POEM: This Is Knot Poetry — When Red Allowed

Waiving his red pen
He made his mute point
That spoken word is knot poetry
Like meting
Meter and anti-meter
And the invariable deconstruction of awe
As if
Employing free
Versus
The hire mind
For awe
That its worth
Save in alliteral weigh
Abut
Alas
Bringing too bare
Undisciplined obscenities uddering
As opposed to the ladder
As any won
May eye
Make this suggestive
Perhaps you’s
An unpronounceable cymbal farmerly no’in as prints
Pulling weeds
Of biblical pro portion
Fore whatever
It maybe worth
There is know space
Sandwiched
Between poetry and knot poetry
Between amateurs and prose
Knot that which isn’t
Nor which is
The wurst
I ever metaphor
Whatever
Call me
I am
An outspoken unspoken word artist
Unspellbound in my crappy weighs
And should upon
In the coming daze
Sow called poets anon meet
As shepherds to sheep affix
Due the write thing
Feel free
To shut the flock up

This poem was inspired by a blog article that a friend shared, entitled, “Spoken Word Is Not Poetry.”  My immediate response was simple: “I find it helpful to see everything as poetry.”  Of course, this is the gloriously useless mode of perception I aspire to use awe the time.  However, this poem represents a more detailed critique of the assertion that spoken word is not poetry. The author of this article pined that many readers at open mics are not trained poets and typically use free verse or prose poetry.  I must confess: I am an untrained poet, except by my tutelage under various muses.  Further, the often quick use of vulgarities offended the author’s parently higher sensibilities.  I strongly suspect that the work of any poet or poets is never complete as truth in word, as opposed to doing the deed in life, because life is F’ing ineffable.  Claiming that spoken word is performance art, which it is, seemed to be a means to taint spoken word artists as something other than poets. I certainly don’t mind being seen as more than a poet!  I wonder if the author would consider a novelist not a novelist if they read their work aloud — that would be a novel idea!  I related to the author’s point that an important part of poetry is the relationship of the reader to the written word without being nailed down by a verbal representation (or layering upon it performance art).  Most of my poems are best read silently, to allow for the multiple interpretations and meanings to brew within the reader; this process is at the heart of my poetry.  I find it difficult to read many of my poems out loud because I must pick one way to read the poem which inevitably shortchanges the beauty of dancing multiple meanings.  I must admit that when it comes to my poetry I am conveniently an anarchist, formally rejecting socially constructed boundaries of form. I do not doubt that the many fine forms of poetry developed over centuries are worthy of attention.  Nonetheless, I consider deflating pretensions as fodder for my poetic vocations.  If this itself seems pretentious, please feel free to take a meta view of my sow-called poems as self-parody.  At the end of my daze, I want parity for awe.

Self-Made Trump Has A Fool For A Maker

In Trumpian fashion, fool of irony, I quote myself: “A self-made man has a fool for a maker.”  The man-child known as Donald Trump runs roughshod over the boundaries of lesser fools.  He fashions his fashion as the boss of a collapsing world, his world, his collapsing world.  If Trump where to know God, he would know himself — he knows neither.  His self-masturbatory god head is a lonely impossibility, even in his hugely culpable hands and with such a big mouth — something is missing, however compelled he is to grab it.  The loneliness of this pitiful and pitiless man is captured well in the essay by Rebecca Solnit, THE LONELINESS OF DONALD TRUMP: ON THE CORROSIVE PRIVILEGE OF THE MOST MOCKED MAN IN THE WORLD, with excerpts below:

Once upon a time, a child was born into wealth and wanted for nothing, but he was possessed by bottomless, endless, grating, grasping wanting, and wanted more, and got it, and more after that, and always more. He was a pair of ragged orange claws upon the ocean floor, forever scuttling, pinching, reaching for more, a carrion crab, a lobster and a boiling lobster pot in one, a termite, a tyrant over his own little empires. He got a boost at the beginning from the wealth handed him and then moved among grifters and mobsters who cut him slack as long as he was useful, or maybe there’s slack in arenas where people live by personal loyalty until they betray, and not by rules, and certainly not by the law or the book. So for seven decades, he fed his appetites and exercised his license to lie, cheat, steal, and stiff working people of their wages, made messes, left them behind, grabbed more baubles, and left them in ruin.

He was supposed to be a great maker of things, but he was mostly a breaker. He acquired buildings and women and enterprises and treated them all alike, promoting and deserting them, running into bankruptcies and divorces, treading on lawsuits the way a lumberjack of old walked across the logs floating on their way to the mill, but as long as he moved in his underworld of dealmakers the rules were wobbly and the enforcement was wobblier and he could stay afloat. But his appetite was endless, and he wanted more, and he gambled to become the most powerful man in the world, and won, careless of what he wished for…

…The child who became the most powerful man in the world, or at least occupied the real estate occupied by a series of those men, had run a family business and then starred in an unreality show based on the fiction that he was a stately emperor of enterprise, rather than a buffoon barging along anyhow, and each was a hall of mirrors made to flatter his sense of self, the self that was his one edifice he kept raising higher and higher and never abandoned.

I have often run across men (and rarely, but not never, women) who have become so powerful in their lives that there is no one to tell them when they are cruel, wrong, foolish, absurd, repugnant. In the end there is no one else in their world, because when you are not willing to hear how others feel, what others need, when you do not care, you are not willing to acknowledge others’ existence. That’s how it’s lonely at the top. It is as if these petty tyrants live in a world without honest mirrors, without others, without gravity, and they are buffered from the consequences of their failures…

We keep each other honest, we keep each other good with our feedback, our intolerance of meanness and falsehood, our demands that the people we are with listen, respect, respond—if we are allowed to, if we are free and valued ourselves. There is a democracy of social discourse, in which we are reminded that as we are beset with desires and fears and feelings, so are others; there was an old woman in Occupy Wall Street I always go back to who said, “We’re fighting for a society in which everyone is important.” That’s what a democracy of mind and heart, as well as economy and polity, would look like…

…Some use their power to silence that and live in the void of their own increasingly deteriorating, off-course sense of self and meaning. It’s like going mad on a desert island, only with sycophants and room service. It’s like having a compliant compass that agrees north is whatever you want it to be. The tyrant of a family, the tyrant of a little business or a huge enterprise, the tyrant of a nation. Power corrupts, and absolute power often corrupts the awareness of those who possess it. Or reduces it: narcissists, sociopaths, and egomaniacs are people for whom others don’t exist.

We gain awareness of ourselves and others from setbacks and difficulties; we get used to a world that is not always about us; and those who do not have to cope with that are brittle, weak, unable to endure contradiction, convinced of the necessity of always having one’s own way. The rich kids I met in college were flailing as though they wanted to find walls around them, leapt as though they wanted there to be gravity and to hit ground, even bottom, but parents and privilege kept throwing out safety nets and buffers, kept padding the walls and picking up the pieces, so that all their acts were meaningless, literally inconsequential. They floated like astronauts in outer space.

Equality keeps us honest. Our peers tell us who we are and how we are doing, providing that service in personal life that a free press does in a functioning society. Inequality creates liars and delusion. The powerless need to dissemble—that’s how slaves, servants, and women got the reputation of being liars—and the powerful grow stupid on the lies they require from their subordinates and on the lack of need to know about others who are nobody, who don’t count, who’ve been silenced or trained to please. This is why I always pair privilege with obliviousness; obliviousness is privilege’s form of deprivation. When you don’t hear others, you don’t imagine them, they become unreal, and you are left in the wasteland of a world with only yourself in it, and that surely makes you starving, though you know not for what, if you have ceased to imagine others exist in any true deep way that matters. This is about a need for which we hardly have language or at least not a familiar conversation.

A man who wished to become the most powerful man in the world, and by happenstance and intervention and a series of disasters was granted his wish. Surely he must have imagined that more power meant more flattery, a grander image, a greater hall of mirrors reflecting back his magnificence. But he misunderstood power and prominence. This man had bullied friends and acquaintances, wives and servants, and he bullied facts and truths, insistent that he was more than they were, than it is, that it too must yield to his will. It did not, but the people he bullied pretended that it did. Or perhaps it was that he was a salesman, throwing out one pitch after another, abandoning each one as soon as it left his mouth. A hungry ghost always wants the next thing, not the last thing.

This one imagined that the power would repose within him and make him great, a Midas touch that would turn all to gold. But the power of the presidency was what it had always been: a system of cooperative relationships, a power that rested on people’s willingness to carry out the orders the president gave, and a willingness that came from that president’s respect for rule of law, truth, and the people. A man who gives an order that is not followed has his powerlessness hung out like dirty laundry. One day earlier this year, one of this president’s minions announced that the president’s power would not be questioned. There are tyrants who might utter such a statement and strike fear into those beneath him, because they have installed enough fear.

A true tyrant does not depend on cooperative power but has a true power of command, enforced by thugs, goons, Stasi, the SS, or death squads. A true tyrant has subordinated the system of government and made it loyal to himself rather than to the system of laws or the ideals of the country. This would-be tyrant didn’t understand that he was in a system where many in government, perhaps most beyond the members of his party in the legislative branch, were loyal to law and principle and not to him. His minion announced the president would not be questioned, and we laughed. He called in, like courtiers, the heads of the FBI, of the NSA, and the director of national intelligence to tell them to suppress evidence, to stop investigations and found that their loyalty was not to him. He found out to his chagrin that we were still something of a democracy, and that the free press could not be so easily stopped, and the public itself refused to be cowed and mocks him earnestly at every turn.

A true tyrant sits beyond the sea in Pushkin’s country. He corrupts elections in his country, eliminates his enemies with bullets, poisons, with mysterious deaths made to look like accidents—he spread fear and bullied the truth successfully, strategically. Though he too had overreached with his intrusions into the American election, and what he had hoped would be invisible caused the whole world to scrutinize him and his actions and history and impact with concern and even fury. Russia may have ruined whatever standing and trust it has, may have exposed itself, with this intervention in the US and then European elections.

The American buffoon’s commands were disobeyed, his secrets leaked at such a rate his office resembled the fountains at Versailles or maybe just a sieve (this spring there was an extraordinary piece in the Washington Post with thirty anonymous sources), his agenda was undermined even by a minority party that was not supposed to have much in the way of power, the judiciary kept suspending his executive orders, and scandals erupted like boils and sores. Instead of the dictator of the little demimondes of beauty pageants, casinos, luxury condominiums, fake universities offering fake educations with real debt, fake reality tv in which he was master of the fake fate of others, an arbiter of all worth and meaning, he became fortune’s fool.

He is, as of this writing, the most mocked man in the world. After the women’s march on January 21st, people joked that he had been rejected by more women in one day than any man in history; he was mocked in newspapers, on television, in cartoons, was the butt of a million jokes, and his every tweet was instantly met with an onslaught of attacks and insults by ordinary citizens gleeful to be able to speak sharp truth to bloated power….

…The man in the white house sits, naked and obscene, a pustule of ego, in the harsh light, a man whose grasp exceeded his understanding, because his understanding was dulled by indulgence. He must know somewhere below the surface he skates on that he has destroyed his image, and like Dorian Gray before him, will be devoured by his own corrosion in due time too. One way or another this will kill him, though he may drag down millions with him. One way or another, he knows he has stepped off a cliff, pronounced himself king of the air, and is in freefall. Another dungheap awaits his landing; the dung is all his; when he plunges into it he will be, at last, a self-made man.

POEM: Lost And Found

Sum wear
Long the weigh
Countless souls
Lost
Their sense of humor
Only too end up
Way to Sirius
Occupying that eternal box
Under the counter
Only willing
To pass it long
To whom sow ever
Claims it for their owin’
And consider it
Awe the more
Than mirror junk
And that unmatched
Like a kid smitten
With another helping
Bringing it awe back
To the whirled of the living

This poem was inspired by a couple of occasions where others had spoken about how they had lost their sense of humor and I thanked them, because I had found it.  Courage to Laugh Master of World as He Ready to Die -- PEACE QUOTE BUTTONI find humor nearly everywhere.  Life is endlessly intriguing, stubbornly surreal, and surprisingly funny.  Many may look at my life and might consider it a perfect storm of their worst scenarios.  Nonetheless, I often feel like a kid smitten with that unmatched experience of finding joys in what others consider unwanted junk in the lost and found box.  Valuing what others consider trivial or worth avoiding can be vexing at times, yet there is an expansive freedom in not chasing after and competing for the same stuff most everybody else is.  Some days I feel as though I am literally living in a different world; yet, I sense that I deeply see our shared reality, replete with pain and suffering, countless contradictions, and despair, just as abounding with joy and serendipities, poetic beauty, and profound hope.  Human Race has one really effective weapon: laughter -- PEACE QUOTE BUTTONI find that humor abounds amidst odd juxtapositions, playful exaggerations, and a rich appreciation for the possible.  I often use humor to see past cynicism and fixations on the ugliness in life.  Sometimes this may strike overly serious folks as grasping for baubles, but value is largely in the eye of the beholder; and if conventional views snare despair, then it may just be time to discard such views.  Humor may not be everything, but humor can be found nearly anywhere.  If you have lost your sense of humor, I’ll keep an eye out for it.  Trust me, I’ll give it back to you if I find it.

You Laugh at Me Because I'm Different, I Laugh at You Because You're All the Same - FUNNY POLITICAL BUTTONGot Laughter SPIRITUAL BUTTON

POEM: Hippie Hippie Array!

I am
A bohemian, man
Razing consciousness wherever
Or whatever
I happen to wander about
Are you
Brushed off by my long hair
While you suck it up
All the err
Straining awe of your shabby tension
In the face
Of my frayed clothes
And your painstakingly frayed whirled view
Like nothing writing off my poetry
As holy gratuitous
And under raiding my intellect as well
Eschewing upon awe but straight up homo genus
Making plain your redundant homogenous specious
As if
Once in for all
You might as well
Be at least
One finger shy
Of won’s iconic sign of peace

This poem plays with the trite but true notion that we often make an avalanche of judgments about other people based on our first glance at them.Ever Wonder? SPIRITUAL BUTTONA great many people think they are thinking when they are merely rearranging their prejudices. William James quote SPIRITUAL BUTTON  Gender.  Class.  Age.  Race.  Attractiveness.   In this poem, in my case, it’s about looking like a hippie.  The superficial array of features that we display to the world is a gift to the lazy and the uncurious.  I consider my outward appearance a powerful screening tool to weed out those unprepared to delve into my provocative inner beauty and intriguing eccentricities.  When stereotypers and skeptics make it through this screening process, I must admit, I get a special thrill out of witnessing people amending an initial underrating and/or misconstrual of me.  Yep, I like to mess with people — for the very reason that people are messy.  The last lines of this poem is an example of this.  Practicing Rampant Non-Judgementalism SPIRITUAL BUTTONOnce in a while it really hits people that they don't have to experience the world in the way they have been told to. Alan Keightley quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONWhen demonstrating for peace on a street corner — a totally hippie thing to do — occasionally, a passing motorist will share a singular upright finger to signal their notion of victory.  I am known to note to my friendly demonstrators the valiant efforts of another one-fingered veteran trying to make the peace sign, aka victory sign.  We don’t know what we don’t know.  And most of us know very little about most people we encounter.  I am a person leavened with hope.  May we find hope in one another as we ardently explore each other’s breathtaking lives and singular place in this world.

The question is not what you look at but what you see. Henry David Thoreau quote SPIRITUAL BUTTON	 What we need is not the will to believe, but the wish to find out. Bertrand Russell quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONAccepting things the way that they are, and wishing them to be otherwise, is the tenth of an inch between heaven and hell. Zen saying SPIRITUAL BUTTON

	 Expect Miracles SPIRITUAL BUTTONEven on the road to hell, flowers can make you smile. Deng Ming-Dao quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONGot Hope SPIRITUAL BUTTON

What we see depends mainly on what we look for. John Lubbock quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONEverything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves --Carl Jung quote SPIRITUAL BUTTON	 If Have No Peace Because Forgotten Belong to One Another--PEACE QUOTE BUTTON

PEACE QUOTE: My Humanity Bound Up in Yours--PEACE SIGN BUTTONYou are more important than you realize SPIRITUAL BUTTON

Please feel free to browse other Top Pun designs regarding spiritual practices for peace-loving and joy filled living.

POEM: Adumbrating My Too Sense

Teeming with errs
Their egos agin
They took their best shot
Sow prod of themselves
In citing
Your poetry makes no cents
As if
The golf between us
As driven in sanity
From goad above
Rather demanding
A stroke of genius
Wringing hollow
In a tin cup
That fateful hole in won
In things looking up
And people looking down
At storied little balls
And exclusive clubs
Beating with in
No bogey men hear
The par will always be with us
Not sow stuck on the short game
Put on buy the green
Razing polls and flags
To victory
Only to wind up
Being
In side job
As aww some coinage
Of mine a loan
Tempting too undue
Being so much as a cad he
And he he he
Left behind with scratch
Knot even ahead

This is a poet’s poem.  This poem has one of those bonus titular words, adumbrate, which means foreshadow.  I must confess, as highly alliterate as I am, I only discovered this word in the thoroughs of my joyous addiction to Thesaurus.com.  In due course, the title begs “a dumb rating my too sense,” as standing speechless is an awe-too-common response to reading (or trying to read) my poetry.  This poem dismisses the gulf between making cents, buy tailoring and valuing a poem by its popular, a peel, rather than glorying in singular glimpses of awe that can be mined in a fantastical mountain of meaning.  My poetry is not for the feign of heart or to revel as IQ smarts.  As most beauty in this universe is never experienced by humans, as we pass up the illustriously novel for the merely comical, I stand in solidarity with the better share of the universe.  Sow it shall be ridden, commanded by fire that does not burn, in stone that knows how to roll.

POEM: The Curator

I am
The curator
Of your infinite beauty
Privy to collections timeless
And in real time
Streaming glorious tributaries
To the art of who you are

This is a poem about the glorious privilege in close relationships of having unique access to the beauty of another, particularly a lover.  Inspired by my muse and sweetheart, such beauty is an unending — as in head over heels — source of teeming enthrallment.  Joy is Most Infallible Sign Presence of God--PEACE QUOTE BUTTONI genuflect at the mass of wondrous moments and shared memories.  Mere reminiscence of our first kiss is lost in the wake of our most recent kiss.  Every new kiss shatters the inadequacy of my imagination with the surpassing reality of beauty ever anew.  In the face of such beauty, my poetry pales.  The irresistible invitation to shut up and kiss me blissfully wins the day, holy inseparable.  Only when apart is my poetry birthed, orphaned of such beauty, hankering for those unrivaled tears of joy.

This poem, while a testament to the beauty of human love, offers a parallel connection to an even more holy love. As so aptly stated by Victor Hugo in Les Miserables: “To love another person is to see the face of God.”  To love another person is to see the face of God. Victor Hugo, Les Miserables quote SPIRITUAL BUTTONThis should surprise no one who sees God as love.  God revels in your infinite beauty, even if others may not witness it.  You are an ongoing work of art only adequately appreciated when one subject experiences another subject, not merely for what they do or look like, but who they are, both a work and source of ineffable art and artistry.

In my poems, I frequently use “I am” in a single line.  This is meant to allude to God, “I AM.”  In Exodus 3:14, Moses is instructed to tell his fellow Israelites from whom he is sent: “I AM.”  The long version, “I AM WHO I AM,” speaks to the sovereign character of God.  To the less discerning this may simply appear akin to Popeye declaring “I am what I am,” or Forrest Gump simply affirming, “Stupid is as stupid does.”  However, in the pedagogy of God, such tautologies are unhelpful.  Whatever Popeye is, is what he is.  On the face of it, what stupid is, is what stupid does.  Still, whatever I might do, or however I may appear to you, does not fully define who I am.  Your unduplicated set of personal thoughts and feelings, hopes and desires, experiences and perspectives, confound explication and formulation.  And, as for you, as for God (or vice versa).  You, as an authentic subject, are not fully experienced if only related to as a thing that looks a certain way and behaves in a certain way. The sacredness of being beloved is not the same as merely being witnessed or even appreciated for what one is or how one behaves.  The sacredness of being beloved encompasses a reverence for our ongoing artistry, the chosen project of our unreplicable life, what ever that may be.  This reflects the love a parent has for a child, regardless of what they happen to be at any given moment, or how they behave.  This reflects the love one has for their beloved, seeking their beloved’s best, even when it may be in parent conflict with what is best for them.  Similarly, God, as an authentic subject, is not fully experienced simply by examining, however closely, creation, and what the universe looks like or how it behaves.  Such data sets, however extensive, and formulations, however complete, cannot capture the living God; just as you are not defined only by how you look to others and how your behaviors are perceived.  Two subjects meeting, experiencing one another: this is the stuff of gods and goddesses, where new worlds are created.  Theologians, philosophers, and even scientists, talk about God, but this has little resemblance to experience looking God in the I.  And if this peers inaccessible, find a good lover, have a child, maybe both.  You assuredly will be surprised!

POEM: A Choiring, Raw Youth

Their raw youth
Was tenderly witnessed
By age owed eyes
In awe
Their awkward glory
Surpassing polished learning
More than could ever anew

This poem is a reminder to both young and old about the raw beauty of youth, the vim and vigor, dream-filled ebullience, and grace-filled awkwardness.  This poem can be understood without additional context, though the title — A Choiring, Raw Youth — is perhaps both a clue and enigma.  This poem was inspired by a high school choir performing at the retirement community where my dad lives.  I was youthful in compare to the rest of the audience, but, I am at that age where high school kids look look younger every year — and eventually either they or I will be issued diapers!  The experience and perspective of age — age owed eyes — may be uniquely able to appreciate the stunning juxtaposition of adolescent awkwardness and untainted talent.  For me, this elicited great compassion and hope.  It is a rare day that I would trade age for youth.  Though I frequently quip that youth is wasted on the young.  Still, even this quip is a cloaked compliment at the glory of youth, in awe of its awkwardness and blooming energy.  Their performance made a home for joy.  And as they headed out into the world, I trust that their freshness will continue to make this place we call earth ever anew.  I was bettered by the presence of their performance.  May people of awe ages give way to their fresh hope and awkward glory.

POEM: A World Without Boarders

Mother earth bids us
What rend must we pay
For such fear in dwelling
In apprehending tenets
In discriminating borne
Giving no quarter
To mother and child
And presumed fodder
Taking the place
Of wear every won re-sides
Drawing lyin’s in the sand
And hiking up shields of water
In a tsunami of divine just us
As fences of steal
Wherever we land
Keeping out nothing worth wile
As per sever demeanor
From our guarded kind
As all is wall
In the confines of what is ours a loan
Yet in efface of
The largesse attract of common ground
Enjoining to gather
What is the lease we can do
Inter or gate
Only wanton to ax
How to occupy that territory sow dear
Between haves and halves not
As humanity cleaves
To that intrepid hope
Of a world without boarders
In habit awe
As kin to won sky
Our only limit

This poem addresses the theme of borders and the human propensity to divide us up into cliques, clans, classes, and territories.  Such divisions are often to the detriment of the common good.  While often under the guise of security, such social stratifications unjust as often reinforce lazy conveniences and guarded advantages.  No Human Being is Illegal / No Ser Human Es Ilegal POLITICAL BUTTONIn this great nation of immigrants — and conquistadors to indigenous peoples — there has been much political rhetoric about building walls.  Xenophobia and scapegoating seem to have found more openly vulgar expressions in contemporary politics.  The peeling back of the veneer of civilization may simply be a necessary process to move from unconsciousness to consciousness of institutionalized racism, first-worldism, the seeming necessity of permanent war, and xenophobic fears of all sorts.  As our ways of life reveal themselves as ways of death, the choice for life becomes more clear — perhaps not any easier, but clearer.  This poem begins with the context of Mother Earth and human mother and child.  We are all children of Mother Earth, who only considers walls and borders as scars on her beauty.  Each of us is a child, daughter or son.  We are all brothers and sisters, cousins and kin.  We are one humanity.  We either realize that blood is thicker than water or our water will be thickened with blood.  We are all boarders on planet earth.  Activism Is My Rent For Living On This Planet -- Alice Walker quote POLITICAL BUTTONNo human being is illegal.  Nation states only deserve to exist inasmuch as they serve humanity and Mother Earth.  Without such stewardship, we just might find out the hard weigh what a world without boarders looks like.  May we rekindle a deep affection and connection to awe of our sisters and brothers near and far, for the healing of the world.

POEM: Beauty Us Aging

There is a beauty
In aging
A reservoir
Of singular moments
And glistening years
In ignorance passed
Belying youth
In wrinkled knows
At untaut skin
In the game
Wear even
The future rests
Just
In time
As quiet
A scene
With awe
Facing beauty
Aknew

As every ancient wisdom tradition teaches, beauty is more than skin deep.  The beauty and wisdom that comes with accumulated experience trumps even youthful vigor and physical vitality.  Trading the vicissitudes of youth for the vicissitudes of senescence is not a bad deal.  With every loss there is opportunity for learning — learning that youth often bulls its way past, with zealous confidence or strapping hardiness.  Even surviving long enough to experience senescence can be a daily reminder of life’s bountiful blessings and accumulated graces.  An earned acceptance and long realized gratitude can pave a way forward with a truer compass, more reliable than the dashing speed of youth.  This deeper beauty is a layer anew in life, nesting where the future rests, as even now wrests.  May you find a profound beauty in aging, enabling you to live awe of the days of your life.

POEM: Guileless

Many amen
Follows
Such a singular attraction
As a guileless woman
Unable to disguise
Her own beauty
More than
Enough

This poem is an ode to the singular beauty of each and every woman, with a special nod to the guileless.  This poem takes on another layer of meaning if you get the pun in the title, Guileless, as also Guyless.  When a woman is in touch with her own beauty, she neither requires a guy or has any need to dis guys to feel whole.  Of course, when a woman is in sync with her own beauty, others find this attractive as well.  While this will surely be followed by amen, whether it is followed by a man or not, is soully up to the woman.  Awe we need to know is that one’s own beauty is more than, enough.

POEM: Born With Two Black Eyes: Owed To New Be and Queens

She was born with two black eyes
Living in a whirled
Wear her highest aspirations
Sore over the lowly color blind
As every color whited out
Yet she sails the sees of dark and light
As two dance freely
A bout just us
As real eyes
Realize
Real lies
And sojourn truth

This poem is a tribute to awe the positive power, beauty and wisdom that Black women birth into this world.  De-spite all of the racism, sexism, classism, and other aspersions heaped upon them, they reveal truth responding to a dominant culture of lies.  Even as often dealt three strikes from birth, their two Black eyes reveal a compassion honestly earned, unleashing a mother’s love and a sister’s devotion in a world sorely in need of them.  I thank you!  May every sacrifice you make return a hundred-fold.

If Wealth Was The Inevitable Result of Hard Work, Every Woman In Africa Would Be A Millionaire -- George Monbiot quote POLITICAL BUTTON

POEM: Kindness 1.618 — Owed To The Goaled In Proportion

A parent
In the relationship
Between to be gotten
The larger to the smaller
The goaled in proportion
Amidst just us
Sum times christened
The divine proportion
And it doesn’t take
A mathematical genus
To divine its kind
Never the less
As if
Sum
Knew specious
And miss conceive
The gold in mean
Barren resemblance to
The sores of our being
An aesthetic
Of beauty
In nature
And human arts
Desserting know one
The hole slew
To gather as won
And when de-part
Leaving soully
Good will
That is
Grasping the incalculable
After math

This is a geek poem about the golden proportion, or golden ratio.   \frac{a+b}{a}=\frac{a}{b} \equiv \varphiIn mathematics, two quantities are in the golden ratio if their ratio is the same as the ratio of their sum to the larger of the two quantities. The Greek letter phi is used to signify this value of 1.618. The golden ration holds a special fascination in mathematics, architecture, and art.  The golden ratio is considered to represent beautiful proportion, often found in nature.

In this poem, the relationship between the larger to the smaller is defined beautifully by kindness.  In computer age parlance Kindness 1.618 — a soft wear if you will.  Social justice issues always involve power differentials, and hard ware is meaningless without soft wear.  Without kindness, social relationships will necessarily be trapped in perpetual struggle, with neither the larger or the smaller experiencing the beauty of peace.  Neither justice nor peace is a finely engineered and calculating existence.  Both justice and peace flourish in generosity and grace.  Oftentimes justice comes through those who have a steady experience of peace that creates sacred spaces enough for the hard work of justice to be performed without resentment, growing hurts. Living out of generosity creates conditions conducive to generosity.  Like produces like, sometimes.  Love produces love, eventually.  Though like is more of a product than love.  Love is the way.  Love loves love.  As life produces life, love produces love.  The seamless reciprocity of love perpetuates itself and invites others to participate in love.  There is necessarily always more room to grow and make the circle wider.  For another geeky poem on this theme, see Wading for Godel, and ode to Kurt Godel and his Incompleteness Theorem which mathematically proves that science, ideologies, and philosophy — that is, anything that is based on any set of propositions — is necessarily incomplete and there are always true propositions which always lie beyond the perspective of any given belief system.   Enough geekiness for one day?  You can always simplify.  As the Dalai Lama most succinctly summarized awe, “Kindness is my religion.”  May you find kindness often in your days, and if there is not kindness, perhaps you are the one to bring it.

POEM: A Ledged Fall

The leaf let go
Releasing awe that had given it life
In what could have bin
A swan dive
Or a butterfly prancing
But it was doing its own thing
Lining up for know one
Little did it no
But more than enough
That more than one eye
Was watching this spare row
To unseen shores
A boat
To sale free
From cosmic banks
Or goaled claims
And if sow temp
To try land
Wee may very well
Witness yet another
Perfect forum
And only those dolefully miss taken
Call
The fall

This poem is in honor of Fall, and the beautiful seasoning Fall affords.  This poem as a tribute to the perfection of nature and that which gives rise to life.  As might be expected, this poem also slams ingratitude in the face of such awesome and good graces.  Nature revels in itself and God sublimely desires to be holy full of oneself. Witnessing such goings-on strikes me as perhaps the primary purpose of consciousness.  The supreme blessing of consciousness is often overrun by negativity, falling short, the vain grasping of ephemeral realities.  Some of this falling out of the oneness of consciousness is poored in concrete, wanting to secure solid stuff, which also tends to be the most lifeless aspects of creation.  Merely collecting bits and pieces of reality often represents a very poor showing — showing being the complement of witnessing.  The division of conscious experience tends to be an imbalance between the inner and outer life aspects of life.  Some of this falling out of the oneness of consciousness is confining ourselves to our mind, making life academic, hoarding theories and ideologies, dissecting life until life disappears — though much less mysteriously than life peering.  If, instead of witnessing the passing beauty of a butterfly, you prefer collecting their carcasses pinned to specimen cases, then you may fall into this category — being the unchange you want to see in the world.  I strongly suspect that God desires us to experience the fullness of life, not to merely attempt to dutifully collect and accurately describe life’s moving and unmoving parts. Nonetheless, in theology-acide, I would say that the fall is beautiful.

POEM: Shame Old Story

A little bit
Of shame
Goes along
Weigh
Too much
With blinders
Knot visible
In a sense
Lost
To over looking
As awe full as life is

This poem is about the overabundance of shame, a tail as owed as time that wags the dog.  Shame is one of the all-time popular weighs of controlling others.  Shame is a lazy substitute for inspiration.  Inspiration comes with a whole lot of work, such as patience, integrity, passion, and compassion.  Shame is a seductive shortcut that cheats us out of the beauty full results of worthy effort.  In essence, shaming others is shaming ourselves.  As they say: you can’t point your finger at someone else without pointing four fingers back at yourself.  Relying on inspiration and example is a much better weigh.  There is a tribe in Africa where anytime a member commits some offense, they surround them and pummel them with every good thing about them, a wellness practice very telling.  Social psychology has well documented that focusing on building assets is more productive than focusing on deficits.  The rhythms of the human soul seem to be much more in tune with inspiration and positive regard than shame, criticism, and punishment.  In theological terms, this might be simply stated that good is stronger than evil.  Traditional religion often betrays this belief by focusing on original sin rather than original blessing; that is, accenting our inherent falling short rather than our inherent goodness.   May you readily see the goodness in yourself and others, and faithfully live out of our better portion.

POEM: A Shoulder Above The Wrest

I pulled her over
Two the shoulder
Commuting her sentence
Proffering a rest
Having know knead for license
Or proof of assurance

I just got back from a holiday weekend with my sweetheart.  She had inspired this poem recently.  We both relish the mutual joy of her resting in my arms.  Also, she has had a long commute to work for a long time, thus the metaphorical reference to a respite from traffic.  May we all experience such arresting beauty!

POEM: Gimps of Heaven

To the skies lifted
The lairs of heaven unfold
In speechless beauty
That would deify description
My eyes and hands
Razed freely
Embracing awe
That heaven was packing
In mirror seconds
To be
Thanking
That God
Of the quick
And the dead
Thou sparest cell
And crampiest image
As vision screened
Buy a second hand whirled
Apple in hand
Head hung
Feat dangling
Amid heir
Too emotion picture
Only taken
Still
Buy ahead in the cloud
Captured in eternity
Likely never experienced
As real eyes
That in which a head
Re-mining me
That eye
Made only slightly
Less than angels
Of what missing
Ahhhh
Gimps of heaven

I wrote this poem riding the Megabus to Chicago.  I was staring into the heavens, struck by the majesty of the clouds and the ethereal feel that they emanated.  Likely nobody else on the bus was available for such an experience, because most were busy on their assorted and sundry electronic devices, interfacing with a different sort of cloud.  I pondered the notion that the heavens could open up and a tsunami of angelic forces could grace us with their presents and nobody else would notice, not at least until possibly published online with a few seconds delay and displayed on a less-than-majestically-sized screen.  I view our obsession with electronic paraphernalia as disabling our souls, a sort of anti-prosthesis that instead of making us more whole robs us of ever-present presents.  Being a “gimp” of heaven is not some defect wrought upon us by some cruel and enigmatic God.  There is a better life beyond our reliance on coping with life through electronic prostheses.  Even with all the pain and befuddlement in life, I strongly suspect that simply experiencing such realities directly is better than obsessively tuning into some post-game show after the fact for some crowd-sourced analysis. On that bus, my lonely gratitude pined for a world where there was more face-to-face presence in the now — which, of course is present now, and quiet certainly lacking luster in beeping re-runs.  So, may you stand up and walk without your prostheses, and if you find this awkward or even painful, it’s OK people to walk with glimpse.

POEM: Her Beatify Regime

She offered her life for others
Occupying the known and unknown
In a humanity so rare
As a piece of raw flesh
Nourishing friend and faux akin
Wear life and dead meet
Sow mysteriously
Anew humanity
Becoming
In awe weighs
With winsome
And grace
Waiving her rights
In the face of unseemly fortunes
And a parent fate
Like in experienced chide
Passing into a door
A mist reluctant fallowers
Wont to cling too
A certain fate
For what remains
Secrets of eternal youth
Borne again
A head of her times
And a big art for all
Letting go of earthly flatter
As some age ode flyer
Hanging round
Until taken down
By pluckers of all forms
In that primeval
Of wrongs and rites
Rising once more
As ballads fly
As so many
Untried convictions
So long side
In dis belief
As refuse
The un-altar-Abel
Steaking won’s claim
From whence I live
As never never land
Un-till
We meat again

This poem is yet another ode to feminine virtues, as a mother’s patient strength and wisdom that fights fiercely and elegantly for all of earth’s children, sacrificing many earthly pursuits to give rise to not a little heaven on earth.  This poem plays with issues of both inner beauty and outer beauty, as inner beauty incarnates itself into the outer world, making the world both more beautiful and us grateful for the beauty ever-present before us.  Inner beauty is real — not merely sentiment — bursting into creation, fulfilling our inborn desire to be beautiful and share that beauty with others.  This grace and elegance in the face of ignorance and cruelty is the heart of nonviolent living, recognizing and paying tribute with one’s life to the transcendent superiority of love over hate and service over domination.

This poem has allusions to a heavenly afterlife.  The time is always right to do what is right -- Martin Luther King, Jr. quote.I am not a big fan of heaven as some delayed reward, some divine carrot, to get us to behave well on earth.  Rather, the heavenly allusions are to poetically lift up the triumph of life over death, the ultimate affirmation of good as stronger than evil. Plus, I have a more seamless view of the good as good in itself and inevitably offering good up to all residing here and now in the earthly plane.  Justice is just because it is just.  As Martin Luther King, Jr. reminded us, “The time is always right to do what is right.”  Still, while I am agnostic regarding any specifics of any afterlife, I have experienced enough profound serendipities in my life that any pleasant surprises would be entirely congruent with my experience of life.  May you do the right thing now, accept the great gifts ever-present before you, and expect to be pleasantly surprised as the future unfolds.

POEM: Meet Me Their

Meet me
Wear the sky
Kisses the ocean
Where the day’s heat
Meets the cool of eve
Where a child’s cry
Meets his mother’s loving ears
And a full groan man
Brought to his knees
Now stands
Before his new home
Meet me
Their
Where the mountain rises to our feat
And our souls bound
To that which cannot die
Yet awe the more
Touched
By life
All meet
You there
Where mourning brakes
As just us
Kisses peace

This poem arose from a hybrid of inspirations, from a phrase from the musical South Pacific (about the ocean and sky meeting) and from a poem read at today’s Farm Labor Organizing Committee (FLOC) demonstration outside Toledo’s federal courthouse to end racial profiling by police and the border patrol.  This poem is grounded in a hybrid of sorts, the daily beauty of the earth and a mother’s love combined with the longing-filled work of living for social justice.  Of course, these ongoing works bring joy and peace in both the present and the future.  Hope is well fed both by places near home and far away.  May you be well fed AND hunger for justice.

POEM: My Brand of Value

My brand value
Has plummeted recently
So says sum consultant
As some seer into my pristine hide
Speaking a bout
Clashing symbols
In the mark it place
Some limbic game how logo
Soliciting every thing
That can be taut
As I must be
Scarred for good
Pimping my horrors
To a void
Tear attacks
Or fiscal fits
In a world lackeying so much
I’ll pass
Perhaps in tact
Or knot out live
Still
Forever chaste
Know thanks
I do believe
I’ll steer clear
Of dis figure or dat figure
And risk being
De-filed

In order to sell ourselves for a high price, we need to pay homage to our brand.  We often need to distort and simplify our deepest passions and interests so others can easily recognize our “value,” that is as such value may be determined at any given time and culture.  In the marketplace of our modern world, this typically means configuring our lives to maximally monetize ourselves.  Reducing our lives to money is a dangerous undertaking for our humanity.  This poem takes issue with the assumption that we should spend much of our life trying to sell ourselves.  What exactly would be a good balance?  Perhaps 15% slave, 15% whore, and 70% free range human would be a good compromise.  After meeting our basic physical needs, it strikes me that we should be devoting ourselves to the things that money can’t buy.  Even meeting our basic human needs can be much more human than often offered by modern, so-called civilization.  In fact, if we can trade, have mutual aid associations, grow some of our own food, build or repair our own stuff, we can loosen the grip that the moneychangers have over life, trading currency for the gloriously ineffable now.  Humans are not machines to be ever more standardized, even in the most complex and beauteous contraptions.  Rather than leveraging the seductive, money-making enterprise of simplifying and reducing humans to means to some financialized end, we should develop human relationships that harness the curiosity and appreciation of the unfathomably deep eccentricity and beauty of every human being.  Then, we can move from boredom and cynicism to enthusiasm and bounteous hopes.  This glorious movement from the bowels of an uncaring machine to a feral existence may be messy, even pricey.  Nonetheless, the value of living undomesticated lives is boundless, offering more than any mechanized existence, no matter how tamed, how well-trained, or how profitable.  Branding is not for the benefit of cattle or humans, and it is painful and scarring to boot!  Branding is for the ease of those who want to own and trade you and every commodifiable aspect of your existence, rather than taking the glorious time and robust effort to see you fully for who you truly are, worthy of avoiding all mean ends, and courageous enough to face being de-filed.

POEM: The Deep End

The Deep End

I fell
Off
The deep end
Only too narrowly
Missing a shallow end
As was my aim
The river is wide
Full of whys
Like some
Chicken of the see
Not to swim
To the other side
To get over
The waterfall
Planted from above
To churning, disorienting bellow
Grasping for breath
Vainly trying to separate
Water and light
Wallowing in a rainbow
How becoming
I am
Proclaiming
Deep and wide
Once
Is enough
Or, yearning only
Too due it
Again

The deep part of the river of life is the center.  The point is not merely to cross over the other side — as if efficiency in this matter were some virtue — but to experience it longly and deeply.  Of course, going over the deep end in a river is a waterfall.  Again, the point is not merely to “get over it,” but to embrace it in awe of its churning and disorienting bellow.  Drink life in, even choke on it, rather than leave via a “shallow end.” Accepting the sheer beauty of life in its totality can be a powerful spiritual practice leading to more robust experience — though some may recognize that you have went off the deep end.  Without incessantly trying to break life into good parts to be sought and bad parts to be avoided we can better appreciate the epic arc of life, and our own story within it.  Of course, lived well or poorly, most of us can identify with both feelings that “once is enough” and “let’s do it again!”  May it be so.