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.

POEM: Reject

They took out a social contract
On her
In what might as well be
Too her
Too be
As good
As dead
From their point of you
Her response sow questionable
If it’s awe the same
Too you
I’ll strike
Oppose
Whatever
You have
Status quid pro quo
Ad infinitum
With slick prose and dodgy idioms
Foreign to me and my kind
Only wanting
Too ax me
Where unseen ahead nod
And invisible
Hand
Shake
Down
I reject

A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except learning how to grow in rows -- Doug Larson BE A WEED POLITICAL BUTTONNever forget that only dead fish swim with the stream. Malcolm Muggeridge quote POLITICAL BUTTONThis poem’s title, Reject, can be read as both a noun and a verb.  People, too often treated as things, often end up as rejects of a dehumanizing status quo.   The humanizing response to being relegated as a reject of a dehumanizing status quo is to reject that dehumanizing status quo.  People, and their vital humanity, are better characterized with verbs than as nouns.  People rebelling against being a means to an undignified end, being treated as a cog in a machine or so much fodder, is an indispensable beginning to becoming more fully human.  May your rebellion against that which is dehumanizing manifest many fine beginnings.

Feel free to check out more designs about rebellion, resistance and revolution:

Thou Shall Not Take Shit POLITICAL BUTTONThe Opposite of Courage In Our Society Is Not Cowardice; It Is Conformity -- Rollo May quote POLITICAL BUTTONTo learn who rules over you, simply find out who you are not allowed to criticize -- Voltaire quote POLITICAL BUTTON

	 Love Is Our Resistance POLITICAL BUTTONHumanity Has A Bad Case Of 'Just Following Orders' POLITICAL BUTTONDo Not Mistake Us For A Movement Without Leadership - We Are ALL Leaders POLITICAL BUTTON

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion -- Albert Camus quote POLITICAL BUTTON

POEM: Sea of Love

I was lost
In a sea of love
Only to find my way back
To this world
Look in my eyes and sea
All that I have
For you

Love is a vast place; one of those places where you can recharge your soul or simply folic in joy.  Love has an otherworldly quality to it.  Not too surprising, if God is love.  Love is a poor respecter of man-made conventions, known to turn conventional wisdom upside down.  The weighs of love are not easily subject to human calculation or even put in words, especially for prose.  This short poem alludes to this ineffability by its being made known through the eyes, the windows to the soul.  Love is not prone to half-ass measures, offering All that I have as the only proper homage to love’s nature.  While the experience of love is difficult to quantify or put into words, its nature is to share itself with another.  May you love find you and the eyes have it.

The theme of this poem reminds me of another short poem of mine:

Divine Lover

One day
I asked God
What is it all about?
There was only silence
But with the look he gave me
We’ve been lovers
Ever since

 

POEM: For Awe Inclusive Crews

In this backwards god-eat-god world
In the phase of gratuitous violins
Love surpasses all of the prose
In the ultimate hatch it job
Super seeding awe conceptions
Overrunning all of its boarders
Teeming with those borne agin
Depraving those of what little they halve
Razing hell
Only to make everything
Beyond accost
As be stowing
Such sublime vouchers
For awe inclusive crews
Who take up
The cause

This poem is about the tenaciously subversive workings of love and the sublime benefits of orienting one’s own being and doings with transcendent purposes.  The breakneck, in-your-face cynicism shilled by consumer culture and tribal goading runs roughshod over the deepest and most satisfying harmonies in life.  Actively and collectively working for good in this world may be best centered around these awe-inspiring forces in life that bid us to meet gratuitous violence with gratuitous love.  May love upturn any low impulses that may interfere with boldly welcoming a way of life big enough for awe and small enough to meet every child within.

POEM: The Death of Poetry

A critic posed
A question
Is poetry dead?
But for the piles of dead poets
Worth only one read assent
A qualm comes
Over me
As death summons
Unwanted clarity
Between write and throng
Stern and bow
A demanding curt see
In deifying gravity
Those eternal questions
Only to pass a weigh
Into yawning darkness
And for what must be left
To others
Making light
Of unfathomable depths
Know less than a resurrection
Uplifting that which cannot be lifted
To be more
Than a fly by knight
Scrounging heir to inspire
Till the finality of our daze
Whatever
You call the question
Too the cynic
The answer begged is “yes”
To the forged quest in
At best a loan victory
To the poet
There is know
Question
And undying rejoin

This poem was inspired by an article, from no less than the New York Times, entitled, “Is Poetry Dead?” that was sent to me by my Dad. Fortunately, the subtitle was “Not if 45 Official Laureates Are Any Indication.” Nonetheless, that even posing such a cynical question can inspire poetry is answer enough to such a foolish question.

When the eternal questions wrought from the foundations of reality can no longer summon the slightest awe from which any human dare speak, then poetry may be declared dead. The death certificate will be signed by absolute prose. Such last writes will have no need of a wake, and nothing human need be bared. THE END.

POEM: Amateurs and Prose

There are moments
When I feel
Like such an amateur
Then the payments come
So much more
Than I could ever hope for
The only falling short
Is ever thinking
That life
Is fated to be
Any won thing
Except
Well
Spent
Surpassing awe
In deed not
Buy miserly prose
Dying with more
Than a pauper attitude
Lein-ing on the everlasting alms
That train to glory
Bound
Less debt
Eternally

Life is good.  The gift of life offers so many great things and awesome possibilities.  Gratitude strikes me as perhaps the most fundamental human attitude toward life, if reality is seen in a large enough perspective.  Maybe I’m just lucky.  I prefer to view it as grace.  Either way, I have experienced the bounty of serendipity on countless occasions — and I count these occasions as priceless!  Hopefully, such a beautiful predicament engenders paying it back and paying it forward.  I see life as an invitation to more life.  I view vitality as best served by generously overflowing, by joining in and continuing the perpetual cycling of giving.  Miserly attitudes can stunt this wondrous cycling.  Greed is a parasite on plenty.  May gratitude and generosity carry you as a living antidote to miserliness and greed.

3D POEM: My Twisted Uni-verse (on a Mobius Strip)

This 3D POEM, My Twisted Uni-verse, may very well be the first poem ever written to be read on a Mobius Strip, made from a plain strip of paper with a half twist and joined at the ends, forming a bounded surface with only one side and one edge.  While the Mobius strip appears to have two sides, it actually has only one.  If you draw a line through the center of the Mobius strip without lifting the pencil off the paper, you mysteriously come back to the starting point but on the seemingly opposite side of the paper. Though some may think that they have met-a-physically impossible poem, this poem proves once and for awe that one side fits all.  This poem could be in the endless running for the coolest poem ever metaphor.  Here you can download the poem and instructions for printing and assembling this 3D POEM, My Twisted Uni-verse, on a Mobius strip.

Here is the poem in the much flatter, and much more boring, two-dimensional, virtual format:

START
My twisted uni-verse
Another Dan poem
Of a certain Rutt
A parent
Chaos
From the mine
Of a loving creator
And boundless art
Fathered
Strangely hollowed
By sum
Figure eight
Somehow fallen
Belying a symbol of infinity
Like some dodo’s flight of flimsy
Oar a Cardinal’s mind numb-er
Which holds no water
Wringing out
The tinkle and knell we’re in
Tintinnabulating K-9 jingles
The perpetually twisted calibrated
By nothing but
A bottomless equation
Divided by zeroes
In bogus denominations
Their value lying in fallowing the one
Scaling up to eternity
Or we’re all askewed
Yet inexplicably abstaining
From inner course
Where two become one
Long after one becomes two
Giving arise
Too
One’s third pupil
On the blink
Of such an incredible faculty
Agape
Unimaginable
To be
This school
Taut cursive
In a printsly world
A grade steeped
By advanced degrees
Such ascendancy
Offering eminent danger
Infinitesimally close
To sheer tear
Like shingles to a hommé
Con fronting flailing grades
How report a card
Where    so oblique
In all afield
Un-reckon-izable dimensions
3-D and then some
F’s thrown in
For good measure
Long the weigh
In consonant terms
Amidst an implausible dream
Of hitting AWOL
Having bolted
The ghetto of calculus
In the face of
A never ending Mo’ be us trip
That blings true
Where knot knowing
What to do with it
Effacing the feeble mined
Less pressing than a stack of bills
I’m patient to pay the flee
Only too fined
The wholly frail
Of hospitality
Having gotten aweigh
Unfounded
Hoodwinked
By sum comical
Met a physician
With a glean in his I
Leaving me
Duped up
And swallowing deludes down
In reality getting bent
Awe askant
Know longer
Mused
By the funny paper
Only peering as washed out
Two dimensional characters
In a whirled series
Remanding one
Of a duplicitous cell
Hopping to escape
In sum count ’em leap
With singular energy
Pack it
Heat
Of the pauper caliber
Miss taken
As if
Over a barrel
Stock piling weepin’s
Fauster than light
Long the way
A formula won raze
The devil in the detailing
Dashing drivers
And hopes
Un-car-ing
Off course
As oft
To the races
All that’s mind foiled
In a moving finish
Untouched
By scurry-less-ness
And a void
Some alien oversight
Or an other wizard-in-ski
Sow commanding fruit
Fully multiplying
Product placement
And elite divisions
Leaving us wanton
The winners circle
As vultures in compassing
Like sum gallop poll
Leading us to thirst place
Where life is a breeze
And as you might
Have gust
O so puffed up
Strung out
Like flying a kite
In the mettle
Of lighten-ing all a bout
That too for one sail
Err no’ing
One side fits all
A might he
Fortress is
De-moated too
In-F-able
Fore letters, words
Life unabridged
Elude to a kiss
Bye lingual
Surpassing prose
That speak easy
In two languages
Simply sed
A hearty dos upon ya (only slightly rushin’)
One tongue
The thirst
Of paper penned
Makes ciao
Of the other
Sum arrhythmia tic
With no cure insight
For one is too
Beholden to digitalis
Waving like a palm
Just out of grasp
Trying to out fox gLove
Without feeling
Ticking off reality
Taking one’s leave
Fig mental
The commencement of quotas
Espousing a Lot of ground
To earn their salt
And pilloried remains
Left behind
Uncovering too much for modesty
Too little cloak and dagger to brag
Yet cocky enough
To embody such a nit writ
Call me ish male
An inconceivable heir about him
A leg of the journey absent
Sailing the piqued
Untoward the Moby-est RIP
Ever-multiplying wails
On this one-sided outing
Wagering on just accounting
Wading for the fork in the rowed
And columns towering
As Babble on
At least two sheets to the win
Helled together as 180 degrees twisted
In a 360 daze
Like guinea pigs
On a treadmill
In the House of Escher
M.C. for a private first class
Of puzzling Coptic allusions
Walking and talking
More like dead Egyptians
On nether side of the tip of the iceberg
Feeling under the whether
Frees us
Or wholly deserted
Left wear thou dust go
A simple noshing of teeth
Where so little smacks of dearth
For all that scant do
Everlastingly lean
On arms and alarms
Free from
Double and triple crossers
Of the finish lyin’
A bout too
Rat grace
Just working to get too
The other side
Like you halve two
When mirrorly
Won for all
Soully routed
In sum final resolution
An attainment for all ours
In know jumping too
Conclusions
Of such curtains seamingly applausible
Yet knot de-terminus
To know end
Bringing you to
Cave
Of wonders
Just saying
O pun says me
FINISH (or knot)

Please download, print and assemble your own 3D version of this POEM, My Twisted Uni-verse, on a Mobius strip.

POEM: Heaven Unearth

Heaven Unearth

Place
Your hand in mine
And I will
Skip
The rest
Of the whirled
My feat barely
Touching
The ground
Where heaven and earth meet
Together
Giving thanks
For earthly existence
And your heavenly
Place
Saying a prayer
For the forever lust
And grace for awe
That is right

Alright people, it’s only a week away from Valentine’s Day!  I promise to help fulfill my dream that loved ones everywhere get a love poem.  So, will you be doing your part on Valentine’s Day?  You are free to pawn any of my love poems for a little inspiration.  Here are some suggested (only somewhat suggestive) love poems: Stolen Glances, Our Weekend Away, Relationship Advice, Unconvincing, and Love Tag.  As I have been prone to say: I want to inspire you; that is, I want to breathe you in!  I will craft a poem suitable, or perhaps unsuitable, for my sweetheart, an audience of won!  WARNING: a Valentine’s Day without poetry may put you at risk for settling for prose…

POEM: Twittering Away – Owed to IPO’d

This poem is in tribute to today’s initial public offering of Twitter:

Twittering Away – Owed to IPO’d

Is there a longing beyond
The public stocks
IPO’d
Buy and buy
The Alpha and Beta of existence
Reduced to 140 characters or less
Hovering around tiny luminaries
Passing flesh and mortar like gas
A lusty err to some backwards throne
The writing on the wall
Its singular accomplishment
Bringing the end nearer the beginning
Posing as prose
Vainly bard
To the twitter’s fear
Like the teeniest scandal
In the wind
Exercising their ABBs
As won voidable six-pack
Dreams taken by whizzes
Raining in banality
Hailing nitwits
Flailing to put sole
Too their brevity
A game of hash tag
With a phony high
Never getting off
What’s beneath them
Trumped up charges
Powering a virtual reality
Their fullish ways
Dealing only
In fractions
Courting daft years
As married to miss demeanors
A puerile of grate value
Not just
For characters shy
Of simply being gross
Twittering away
Your life
In the palm of your hand
Exposing your briefs to the world
The embarrassing lengths
Willing to disclose
In heiring your dirty laundry
To the whirled

This poem is a tribute to a technology infrastructure that serves as a superhighway to the inane.  Of course, I’m slamming it ode school!  I’m surfing the vapids, because this insipid superhighway is littered with abbreviated lives, and perhaps the farthest thing possible from the novel!  Twitter is appropriately named.  Humanity flits about distracted by all but the punyest ventures.  Here is to trading up from private capital to the capitol of privates!  So beat it!  Unsuccessfully littering, your company papers and your loan company are strewn with thousands of public heirs. Congratulations, you’ve graduated from matriculating in class, to a mere one hand out from a classless society.  In the face of such inaneness, I must admit: IPO’d.  Still, I for won, am not buying it.

NOTE: there is a very obscure pun in this poem. ABB is the stock symbol for a robotics company.  I think that they build them with 100% irony — you can rust assured.

POEM: Author Author Original

Author Author Original

Many great authors
Veritable prose
Composed
Many glorified pages
Of legends owed
Epitomizing a theme
Depicting perfect variations
Epic anecdotes
In firmity
Contracted
By edifices
Of many stories
I prefer the novelty
Of a single sentence
Unleashing countless perspectives
Leaping tall buildings
Condemned
To freedom
Facing immanent decomposition
A tale doggedly wagging
Kneading not
A collect
The preyer of singular digits
Followed by zeroes
Offering
No cure awe
Beyond
Ne’er rating
Guttenburgers
Serving billions
In the court
Of public opinion
In loo of
Author original
Nameless

This poem is an ode to the commercialization of the art of writing.  This is less an indictment of authors trying to make a living than the nature of others trying to make a living off authors.  Also, this poem speaks to my preference for poetry versus prose.  I must confess, I had a great laugh with the epiphany of “Guttenburger,” a literate hybrid pun, unduplicated in its meatiness.  The image of a hurried run of trashy novels on the jacked up modern equivalent of the Guttenberg press, like fast food burgers on a conveyor grill, about sums up art meeting modern civilization.  As Western civilization quickly monetizes and copies right any art sufficient to the task, artists continue the eternal struggle to pay worthy homage to the original author nameless and unnamable, reproducing endless originals.