisticians,
can so well predict
the curvature of my day;
is my life so impoverished,
so undifferentiated, my course;
the climb, the leveling, the
ultimatum gliding, a summary
path to an unremarkable landing
probable outcomes of my
statistical profile so calculable;
my dreams, their peculiarities,
essences, massaged into conformity
hatch plot, deceive, it’s cool,
write a poem, unpredictable,
who could foretell, this scheme,
let’s keep a secret, tween us only,
cover the keyhole, so their eye
cannot peak inside the you and I,
two twice ten thousand indecipherable,
writer and reader, we one, inseparable
only we can decode the true meaning
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 12:43 PM UTC
For sale
..
We portray whatever it takes --
-
Go on alone
Be weak
..
We are too fragile to care
---
Hurt joy love hate
--
Merge together as a long afternoon merges faces and lives into a mess
Of
Undifferentiated misunderstanding
--
But it's a game we win at the end we say
For we make up all rules
And we claim the mastery over Fate
-- so it goes and is
Betray with a kiss
A fake smile
And a ton of hubris
And cold heartedness
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Love's the base line
Let us be and what would we lack?
Love's no elixir nor intoxicant
Love's the pure undifferentiated state of joy
Love's where we go when we let go of ourselves
And we let go of our games and our desires
And our pasts and our futures and our fates and destinies
Love is tasting good food and chewing till it's paste and sitting back and smiling feeling it energize every cell
Loves hoping everybody wins the poetry slam
Because what good would it be to be in it for yourself
For one person
Against the universe?
None of us are opposed in love,
We are the unbroken chain
But every link is not connected to just
The link in front and the link behind
It is connected to every link at once
It is connected to every link ever forged with the blacksmith's love
The chain doesn't draw a line between us,
It wraps around us and ties us together
Oh love is all I knew before this poem
And love is the effortlessness of every word
Because only Nothing could be easier than love
And love is to BE nothing
Because who could resist such loving completion?
Nothing is the soul of the universe
And anything at all is Nothing but Love
Love is finishing my speech and sitting down because I'd rather hear yours
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
the “undifferentiated” ethnicity of western europe
is so ****** obnoxious,
i’ll sell this secret to the american youth,
they think eastern european people are as undifferentiated
as that quote about the chinese... ‘ah, but they all look alike,’
then i’ll make the romanians, the bulgars,
the poles, the lithuanians look alike and take london’s shard apart...
the western europeans think they have the eiffel they own romance,
the western europeans think they have the big ben they own all time,
this hope for a geographic orientation and bordering of
the a to z will be northern this time, no mention of syria or judea,
no mention of carthage,
i just hope the yugoslavs enter the realm and leave no blind spots,
they’re so obnoxious those western europeans collectivising ethnicities to a region,
let’s collectivise them as colonial labradors - so rich from the gold of africa
they need to leech on the least afraid of death in the cocoon of disabilities
of their own societies so that john pepperfork esq. the third
can shove his ***** into a dead pig’s snout at oxford,
let’s pay them back with smiles and nicely tailored suits...
and if that old testament story is true...
can the prince of wales please recite me the polish alphabet in full,
speak a sentence of the language fluently and without an accent?
because that would be hebrew for me of the mt. sinai identity vox par.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
7 Millions spots of you and I
roaming in jungles and desserts
of the partitioned portions
back at the bone of humanity
speaking in voices as one
rolling as the dense population
seeking liberty and autonomy
failing as the world erodes
indecisive about the notions
of diversity and adversity
speaking in voices as one
in a world of words and verbs
freed of greed and misconception
in a field of broken chains
where truths are a daily meal
void of captivity and blindness
mysterious and unconsumed
undiluted and undifferentiated
7 Millions spots of you and I
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC
*we were prolonged to systematise a seeking of fame because we failed to imitate the Chinese in populace... it's a fake examination of what's necessarily practised, we need the populace, not the idol... North Korea shares one proof the west shares too many, we need people able in the workforce and happy in the bedroom... not the other way round... the bedroom is godly privacy and not *********** get your heads straight! we were not taught to idol worship only because one died on a crucifix... can we at least reclaim the ******* bedroom while you're on your hands and knees? i guess not... **** 'em, get the shortcut out... yes yes, get the Niqab out, they won't learn otherwise.*
i know why the lone wolf howls...
the Arcadia stimulant, the anticipation
of a chase - i know why the lone wolf
howls - it's the perversity of
the herded sheep worth
adding to the equation as easy
target without a shepherd...
i know why the lone wolf howls
so adamantly suited to loneliness...
his heart the yeast of harvest
and the succumbing hearts akin, each,
the same wheat shafts, whatever haircut
whatever shirt, whatever need,
the consolidator of dead bodies,
the leveller - whatever you attempted
to make you different in life, made you
undifferentiated in death.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
Am I a plain being
that blends in with all
just another shade of grey
an empty call
for I feel unappreciated
unnoticed trying hard
for I am undifferentiated
feeling lost
just another broken shard
apart of something bigger
but sadly just as plain
like a dark rushing river
feeling all the same
empty, broken, boring
these things apply
lost, lifeless, mourning
the words just fly by
I try hard and what do I get
a colorless empty palette
a raindrop same as all others
uncared for tossed aside
just like all the others
a bleak being of wrong existence
a mistake made
erased indifferent
a failure a group of many
why there's too much there's plenty
then there are those good
who cast us shame
so perfect we are entertained
wishing we could just start over
life has no second chances
move over
it's a new generations turn
your done
look at your life you had no fun
your goals were never met
you see
there's too many of you and me
in truth were the same
but I'm just feeling plain
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 12:50 PM UTC
I'm bound by the sound
Of my own beating heart, let's start.
Not a battle, but a way to drop and rattle.
It's taking me back up to the top, now, explain everything from the beginning, stop.
Dropped all the pieces in this room, a makeshift tomb.
Twisting names and games.
Through no shame, you gain.
The inevitable urges to tip yourself over all of your verges.
Naming rhymes and taking the climb.
To the undifferentiated child, we can go wild.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 2:05 AM UTC
after having slurped such oysters
and mawled such mole-anal
mounds - perfected the steak tartar -
it's almost inconsistent with
the fact that i can:
welcome some sort of civility
in this fragile medium of writing...
i dare say: notably prostitutes -
Puerto Rican, Bulgarian or Ukrainan...
i might as well have
soaked my mouth in a sponge
dipped in olive oil -
and to even think it possible,
having slobbered in these
regions to then pry open an
Augustine repentance -
and claim a god,
having stretched
beyond imagination
the do of invited crude...
to keep a pristine mouth in
both affairs seems contradictory -
i dare say:
no lesser creature is accounted
for, other than in pure jest:
better cloaked...
i can only fathom performing
oral *** on a woman when
first, able, in appreciation
of the fruit of Poseidon -
nice, tacky, it's not a case of
poetic wording,
what, if not the grit of
a hog's snout rummaging in filth?
there is a deep seeded melancholy
in these words...
i am rotating on an axis
of unredeemable consequence...
man the tool use,
woman the floral imbue -
god at best no socio-political ideal -
rather the same stuff of
"encrypted" rudiment;
if i concern myself with god
i concern myself as performing oral
*** on a woman, and her onomatopoeia
resounds deaf in the ears of god,
for my tongue in her... ahem...
is the sort of tongue in the skull
akin to the undifferentiated
claim of animal:
due to ****** man is no more
than a wolf's creed -
talk of man is akin to a cat
purring - while a cat's meow is
man's ****** -
all is well, gott ist taub.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
Do we feel it when it all falls unconscious
What if all the mothers on the planet
Were ensconced into their hearts simultaneously
And if for a single moment
There was freedom from the tyranny
Of endless duties and responsibilities
Would it all fall apart at once
I beg your pardon
But tonight's sunset was one of the Sun's most fertile deposits
So what if we were to shun the day
And instead make love to the darkness of the desert
For the pheasant is my ancestral totem
And it is obvious in the moonlight
That you motion to me like a novice
For after you and I are seduced by the harvest
We can choose first among the stardust
Its true that all this was once our own garden
From a time when we first learned to become human
Until we eventually return to the understory
Of our aboriginal commonality
We are still happening
We are learning to shun acceptance
And make due with unexpected lessons
We are undifferentiated fantasy
In lands of cholera and chronic romances
We are far from perfect
But we still always try to do our best
And i don't expect you to protest anything
And if we dance for days against the apathy we make
And spray gradients of sound from our awakening
Into the pleroma’s defiance
We can try out our mouthpieces
And seek fingers of lightning
At a height quite defiant
Whenever we get uptight like a runway
Sundays are always smiling
And whenever we make love
We break records with our bodies
Against the conundrums
Of being polished too roughly
We funnel living diamonds
Into pipelines of supply and demand
Like cats and mice we chase trends around bends
Of commerce and economic insurgency
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 4:59 PM UTC