"valence" poems
***A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)
one poem, written by two authors***
~~~
**Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.
From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.
The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value**
(written by S.D., a woman)
~~~
(written by N.L., a man)
unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected
the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own
every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing
a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship
all these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,
instantaneously compromised
but,
***it is upon the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality
while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:
every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the
princes of principles,
valence and value
that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,
her character
this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky***
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
people build
their homes
out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill
by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed
from the color of the walls
and state of the floor
right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap
and the way the words
come out of their mouths
*i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap
tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out*
and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast
the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway
with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives
yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window
*your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night*
and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter
*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side*
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
So many minds
have filled this space
thinking of math and physics
Vectors and integrals,
derivatives and valence
mean little to us-
except the rolling assonance
of the repeated vees
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
Heavy
Hard to find
Made to blind
Native to the air
Never a match
Cameras catch
My brilliant flash
Intensely luminous
Inert bondless boundless
Brilliant under pressure
Near weightless to measure
Alone a harmless asphyxiant
The living keep their distance
The dead are drawn to the brilliance
Fluorine bonds but it’s a valence
I would be the element Krypton
If the galaxy were a neuron
You would be my fluorine
We crave the current
Rarely apparent
That makes us
Flamboyant
Transparent
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 1:31 PM UTC
It's the nonesense that haunts me. The bits drifting in that don't add up. I'm gagging on the bits, it's killing me.
I am all the far flung dreams in me, the hopes that drive the need in me, the need to wake. Motivated.
I'm draining out the ***** water, refilling from purer streams. I'm working my way from right to left, pulling levers. Pressure's building, dust sifting from my imagination. I'm driving myself forward, pain no longer a distraction. The bits of me not fitting, will be drifting. I'm moving off, sailing out into the galactic tide, all the valence specks, frozen in space.
I am an extension, the ultimate manifestation, the unending arm of the universe. I am the cosmic Katana.
Aug 19, 2010
Aug 19, 2010 at 9:35 AM UTC
"BUG"
I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia" good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
I learned about Oxalic Acid
At seventeen
When less than anxious for yet more information
More notes on a chalkboard
In a malodorous Sulphurous school room.
Hastily copied in pencil
Scribbled then and required to be transformed
Later, into copperplate, almost textbook pages.
To be judged as adequate; or not.
Oxalic Acid; not as deadly.
But in a close league,
To the clear deadly liquids
Held in the dusty skull marked bottles
Within easy reach of any manic schoolboy.
Dusty bottles in a rack
In a rack on a bench
On a bench where I sat
Where I sat wondering why my mind
My sharp juvenile mind would never grasp
Molecular Valence Theory quite as well
As the taste of a girls lips
The smell of her hair
The ring of her laugh
The answer to a question in her eyes.
Years later
When that girl had gone
I read that Oxalic Acid is found in Rhubarb leaves.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
I was vacant:
dust wafted off the window-sill, swirling in the afternoon sun
when you came, rapping green fists on my empty door
peering into my cloudy windows, glancing at the address
shrugging
and letting yourself in without a key.
You floated across the creaking floorboards of the foyer,
sweeping my cobwebs into a corner.
Did I forget to leave you the dustpan?
You strode through glass-pained doors into the kitchen,
scrubbing my china with the cold iron-water that poured forth from my pipes.
Did I neglect to provide you with lye?
After you lumbered up the stairs, coughing on mothballs,
I imagine that you shook your head at the tassels
hung on my fraying valence,
for soon enough you hurried your way
back down the stairs
into the kitchen
through the foyer
and out of my door.
I wonder—
Was it the dust?
Was it the dishes?
Did you ever stop to open my curtains?
Did you ever peer out the window, and into the gardens below?
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
I'm hemorrhaging
Bleeding confidence
Hollow and deprived
Striving to survive
Caught between my apathy and dismay
Severing the life I once carried within me
Fill up my lungs with decay
And pretend in a usual way
I'm hemorrhaging
Time to switch veins
Here I am a zombie
Is this how Jesus felt?
Was once alive striving to help
Now walking dead forgotten on a shelf
Cast aside and sentenced
An empty room in which to reflect
A concentration camp
Please, do not interject
The chokee as she called it
With all do respect
I get sentenced to this place
A place to resurrect
The sentences are what I fear
Revolving in my head
They tickle trace and mock my face
PLEASE DO NOT INTERJECT
time to switch lanes, veins, valence, evade...
oxygen in my head
The oxygen
in my
brain
Hemorrhaging
The vain
vane
vein
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 6:47 AM UTC
*dreams in colors that don't exist,
and 'mares re dear sir, deadlines missed,
wrestle~arrest poet,
instant awake
in the wee time,
pouring liquidity,
fluids and words,
puddling, stinking,
coming,
from the
always dangerous,
always interesting temple inner inside,
sanctimonious no more sanctum*
this particular sleep,
shortened, irretrievable,
bookmarked "closed,"
chapters,
hours too soon,
this rest business,
arrested
filed in an ugly
grey metal file cabinet,
in an unfinished manila prison
with your other unimportant poems
*the dark room universe
populated by
hints, shadows, voices,
waiting, welcoming,
mirrors on the walls
unified in one voice
deep, obtuse,
demanding recognition
"hither hither come"*
forced march
to a visitation,
to the the parition,
of your reflection,
clearest ever seen,
in the black pitch,
uncovered by guise, feathers
the clothes of normative pretenses,
the man-made borderlines of
preservation falsehoods
*seen your own semblance,
parts rearranged,
uncanny,
the mirrors are screaming:
shameful lovely,
this, our artistry,
your apparition,
now accurate,
reflecting your under-
lying
condition,
at last,
an accurate portrayal,
of your inaccuracies*
do you find yourself attractive?
this new balance,
the unregulated pieces
of you
before your dissembling,
discerning,
dissecting eyes?
*feeling the valence,
an introduction,
a physical magnetism
any attraction
any resemblance
to the semblance
that writes
this s.o.s.?*
answer us thus,
do you up
and like yourself
unvarnished,
grunge, swag,
truth trammeled,
don't you want to kiss yourself
goodbye,
or better yet,
fare thee hell?
*go ahead,
ask yourself now,
that one question
that prevents conception,
from your inception,
what is it that
makes you exceptional?*
don't you realize,
everything about you
ends in a question mark?
*how dare you write poetry?
you are the false poet,
you live on the division
tween artifice and self-deception,
this, your only precept,
and now that you are
clarified,
answer this,
knowing you know
nothing
but artifice,*
how dare you write poetry?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
A wonderfully wise and awakened man once said,
**** myself or love myself, which is the treason?"
and that is a question that roams and moans in my mind
i have an army of searchers inside my skull
scouring for the answer, looking for a sliver
of sense to provide clarity through my abundance of clouds
and this man was an honest poet and a belligerent drunk
though he is famous in his life and even after his death
but if I were to die five minutes ago, where are the tears?
who would be holding their knees to their chest in fear
of their skin running away and their bones shattering in pain
Would there be at least one soul to moan into the night
when they think that no one is listening to their begging
and pleading to the stars to send me back into their arms?
If I were to die an hour ago, would there be a news broadcast
in the honor of a teenage girl who did too many drugs and
wrote words with a unique penmanship that mixed print
and cursive in a construct of phrases that made little sense
to anyone that didn't also have their own army inside their skulls?
So, I pose this question to myself every day in the bathroom mirror:
**** myself or love myself, which is the treason?" and I hope,
if i prove to be wrong and an afterlife carries our souls upon the arrival
of a hearse to our homes and a tear to our parents' eyes that the wise
and wonderfully awakened man had found his answer,
but did not understand it. For I am crippled by the fear of not knowing,
though also by the thought of being content and no longer looking
deeper than the valence shell of my own twisted and sad mind.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
As I lay in the corner
hunched over in tears
you stand before me in shadow,
we've not spoken in years.
"How are you, what's it like?" I implore,
met with comfortable Silence:
Enlightenment galore.
Though you have not recently
been in this realm,
you seem to be fine
and quite underwhelmed.
"There's nothing quite like it"
you reply with a grin
"It's almost like someone
got rid of Sin,"
"Why is it you wish
to know what it's like?
Perhaps you would like
to come on a hike?"
"No, I'm not quite ready
for that I'm afraid;
I've too much yet to do today,
there's much Art to be made."
"Ah yes, so I see
this seems to be true,
but who cares for such Art,
Art made by you?"
"I care not for how many care for it,
but I do care that anyone does at all.
I wish to immerse myself in all kinds of expression,
to preclude a sort of subconscious regression.
I care not for those who seek profit, like you,
but I would like to perchance become a Prophet anew;
though not of an -ism or even an -ology,
though perhaps for some secular abstract new-found old Spirituality.
One wherein all is but creative Godself
looking at itselves
in trillions of shattered mirrors
upon multidimensional shelves
and, odd though it may seem,
All is One through it,
yet as separate, All dreams."
"You, my Child, may be a gift unto Man.
Were I alive, I'd be your number one fan."
"You flatter me, Apparition,
but you were already my fan
far before my Path ever even began.
Still, I must ask, if indeed I can;
O familiar Ghost, tell me, what is thy plan?
"My plan, my Child, is to live on within you,
to continue your journey upon this thy subtle Path.
To set ablaze this boundless passion I sense within you.
To live in the shades of greys between the Black and White
To know that you are alive.
To know that you ever lived.
Your Mother and I both deeply love you
and though I have died, I live on within you."
And that was the last
conversation I had
with my dear old friend
that I had in my Dad.
T'was not in the land of the waking
this conversation was had,
t'was in a dream he spoke to me,
my ethereal Dad.
I seek neither pity nor compassion for Pain,
I seek only to try to explain
the infinitely vivid field of Experience
to which we're all subjected by some strange spirit valence:
**Thy Path, thine in Time.
You walk it for a reason,
even if obscured.
Time unfolds thy Path,
yet before Time was it set;
thine and thine alone:
Let no thing stray thee from thy Path.**
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
When my sun is down
But you're feeling up to something,
I'd catch the closest train
To take us to the world.
A world away from here
Or I'd build a fort in the living room
Complete with a damsel in distress
Only if it meant that
Your fingertips
Could save the words I
Could not speak
Or I'd float above the ceiling
To a cloud by which holds
the name of Ten
Ten, Ten. Tender
To the touch
I am no great
literary piece,
but an atom in a world
full of molecules.
Attracted to the valence
of allure
Would you catch my dreams
Somewhere in your arms?
Be the ocean for my raindrops?
Find me a picture
To smile at
In the cotton ball sky?
Be the rustle in the trees
and the stone that created
a perfect skip?
Be my glass of wine
at the end of the day
or the perfect blotch of paint
that makes the picture whole?
Because I find a beauty
Somewhere in your stranger heart.
I've imagined every life
except the one I have.
As you pass me by
I'll never have to guess what
Could have been.
I already know.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
*Silent Circles
Suspended in light
Spiraling eloquence
Reflecting the night
In a dance
One shadows
Then becomes shadowed
Circling each other
Within passions sight
Ruling sun rays
Lines them up
To each an audience
Rounding each other
As One
With haloed shoulders
We mask the solitude
‘Neath the starry valence
Of night
Oceans waving
Conjoined in balance
Of our ever enlightened might
Life is
As a grand eclipse
Fleeting moments
Waltzing
Around the sun
Once shadowed
We forever shadow
Dancing
Till morning’s dawn
To and fro we sway
Dancing with words
We say
Living eclipsed
As one*
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
the intent, by accident,
a message in madness,
anger alone has no value and
uses energy in negative valence
to manifest,
that can't happen on accident,
only on purpose, okeh.
You gotta tip the balance
for anger to be used abs-
like,
totally un-fair abs,
such a gift, who gives…? I meand abused, I'm confused…
absolute tip the balance to use anger,
never an accident, the intent
that's the message. All I got.
Now what?
Merry Christmas.
This is like VHS homemoviepoet try as he may he can't get away
Tinker-toys, oh Boy, a richochet peeiiing Mattel Itswell 30-30! WOW,
the kid across the street that got hit by a car last Christmas,
he got a go cart this year.
Everything is relative. me, as my old man, said to me.
Back then, late fifties, little desert town, middle'o'righthere
at the time.
My old man at Alamogordo, wit' Ferme 'n'them…
It's not history, I imagine it could be.
That kid did get a go-cart, it didn't help very long.
It's a thought. A message, I think, I thought it and now
you did, too. Sorta.
Cool, like olde times. Never real, always imaginable,
any way ya' wa'ah-ahn-em,
ya gotta ownownownem ommm
My God, it's Christmas time again, I can't remember
when it felt this way.
Did it? Ever? Frank Kapra, in the dark.
We held hands. You remember. Black and white. Right.
then, this is now, and much more joyous in a worldly joy
intended, I'm sure,
from the first
vibration of the chord twixt you and me,
we wish you amerry Chritmas, in deed.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
This zipper
Stays
Unzipped
It's stuck
I'm unequipped
For what
You
Are
Bound
To know
How low
Can
A person
Go?
I know
Because
That is
Where
I've been
Laying
Lying
How long
Has it
Been?
Months
Weeks
No one
Gets
In
Not because
I can't
But only
Because
I can
A man
A place
A time
A plan
It's not
Even worth
It
Anymore
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
It's like. Y little world right now
Is like....orbital ******* notation
It revolves around ****
And it realizes what it's doing
It has little *******
And it gets so lost in the good feeling
It loses it's valence electrons
And I guess I'm waiting for that **** to be gained back
....cuz like in chem we learned that yes electrons
A piece of you will be lost or get lost in infinity in air
In life this inevitable circumstance were in
We'll lose ourselves, and well feel like we don't belong
Like we don't coexist
But I guess the valence electron that I gained back
Is abstract
Valence electrons are abstract
Their there....scientifically proven
Also if you chose to believe
Choose to believe that you have a purpose beyond life
Your personal purpose
And be angry
Be sad
Be miserable in your little infinite inevitable moments....
But remember that it's all apart of life
My life right now
Is anxiety
But also laughter
It's fear
But also love
It's insecurity
But also content
You see I think I pave learned a little in my journey
That life isn't this one thing
It's not a mission to be chased
There's no perfect model of life
There's the bible, there's your God, and there's your life
And that's it
The choice is up to you
In which who your gonna be
It's like i know not easy and it's especially far from not easy for me
As we speak
I feel an obligation to write this crap
Poetry is an escape, it's beautiful, but also I feel like it's the enemy for me
It's like I have to confront my reality sorta thing
...but I made up my mind
And I know that don't mean ****
But I want to focus on more....other **** than my problems
Than what's going wrong
Than how bad I feel or have felt
I want to focus on me
And I want....
I want it all
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
I have no secret agenda. And for that, people feel bad for me.
I’m still in my gentleman’s valence, and for that, women feel sad for me.
I don’t keep grave secrets lest a grave robber dig up my past and show the skeletons as if they were fresh details rather than a forcefully faded memory.
I wear my glasses, freshly cleaned for better sight, and yet I still can’t see.
I can’t see what everybody else sees. To me, I see a nice guy, a guy that’s lucky to have someone who's lucky to have him. And I don’t flaunt this…………. But apparently I’m oblivious of my own visage.
Apparently I’m a creature of pure evil and disgust for the better things of life.
Apparently I’m perverse when I smile at people and apparently I’m old fashion for opening doors for people.
But in all my aspects of supposed incompleteness, I recognize those that judge me as confused souls just the same as me. For one who shows no respect shalt not receive any, and yet I still don’t receive any.
I can’t stand the feeling of love lost, and yet I feel it every day. I feel the emptiness crowding around me as if I were in a trash compactor. Why is it that nice guys finish last when we started the race? Why is it that If I show no respect, I get more respect from the people I wish to earn it from?
Why do women like fuckboi rather than knowledgeable counterpart? Why am I alone in a world where I know for a fact there is someone who thinks like me?
Why do I even care what anyone thinks? Why am I still looking for a love that I’ve professed not to care about? Why is it that even under my circumstances, I could care less about what’s to do about any and every one of my flaws, giving the same belief that love accepts all flaws?
I tell myself to stop sometimes so that I can look at myself, but even when I look in the mirror, I see broken shards of glass appear at my imperfections. And for that, I know what the meaning of change should imply to me.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
#*Presence deeply felt
Absence too
Coexisting in a nucleus
Valence
bound
The feeling
And not
Effervescence*#
Oct 28, 2023
Oct 28, 2023 at 9:15 AM UTC
Je te note, Maitreyi,
Comme je te l'ai promis
Non pas que je te compare à d'autres
Ni que j'évalue ta sismicité
Sur une échelle quelconque de Richter
Ou une valence particulière
À laquelle tu serais prédisposée .
Je te note, ma poétesse, ma philosophe,
Ma peintre, mon actrice, ma nourrice,
Non pas pour te donner une côte
Un numéro dans une course handicap
À la jouissance absolue
À la jouissance infinie
À la jouissance inaccessible.
Dans ma note il n'y a ni favori
Ni outsider ni tocard
Il n'y a pas de trente-huit contre un
Et je ne joue pas le champ sur ton nom
Et peu m'importent ton entraîneur, ton soigneur, ton jockey, ton lad
Peu m'importe le guru qui te drive
Je ne te note ni de zéro à vingt
Je ne te note ni de a à z
Et même si je sais fort bien
Que toute note dénote un à priori
Un parti pris
J'essaie d'être le moins partial possible
J'essaie d'être juste.
Et même quand on chante faux
On ne mérite jamais de zéro pointé
Car on a essayé, on a osé
On a performé.
On a perforé l'air de sa voix.
On a existé.
Je te note donc, ma pantheiste,
Tout en relativisant la portée de mon geste
Je te note les lèvres mineures et majeures,
Les jambes, les chevilles au ralenti
Comme par effraction symbolique
Je t'effleure de ma clé d'ut
Et je te parsème de dièses et de bémols
Subjectivement
Inconsciemment
Je soupèse tes noires et tes blanches
Je te caresse indistinctement tes do
Tes la, tes mi, tes sol, tes fa, tes ré
Qui bouillonnant de concert
Dans un indécryptable maelström
Et je décrète de ma toute-puissance Arbitrale et analytique
Que tu es muse atypique
De chocolat et de vanille
En sempiternelle excursion dans le plaisir
Et donc par définition histrionique
Éternellement insatisfaite
Et la note coquette que je te donne en dot
C'est le silence de la divine comédie
Que j'ai plaisir à déchiffrer
Dans la distance pudique de l'absence incurable
Des Ganges couleur avocat qui couinent muets
Entre trente-deuxième de soupir
Et bâton de pause.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 3:06 AM UTC
I was a Moon in a dark abyss
Wandering alone in tormented solace
As aimlessly as a fish in bowl
Glumly glad within my alien abode
In a spur ___ you appeared from Nowhere
A Blackhole pulling me towards its angelic snare
Rearranging the space time fabric ___
To a whole new world ___ mystifying yet aesthetic
And I couldn't resist, for that Benignity
set my heart ablazed ___ filled its Valence shell
Entwined with you I will step in eternity soon
Hoping, your floral rugs bear stars and moons..!!
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 10:05 AM UTC
Learning difference
weighing sameness
to within the spectrum of gravity
on earth.
Balance in valence, whence
---if that is not meaningless,
maybe
colored wombed men, mit henna hair,
come well
within the confines of my fire's light,
bearing news of even'ts and odds and ends,
since we begin
new, night downloads activate
new mercy.
hmmm, not waht I expected.
new mercy, I get it.
My last raton of mercy was exhausted putting me
to sleep. So
whole new mercy, everundamnday!
And, I remember everything. This book,
these lines,
your minds and my roles, oh my,
I owe some sanity to the guy who built etymonline.com,,,
what a treasure that unwombed man has
given AI and I to build
nexts with.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 6:39 PM UTC
the dichotomous tree which branches
out; line by line a descending waterfall of ancestry
C'est une histoire excavated from the roots of its emergence
trickle by trickle
sibling by sibling
heritage by inheritance
i look upon to see the branches which all led to
this great fortune
Yazad Tafti
here i stand
waiting for my spring to further blossom
the branches which beg for my approval
a new valence awaiting further bonding
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 2:31 PM UTC
Entre tant de beautés que partout on peut voir,
Je comprends bien, amis, que le désir balance ;
Mais on voit scintiller en Lola de Valence
Le charme inattendu d'un bijou rose et noir.
354
In life stories form
all informed knowing, be it
beautiful adversity universally
re-co-known
acknowledged with smiles, and
nods, sense of yes, I know, I think,
I see you think, so, I know, I did
finish writing something meaningful;
or, be it in every way some other way.
I think you may imagine you agree.
In conscience used, we take science,
knowledge of beauty, chaotic clouds,
bending rays of sunshine, evening
the heave offering, leaving smooth
cool of the day
white sugar desert dunes, to an ant or bee.
{KJB, viable Bible archetype, declares phonetic
remenants of Eber's unconfused use of letters,
towb rah translate as good and evil, but better see
טוֹברַע good and bad, useful and useless to the point
of wasting effort, in a take it easy world, where we
know enough, drink, remember when it was,
plenty of water, no real enemies yet, and only
one barrier, over which those beautiful wild
seeds have been carried, by ravens, and doves
and rodents who surface only in the night.
Let's recall an old told tale, how folks
skinned in many colors we continue to be coated with,
all lost the knowledge that lying was used, to steal,
during lives times when we are parts in wholes,
until all things continuing, combine your will
to wonder what I imagined I am continuing,
with my own will to wander on, meandering
through the substance of hope, by my own
faith, fi, upright, balanced valence in chemical
terms, fit to fight for your right to think wrong,
confident my pride has been filed to a point,
not my right to be wrong, or do wrong, or lie.
To give good reason for cost of learning.
The faith that gives reason its point.
To tell the truth, sheriffs were good guys,
when I was a kid, a wild little goat, indeed,
I have seen myself in seven grandchildren
and their little heathen friends, so I know,
we get more like ourselves, my mother in law said.
And now, I keep the peace, wu wei easy knowing
towb ra' beautiful efforting life demands in return,
for freely eating from all the trees in the garden, thank you.
Aug 28, 2024
Aug 28, 2024 at 4:35 PM UTC