Dear Sylvia Plath, my voice, too, gets torn off regularly. . . may I find it again:

Vote

It appears that FOX News

has decided to do political analysis of muppets.

It appears they've decided

to pick on someone their own size:

Unfortunately, the effect of this piece of brilliant analysis

may actually just prove them to be precisely what they

are setting out to discredit:

puppets

So now

I send my feeble electronic voice out

across these great United States

and ask you to vote your conscience,

vote with honesty

and the same idealism that so many people used four years ago.

Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket

BY VACHEL LINDSAY

I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.

My life’s unkind, but I can vote for kindness.

I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.

I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.

Man is a curious brute—he pets his fancies—

Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.

So he will be, though law be clear as crystal,

Tho’ all men plan to live in harmony.

Come, let us vote against our human nature,

Crying to God in all the polling places

To heal our everlasting sinfulness

And make us sages with transfigured faces.

Ode To A Cloud

The clouds have been so fabulous this summer,

so I thought I'd write them

an ode.

Here goes:

You dance and turn and sing

O wispy thing

have you substance more than lace?

So quickly to dissolve, trace-

less, and yet your bulk 

can shudder the ships of man

almost to the point of breaking.

We should not underestimate you,

oh ghostly friend.  Only

praise and awe-fully gaze

as you drift across

                         the silent sky.

(photos by me)

Living in Bunny Land

( petrabbitcare )

The winter was not cold; this climate
grows rabbits.  Bunnies, in abun-
dance dance across my yard.

Our nightly walk, a ballet of cotton
feet in moonlight, ears in twi-
light, noses nibbling, twitching

to the pulse of the earth; my feet your feet too.
Two of us see two of them: bunnies
in our path.  They see us too.

Who will give way to the other?  It
is we who move to the street, while the rabbits
watch.  Bunnies are we all, even

my cats who watch bunnies from windows.
This is why the rabbits run rampant
on my side of town, and will endure

long after the rest of us have moved on.

( ribonita )

Lilac Tercets

Overnight, purple and white

exploded on your boughs

against blue skies, you burgeon there

insisting on the now, the breath

revolves and calms me here

despite the ringing in my ear

be still, it whispers, be

amazed, let birdsong ease

the chill.  Be still.

Living in the Fold

Living in the Fold:

Aka:

Traveling From Far East to Far West

( memorylaneminis )

At this time, I commence,

And within an hour

Or two it is the time

At which I commenced.

I mark a line

On the map in between

These two zones

And fold time in

On itself.

                             And then proceed rapidly

Forward,

                                                                                                                                                Backwards,

Into a day that I will live twice, yet only once,

Passing myself meeting myself

At the same moment

                         Again and again.

( greenchairpress )

I mark and fold

My origami world,

I sleep when tired

There in the fold

And dream of tonight

Twenty-four hours

            (or so)

                     from now

when I will meet you

and we can fold

us

into each others’ arms

again.

( gildaorigami )

Hear and Know

Somedays I wake up,

and my being is here,

so totally

pressed up against my inner flesh

like a child against a window:

whole being, flat

wanting

to get to the other side

no matter

what harm lies there.

These days I relish like a fresh cup

of coffee,

and I drink them slow - - -

Then

                                   Other days

I wake to find

the self is in bondage

                                                          somewhere deep inside,

perhaps 

                                                on the other side

                                                          where all selves merge.

Lost in the language,

the cacophony of vowels and 

                                   full stops,

I maneuver the day, a robot

wishing for immediacy,

aware of inadequacy.

Such days

only love

can bring me home,

can bring me here;

                                     we share

                                     a touch

                                       we share

                                           a glance ---

we owe each other

a lifeline back to the moment

if we recognize another wandering,

lost in space.

These words are my hands --

the vowels my eyes

seeking to anchor you

here

             and

now.

Here and Now

Hear and Know

Here and Now

(wikipedia)

we've lived so well, so long

My palms weigh heavy,

my fingers are aching

to write poetry with wings,

words that fly

into your eyes and make you think

that for a moment you see

some

thing,

even the tiniest thing,

a little more clearly.

My voice too

rattles the cages of my throat

longing

to sing to you.

This, though, will not be one of my finer entries,

only one I feel a need

to say,

rather than be silent

~ ~

The autumn closes on us all,

here in the Northern Domain

and the miserable misery of working

pulls on me like a ball

and chain --

I am not one of the unemployed in America,

nor am I one of the untaxed wealthy.

I am a member of the Working Class, which includes everyone

from garbage collectors to postal deliverers to teachers to engineers to insurance salesmen to nurses

to the retired to the grill-girl at McDonald's.

We are all the ones who pay the taxes and bills, with interest,

on every single living and dying step we take.

We're the ones who keep the company

woops, country

alive.

And now the ghoulish parade of hopeful GOP's

have donned their Halloween masks;

every day a new trick,

with promises of impossible treats.

Today, we discard our masks and return

to drudgery;

for them, the masquerade

has only just begun.

We're doomed to listen to them,

and to be required to believe

actually believe

that one of them,

just one of them,

is more capable than the current one man in office

 of relieving us of the mess we're in,

and restoring us to 1960's prosperity.

No no no no No

On this day, 11/1/11,

I say to you:

no one single American citizen

can turn this mess around.

Only us,

together,

can turn it around.

And we must start by stopping

our bickering,

start by stopping

our partisanship

start by stopping

believing

that we're right

and the other person

is wrong.

Start by listening,

and looking

with both eyes wide open,

and we will see

the Statue of Liberty

sailing away to sea.

We're all right,

and we're all wrong.

We have

lived so well,

so long,

and now

our biggest challenge is

finding a new way to live

well

together --

The Gniggling Gnat

1. 

There is a gnat in my brain.

It's a gniggling gnat

                         that

plays on the borders of language --

it lays its eggs

there on the threshold between the

                        good and bad, between

                             woman and man, between

                            black and white, between

friend and enemy.

( clemson.edu )

2.

Sometimes, in the gniggling gnat's gnaggling gnoogling

they produce eggs

there,

                                                                 on the wrong side of the right, and

the offspring tries to convince me that

what is wrong is actually right,

what is bad is actually good,

what is white, is actually black,

what is love, is actually hate,

what is female, is actually male . . . 

It tries to turn me against

Me and destroy

all the positive accomplishments

I've gained.

And then I would like to squash it.

~~

But the irony is:

if I squash

my gniggling gnat,

I'll destroy myself

3.

My gniggling gnat

keeps me on task; 

keeps me alert; and it

and I love and hate

all the same, because

it lives there

on the borders of language,

at the place where

love and hate meet, and it

reminds me that both

are one

and capable of living in harmony.

~ ~ 

The gniggling gnat is like the rod in the piston,

like the water in the wheel, like

the combustion in the engine,

like the wind in my hair.

. . . . and I'll go to my 

grave

defending

the spirit I have inside me,

this gniggling spirt,

that gnaggling spirit,

that spirit so capable

of love.

( Lovebugs - Wikipedia )

unfinished symphony

Jonathan70 @ photobucket

Child of mine,

torn

from my gut

before

you could ever draw

the sharp breath of life,

Torn

by my grief and his

greed, left to

bleed

for months on end ---

my aching womb

the only sign

of you.

Ah, to see

your face.

And I, now

damned

to live on the sidelines

of other families' lives,

feeling their love

so deeply,

loving them

so deeply,

yet never quite able

to be one.

Child of mind,

my guilty sadness,

my unfinished symphony --

every note I sing

I sing

                       for you.

Ah,

to see

your face.

timeoutofmind

The Object and The Form

( jetsetta.com )

Old friends come bearing  mem'ries of me

                        in overnight bags,

old friends who one time managed to see

                                     the riches through the rags

                                       and visa versa.

And I, too, saw the wealth in them,

and together we found

             a way to bend--

              a way to friend.

( overstock.com )

Some saw what they sought to see,

and some saw true.

I pray, friend, when I looked at you,

I just saw you.

Now I too, look,

and you, too, look

for the person left behind:

the one etched in memory

of the friendship of 

much earlier times ---

we seek

the one unspoiled,

unscathed by hurt

and others' selfish whims;

we seek to see our better selves

when we meet each other

somewhere down the road.

( funzug )

~ ~ ~

At this, my very advanced age,

I do not want to be

so lost in examination; I

do not want to need

to say 

I

out of uncertainty.

But I do,

and I say it with you.

I thank you, friends, for restoring me,

                a broken entity,

scattered over time and space:

                                             

some bits are beautiful,

some are not;

some are hesitant

some are hot;

some are gentle,

and some burn--

but all is I

and me,

and you.

We live and love together;

we make humanity

together.

( trentonhistory )

Travel gently, friend,

on your journey home.

Excavating The Heart

( roadblues )

Just when you think

all its fields 

have been plundered,

all its valleys

have been rendered 

fallow, and all

it mountains stripped

of their precious hold,

you'll discover

there are hidden places there -- 

subtle coves, rich

with luscious, newborn

vegetation waiting for the sun.

The heart is a boundless planet,

regenerative and full,

waiting to reward you

if you treat it with respect and love.

Stand

at the threshold,

in the glittering priceless rubble

of memory, past happinesses, pains

and lost opportunities

and behold

the new vistas there.

Tred gently there,

speak softly, using

only words that mean

what they say,

and be silent

when the words are not enough.

Listen

to the heart's native tongue

that speaks in birdsong,

rustling leaves,

distant chimes,

and gentle surf.

Be still and allow

amazement.

( samuelatgilgal )

Ode To An Orchid, Long Anticipated

From out your tangled, tormented weave

of roots, I have wondered, 

           will I see a bloom 

                             again?

One year, two years,

              watering there, 

            watching for

                              a different shoot

among the roots

              that clutch 

                 and cramp

                        your tiny home

              of earth.

My friend --

I recognized the singular sprout

                   a tad too late

                            to keep it straight,

                      but there it is

patience brings

                                     a cluster of blossoms,

                             ready to burst --

but I must extend

                       my waiting state,

                      amazed, though

at your regenerate

                  condition --

my heart, too

                     wells with you

The Alchemy of Tears

(alchemicaldiagrams)

When seeking out the formula for gold,

Faust, in his blindness,

overlooked the soul.

Its insubstantial quickness

as it grinds

against the course rough edges

of the mind

produces just the proper

substantiation,

                          that

when applied to physical

limitation,

produces the balm of the priceless:

                  

                                            tears.

My tears fall

for the boundless hopes

I've borne

that were cut short

by the miserable, measurable truths

of living among men (and women).

My tears                 Yours, too:

            delicate, 

          painful

&

          fleeting.

They are the priceless

elements we humans

all

have the capacity to produce:

                   the miracles of

                       compassion

                                   loss

                                   and

                                  love

that help us to live on.

( buriedinwater )

(The tiny blue teardrop above comes from the following website,
http://webbyfun.lbbhost.com/Homepage/teardrops.html
and should include the language:
"I put this teardrop here to show my support for all the abused children of the world."




The poem above 
is mine.)

Passing Carousel Riders: To Laura

I look at you,

                 my friend,

in your lean blonde chassis,

circa late 1950s, a smile

like sunlight, an air

of childish naievete still,

and I see myself.

It's always good to see you.

Your youngest is graduating 

and off to college;

I celebrate with you.

I, this time around, opted

for no children, no

such celebrations.

It saddens me sometimes.

Those tiny joys are beauteous,

but in my centuries

on this earth I've seen them come

and go, replaced by disappointments

when the borne hope dissipates.

I've seen the body sag;

all too often, the smile diminish.

You and I, passing

one more time around

on this merry-go-round called life,

on similar horses,

but slightly different trappings.

I like the way yours sparkles

Perhaps on this turn,

you'll catch the ring.

Ghost Radar

So I have this thing called

"Ghost Radar"

on my iPhone.

( spudpickles )

And

whether or not it's a legitimate way

to find ghosts

is under some debate.

However, mine is quite active.

What it does, see,

is it spits out words.

I can fully understand the critique

that the thing is just

"spitting out random words."

It does appear that way.

Though I will admit that

on more than a few occasions,

the Ghost Radar

has responded to the situation

appropriately.

Consider,

for instance, 

the time I sat down to eat

this delectable lamb chop

and salad and rice,

and the Radar was on,

and it said:

Yum!

Or the fact it keeps

identifying itself

when I turn it on at work

as the man whose

tenure track line

I filled.

He vacated it

by dying,

by the way.

Oh, well,

Right?

Coincidence,

yes!

**

Several months,

while I was sitting

and playing

my guitar,

I had the radar out,

and it spat out these words:

Broke

Ourselves

Consonant

Jet

Younger.

Now, what the hell is that?

You might wonder.

Random words.

Random or no,

I used them as the basis for a poem

(by me)

and here that poem

is:

Brokeourselvesconsonantyounger

Broke ourselves in two

consonant to the power

of the jet that propelled us,

younger,

                          backwards,

                                               with no glances

                                                    save

                                            the last ones

                                                                                that we shared.

I believe there was

something real

        despite

                         the odds stacked against us ---

I believe there was

love

                             like neither of us

                       felt possible.

(by Makropoulos --

if you're going to cut

& paste that,

please keep the line

by Makropoulos!)

* * *

The words after that,

by the way,

were:

Sound

Pot

Casey

Italian

unit

Now honestly,

I could do nothing

with them.

Random Words

Poetry by Ghalib (1797-1869)

I was reading
this poetry
today,
and I just had to share it:

(librarythinkquest  - interesting website)

If King Jamshid's diamond cup breaks that's it

If King Jamshid's diamond cup* breaks that's it,

But my clay cup I can easily replace, so it's better.

The delight of giving is deeper when the gift hasn't been demanded.

I like the God-seeker who doesn't make a profession of begging.

When I see God, color comes into my cheeks.

God thinks - this is a bad mistake - that I'm in good shape.

When a drop falls in the river, it becomes the river.

When a deed is done well, it becomes the future.

I know that Heaven doesn't exist, but the idea

is one of Ghalib's favorite fantasies.

(*King Jamshid was a legendary Persian ruler

who could see the future in his cup.)

(wave/sound - another fascinating site)

I'm neither the loosening of song

I'm neither the loosening of song nor the close-drawn tent of music;

I'm the sound, simply, of my own breaking.

You were meant to sit in the shade of your rippling hair;

I was made to look further, into a blacker tangle.

All my self possession is self delusion;

what violent effort, to maintain this nonchalance!

Now that you've come, let me touch you in greeting

as the forehead of the beggar touches the ground.

No wonder you came looking for me, you

who care for the grieving, and I the sound of grief.

(both by Ghalib)