Grass&Gravel Times
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Poetry Thursday _ August 9
link to other August 2007 posts
Repeating the Sounds of Anonymity
Carousing poetics trap a word drunk surfing bum
With muddled message similes in the margins
Leaving rod vision minds peripherally dumb
Not being there online becomes the place to be
There are those who cannot go where they say
Fellow homonym-niacs may reveal their privates
Make Thursday an unresponsive tomorrow today
Exposed like language unheard by the left brain
Mired in wiki trivia, a most unknown obscurant
Belies common knowledge with jaja entrails
Temptation lurks between the words eye can’t
See what I won’t be in its hidden cognate forms
link to other August 2007 posts
Repeating the Sounds of Anonymity
Carousing poetics trap a word drunk surfing bum
With muddled message similes in the margins
Leaving rod vision minds peripherally dumb
Not being there online becomes the place to be
There are those who cannot go where they say
Fellow homonym-niacs may reveal their privates
Make Thursday an unresponsive tomorrow today
Exposed like language unheard by the left brain
Mired in wiki trivia, a most unknown obscurant
Belies common knowledge with jaja entrails
Temptation lurks between the words eye can’t
See what I won’t be in its hidden cognate forms
Labels: 9aug07, poetry_thur
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Baseball - the adolescent phase
Baseball, the game of life, in 4 parts
Every true American poet has a baseball ballad.
Every true American writer has a baseball masterpiece.
It is America’s game, at least we invented the myth.
Facts found by an official commission rarely are questioned,
It is how we learn to believe in ourselves.
Forget it. Baseball is just a game for slackers!
Lots of time to muse about pussy,
Pussy you thought you got,
Pussy you never thought you’d get,
Pussy that, well just good old warm pussy thoughts.
Mind games. Limited symbolic action.
A game invented for men by men, balls and bats,
Other than that pretty much a women on her back,
The diamond and the key parts exposed for play,
A euphemistic metaphor that spells out sex.
There are the numbers, measures of success,
I guess, 3 for 4 is an outstanding day for a hitter, who
Plays at night, under the lights, but things average out.
Not many hit over .250, and that is a ball knocked
Where gloves cannot catch the prize.
Nobody really wants the prize though, like men
Playing the game of life, they don’t know what to do
When luck puts them in the spotlight.
So they throw it away, and try get the hitter out,
Making him just another dugout stiff again.
Most anyone can play this game,
Some guys are better at the symbolic parts.
The numbers expose their successes, if they are too successful
They raise the quality of the pussy.
Mostly that is a matter of size and numbers too.
Tight is huge by those measures, especially if
The legs are longer, and the pitcher has good stuff.
What do they really mean when the commentator says,
“He struck out on a pitch that was way inside?”
Talking the talk is all about the unattainable.
Most poets try to get funny with the numbers
Making out like the verses are innings, something artificial,
Kind of like a good bit of baseball.
Most of them miss what the game is really about, anyway,
Not here, this is just the seventh stanza stretch.
Return to Poetry Thursday
Every true American poet has a baseball ballad.
Every true American writer has a baseball masterpiece.
It is America’s game, at least we invented the myth.
Facts found by an official commission rarely are questioned,
It is how we learn to believe in ourselves.
Forget it. Baseball is just a game for slackers!
Lots of time to muse about pussy,
Pussy you thought you got,
Pussy you never thought you’d get,
Pussy that, well just good old warm pussy thoughts.
Mind games. Limited symbolic action.
A game invented for men by men, balls and bats,
Other than that pretty much a women on her back,
The diamond and the key parts exposed for play,
A euphemistic metaphor that spells out sex.
There are the numbers, measures of success,
I guess, 3 for 4 is an outstanding day for a hitter, who
Plays at night, under the lights, but things average out.
Not many hit over .250, and that is a ball knocked
Where gloves cannot catch the prize.
Nobody really wants the prize though, like men
Playing the game of life, they don’t know what to do
When luck puts them in the spotlight.
So they throw it away, and try get the hitter out,
Making him just another dugout stiff again.
Most anyone can play this game,
Some guys are better at the symbolic parts.
The numbers expose their successes, if they are too successful
They raise the quality of the pussy.
Mostly that is a matter of size and numbers too.
Tight is huge by those measures, especially if
The legs are longer, and the pitcher has good stuff.
What do they really mean when the commentator says,
“He struck out on a pitch that was way inside?”
Talking the talk is all about the unattainable.
Most poets try to get funny with the numbers
Making out like the verses are innings, something artificial,
Kind of like a good bit of baseball.
Most of them miss what the game is really about, anyway,
Not here, this is just the seventh stanza stretch.
Return to Poetry Thursday
Labels: baseball, poetry, poetry_thur
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Transgenic Pasquinade
<
~~~Click the pic to read the words~~~~
I resurrected this site for PT
<
I resurrected this site for PT
Labels: organic, poetry_thur, swamps, transgenetic
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Transgenic Pasquinade
<
~~~Click the pic to read the words~~~~
I resurrected this site for PT
<
I resurrected this site for PT
Labels: organic, poetry_thur, swamps, transgenetic
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Cloud Appreciation Society
The Cloud Appreciation Society came to my attention from the Idler just before they were a Yahoo 2005 pick for "wacky and weird (or something like that). Gavin Pretor-Pinney who is the founder also founded the Idler. I submitted an earlier version of a poem to them called "how humans get to heaven."
I published the longer version on Portable Poetry Portal which is republished here
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Spirit in the Sky
I could not help but be inspired by the contradictions that clouds pose for scientists as the site Cloud Appreciation Society so aptly displays. After leaving 30+ years of a science career behind, I finally understand it takes poetry to explain the affinity of humans for clouds.
I published the longer version on Portable Poetry Portal which is republished here
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Spirit in the Sky
I could not help but be inspired by the contradictions that clouds pose for scientists as the site Cloud Appreciation Society so aptly displays. After leaving 30+ years of a science career behind, I finally understand it takes poetry to explain the affinity of humans for clouds.
How Humans Get to Heaven
Men make photographs of their shapes
Make them appear like objects of gravity
We animals descended from the apes
Are captives and makers of earth’s depravity
Writing a formula for a cloud is pointless
When we think we have it right
It vaporizes and mocks our foolishness
Exposed and basking in blue light
Water is such a common thing for thus
It takes a cold day to expose our breath
Show us that clouds are spirits within us
Whose airy domain transcends our death
Friday, January 27, 2006
Two poems added to the
Voices in Wartime
Opening of the Heart Educational Project.
Solitary Soldier Digest
and
A Granary Full Empty
Both written on my annual visit to the VA Hospital for a physical. It is a place everone should visit, especially the young people. It is the best way to explain why there are no survivors of wars only victims. Only the heartless could choose war before any other altenative but the last unless of course personal gain without gratitude or sacrifice is all they know.
Opening of the Heart Educational Project.
Solitary Soldier Digest
and
A Granary Full Empty
Both written on my annual visit to the VA Hospital for a physical. It is a place everone should visit, especially the young people. It is the best way to explain why there are no survivors of wars only victims. Only the heartless could choose war before any other altenative but the last unless of course personal gain without gratitude or sacrifice is all they know.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
SpokenWar
To my audio composition companions I'm known as
Sunny Day
Go to the SpokenWar website and listen to my audio composition
FriendsfromtheBeginnig
and others by some pretty well known Spoken Word artists.
To my audio composition companions I'm known as
Sunny Day
Go to the SpokenWar website and listen to my audio composition
and others by some pretty well known Spoken Word artists.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Among the Poems of the Week (December 18, 2005) on Poets Agaist the War
POEMS OF THE WEEK
A showcase of best poems
“Nobody Hero” and “Fighting for Jesus” (Volga, South Dakota, USA, 12/11/2005)
Actually "Fighting for Jesus" has evolved into a longer poem as many of my Cinquain-T often do. It is now a part of audio production piece called "Faith from the Beginning" parts of which are on Brigid the Blog Muse
War is not the Answer
Ride a Bicycle
POEMS OF THE WEEK
A showcase of best poems
“Nobody Hero” and “Fighting for Jesus” (Volga, South Dakota, USA, 12/11/2005)
Nobody Hero
Iraq
rookie bonus
medical care payment---
lifetime VA visits . . . no legs
attached.
Fighting for Jesus
Judas
lives as a king
in the white house.
Oil greed payments
crucifying the truth
with war.
Actually "Fighting for Jesus" has evolved into a longer poem as many of my Cinquain-T often do. It is now a part of audio production piece called "Faith from the Beginning" parts of which are on Brigid the Blog Muse
Ride a Bicycle
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Once in while a person has to do an internet search to find where his work ends up. Today's search revealed one ended up on Bicycling Life A Web-site for Everyday Bicyclists. I reprint below but this is a pleasant site and reading the rest of the poems and browsing the site is worth the time. I like their attitude towards cycling:
I don't remember when I submitted this poem but. . .
Many bicycle web sites are "event" oriented. Lots are interested on races or racers. Most are seasonally oriented, and a few are advocacy oriented. We are not disinterested in these things. We are simply more interested in the promotion of cycling as a "normal" means of transportation for every day travel needs as well as recreation and healthy exercise.
I don't remember when I submitted this poem but. . .
Bicycle Commute
Stillness returns as I retrace the path
Daily rhythms hold at workday close.
Spirit wind is a constant companion.
Even when the leaves are idle,
The breathe of life is called forth
By the joy of movement.
Time is irrelevant, the sun moves
The mind to reflect on the day
As gravel stones sing a broken melody
And the horizon communicates purpose.
Machine, sacred ring of Black Elk's vision
Revealed in steel and sweat.
Monday, June 27, 2005
One of my poems from Dec 2002 published in South Dakota Magazine (Jul-Aug 2005). Reprinted below. It was kind of nice to open up to the poetry page and find one of my poems that I had submitted a a few months ago among the poems for this edition. The first selection,"Prairie Rock Crossing," was published in the Jan-Feb 2005 edition and now the second in the group in the latest issue.
I added the earlier one here too. The page had a photo of a rock pile that is making the rounds in several publications. It was an honor to have the photo on the same page. It was taken by Bernie Hunhoff the owner of the South Dakota Magazine.
West Wind
Tickle me with flower sweetness
lift my hopes little dreamer.
You come with the sun
breathless, then fervor,
playful prairie wind.
Darkness
reclaims your vigor
and coolness
holds my cloak until
the morrow
when foolishness returns
and curses cannot calm you.
I added the earlier one here too. The page had a photo of a rock pile that is making the rounds in several publications. It was an honor to have the photo on the same page. It was taken by Bernie Hunhoff the owner of the South Dakota Magazine.
PRAIRIE ROCK CROSSING
At the bottom of the rock pile
Covered by soil and late arrivals
The smell of sweat and aches
Rises like a spirit from that heap
Old Philip was under it all
A support that all us family got.
Men and boys struggling
To make a field fit for a plow
Rooting up points smaller than a fist
Yet sharper than rough lament
Of “work too hard.” Still, buoyed
Forward by savage memories,
Rock piles we made.
Points we saved as trophies
Yet, did not, could not honor them.
We did not understand the land,
It grew wheat, made bread,
A sacramental companion to wine.
Russian wheat and Deutsch
Sent west to replace a bison herd
With pointed steeple and iron cross
Thus Peter became the new rock
But rejected prairie stones ascended
To anchor a father’s dream.
