Space & Time

The Poet in Me...

Once upon a thought, I ventured in

dreams considered a myth...between

Venus and the Cosmos my burst is

galactic dust, sins to mortals.


My desires are black holes, killing

sunshine with my thoughts. Planets

bow at my feet as if I'm the Creator

only to find an imitator of time and

space with a galactic burst, satisfying

stars across the universe--


Once upon a thought, I ventured in

dreams considered a myth...between

heaven and hell, my burst are mortal

sins, galactic dust in space. My desires

are tornado's creating a new path with

your wishes.


Mountains move with the sound of my

voice as if I'm the Creator only to find

an imitator of time and space with

mortal sins, smoking weed, rehearsing

poetry...the poet in me!


Once upon a thought, I fought legions

of demons in my dreams. What once

was considered a myth is now a reality.

Can you cope with this mentality?

Sanity is minimal when suicide is

subliminal. What you hear is critical!

A cry for help! I don't think so!


The poet in me won't die--my words will

multiply, imitating time and space

creating rhythm and blues with versus

across the Cosmos--


Once upon a thought, I ventured through

the universe with one pulse, one note, one

microphone, one voice, now you know!

Galactic-ly seducing Venus in my dreams,

no myth--between the Sun and the Moon,

I'm the stars shining bright, guiding your

mind with my constellations,  meditation

can get you there--


I am the Creator, breathing poetry in

mankind, a living legend before, rebirth...

the poet in me... 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Once upon a thought, holla' black soul...

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Generation of Time

 

I wish I could erase you from my mind

Forget your existence
I could be free of this pettiness; this worry
Gather every memory of you
Bottle it up and throw it out to sea
You could swim with the fishes, 

In my thoughtless dreams
In a matter of time, you will forget me
When I pass by, on those dark and empty streets
You won’t look twice, as I will be a faded memory
Simply, another faceless stranger
This void, settling deeper into my rib cage
When will I bury you
Rid you of my daily bread
Consuming every memory; every touch
Wishing for a way to erase you
Forget your existence—
In my generation of time

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written on 01/05/04

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each day

how many moons have passed

how many changing seasons

each day east to west

each day sun glimmers then dies

each day i hear you whisper

each day i lose control

each day i dream i am taken

each day i think i have courage

each day i fail

each day i drift a little further

each day i care a little less

each day i think i am with you

each day i realize its a lie

each day is always tomorrow

each day has already passed

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Phantom Whispers

Folder: 
Satanic Serenades

Every day about this time

When all is still and quiet

I hear the walls come alive

A dull vibration, dark sensation

Singing one to sleep

Voices and lullabyes

Haunting in the gloom of this shadowed room...



The heartbeat of an undead life

As visions fill My mind

Transported through an endless era

Recycling sublime

The scent of genus rosa grow

And culinary bliss to flow...



Phantom Whispers permeate

Every day about this time

When all is still and quiet

You can see the air is moving

The House tells stories if you listen closely

Echoed forever more...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Impressions derived while gracefully transitioning into dormancy.

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The first convincing

Folder: 
Main

I refuse to embrace this moment's hungry widow
her wimple chafing loudly against the stile
engages one in a Proust-like gambol, long
thwarted for sure but no stranger to tomorrow.

no more so, than the talk of Wednesday's God
about the wives of clouds when salt is what is needed.
Some sort of mercury he claimed.

We bought it and left it on the boat.
Lost in the spray, the bounce,
the lights reflected in the blame
that stood between us.

I do not care for your cold dish,
better yet it hadn't been required,
but that boat, we've seen, has sailed
and full of the mad we won't own up to.

succumb to really, a reality of lies we will
throw upon, proclaim and defend even when
the weft wanders and warps our desires to simply be.

simple.
be.

Not then it shouts. Not then nor there.

Sleep did not come that season and it showed
in every widow that wasn't there, from the beginning.
That fish is worth embracing if only for the eyes that hang there
beneath the blades, pipes, urinals and soup cans;
all dripping certitude nobody could claim.

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Elements of the World, Lack of Understanding

Considered a thinker, betrayed by his tomes

A lack of genuine wisdom keeps him at bay

The state of mind that clusters him is bitter

And rarely allows for much to occur

Or for any progress to be made within his universe

To understand his place, his potentials

The world that he has no control over whatsoever

Seems to elude him in every aspect of life

The scanning of the word is the emptying of the head

The attempts to reach out is the affirmation of his monotony

And the hollow flow of language is somehow outside himself

He exists but does not understand why, and wishes to

But he simply doesn't feel able to comprehend,

or maybe even apply himself to understand and commit to memory

All this madness, the world offers it, urges us to strive

Some fight, some slide into contented nothingness

And we all end in the same way, with similar consequences

With little to show outside of a handful of overdue notices

Fight for happiness, die for love, live to rebel

And learn to absorb the limitlessness of our world

Maybe even do something with yourself

Promoting change

Hindering change

Lingering because of something outrageous

Extraordinary for all intensive purposes

Within the realms of society that are accepted,

or will be accepted within the next ten decades.

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02-09 Ponder

Folder: 
DailyPoetryProject

A man, wandering light years

from galaxy to galaxy

ponders as we plod along.

“What is the viscosity of mileage

as it sticks

to the sides of the hourglass?”

He studies how the overflow

keeps from leaping over,

not so eager to escape

but rather,

eager to stay at home

together.

Not one parsec

added to the census

of the starcraft odometer

abandons ship

until the strain is so great

that the hourglass has splintered

rifts into time

bleeding continuums together.



A lone star grabs his attention

as it twinkles morosely

through nebulae in the foreground,

but the man takes heart.

The star’s transmissions are just now being heard,

translated,

related,

and beamed back with astonished reply

at the similarities between two strangers

who become more like siblings.



The cosmic rays

from sunbursts like smoke signals

wash over the traveler

to comfort him.

He is not alone

in the viscosity of his mind.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Blame Andrew. It started with "What is the viscosity of mileage?"

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01-09 Impatient Slowing

Folder: 
DailyPoetryProject

The clock dismays at ticking out existence all the same.

Day to day it must remain unchanged in meter and refrain.

The timepiece growing ancient, as its pace has been replaced

by slowing days that amble vacantly while memories erase.



A low and shaking rumble making items fall from quaking

dusty shelves once taking pride in what they held, their grip forsaking

souvenirs and knick knacks, books of lore, pictures all fall to the floor

thrown assunder from the force of the clock’s hourly roar.



An hour takes two months to pass, a second takes a day

and as each tick creeps by in such a way so many chimes are saved

that by the time they get released so much inertia has increased,

they all come out at once and shake the house until the sound has ceased.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Yikes. . . first I couldn't even find inspiration for a theme or subject until I dwelled on how tired I am - a lazy tiredness that pulls creativity and initiative into a black hole that leads to places unknown (and that might be tomorrow's poem). This poem, like yesterday's, took a lot of working out and intensive thought to construct, probably because I chose to follow a rhyme pattern and enforce it as opposed to my usual brand of poetry which has little to no firm structuring. . . This poem could have been called "Clocks Grow Old," but that's already the name of a song by I Am Spoonbender.

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"Sagittarii 5"

So it’s been said

That love is blind

You should know though

The rest

I saw love get

Beaten within

Inches of its death

Long sigh, yes



The truth sets us free

Bring the impartial, fair stars

To witness our celestial saga



God please don't let me

Love in again vain

For bring one to me

And I'll serve their precious name



But it's human nature

No one ever

Overcomes what they are

Wired in chemical means

The things we will do

The words we will say

The people who we will be

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