Punctuation

Punctuation
From groan and moan to bleachèd bone.
 From lust and thrust to ashen dust.
 From womb and bloom to stagnant tomb.
 From birth and mirth to breathless dearth.
 From kiss and bliss to Stygian Dis.
 From start and heart we all must part.

Samsara's Dust Storm

The winds of time blow ever on Driving me towards the setting of my sun The dust cloud of my being Swirls in ceaseless dance Its tango never ceases But partners change relentlessly There is no dance There is no dust There is no wind And yet I cling to partner after partner Whose forms shift within my gripless grip I cling hard to phantoms And feel bereaved at their loss. Sadness at losing what I never held.

Crying Bear

A bear that cries
Too hard to bear.
A soul so bare
Of suffering borne.
Born to suffering,
Bearing cries.

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Somebody I chat with on Skype chose the screen name 'Crying bear'. This fired off a lot of association - there is probably much more that could be written with more thought but this was quickly dashed off in response to the associations.

The Unicorn of Love

If I would seek the truest love
Then I must find the dragon’s lair,
Hunt all around, below, above
Falter not at the first false flare.

There’s the passion comes from seeing
One so fair of face and form.
No dragon this, nor angel fleeing
Simply lust from craving born.

There’s the cherishing, caring, cloying
That seeks to smother dangers all.
No dragon here - dull, destroying,
No passionate wild waterfall.

There’s the loving of collector
Who sees the one to fill the set.
A common sort, a selfish nectar,
Pass by this one till dragon met.

 There’s the love of mother, brother,
A tribal care that shines star bright,
Lights up the world to clannish border
But casts all others into night.

 Infatuation’s burning heart,
Blindly binding, reckless joys.
The dragon’s lair – not in this part.
In truth mere choking smoke and noise.

 An easy task, the dragon hunt,
And simpler yet to catch the wind.
The unicorn of love I want?
 On beast of myth my hope is pinned.

Head and Hand

Proud in his knowledge sits the professor
Sure those unlearnèd to be his lesser.
His home filled with books of arcane learning,
His mind with deep theories, restlessly churning.

Of abstract matters his neighbour cares naught
Tiresome theory brings out words rude and short.
With skill borne of years he well wields his tools
Free from book-learning as taught in high-schools.
Of physics his head is largely devoid,
Fathomless formulas get him annoyed.

But the shelves he erects stay on the wall.
He feels most at home with saw, drill and awl.
His hand and his eye learn best by action
Free from perverse theoretic abstraction.

When the professor needs forces applied
The craftsman he calls, for skill undenied.
Adorning his home, the Doctor most learnèd,
Has piles of papers, some read, some spurnèd.
If his arms had been as wise as his head
Away they'd be stored on shelving instead.

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Casual Cost

Into the ancient woodland stand
Comes the woodman, axe in hand.
Trunks around him, bold and still,
Felling one, his certain will.
His work is long, his labour vast,
His practised muscles tire at last.
The slow relentless deepening vee
Takes its toll on man and tree.
And at length the forest quakes
As the axe, the falling makes.
The man sits down with tired content,
The battle won, the lumber rent.

In a forest far away
A mark is left - "fell today."
The chainsaw roars, the chips fly out
'Beware, another tree', they shout.
Each man moves on to fell one more
His blood is stirred by bonus score.
He harvests profit-bearing tops,
Dollars rise and timber drops.

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 John S. worked in a gardening business and loved the labour saving chainsaw. It made me think how we lose touch with certain kinds of knowledge as we place machines between our muscles and the action they perform. Neither right nor wrong - simply is. People have interpreted this poem as anti-modernization or pro-green. It is neither (or both if that is the way you read it): it is simply a reflection on actions having consequences - some desired and intentional, some unintentional, some undesired. It is a 'systems theory' poem, so to speak.

Dogma's Catastrophe (Senryu)

Ancients' word storms spew
Pillaging dictionaries
And burning wisdom.

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(The destruction of the library of Alexandria). In 391CE one of the greatest store-houses of knowledge of the ancient world, the Library at Alexandria was largely destroyed at the behest of Bishop Theophilus for fear of the knowledge it contained. (This was not the first disaster to befall the library, but was the most deliberate act of vandalism). Dogma was at the root of the next 1000 years of superstition, persecution and fear - a time when, for want of libraries, 'heretics' were burned instead.

Two Senryu

[Senryu has the syllabic form of a Haiku but its content is not a pithy response to a observation from nature as a strict Haiku should be] Senryu/Haiku seem to be an ideal form of poetry for texting Senryu 1 - Stiletto Hope brought by ring tone To disappointment fast changed "No": the lonely text Senryu 2 - Bond-age Car stuck in traffic Thus message read, concluding From Rush Hour with Love.

Plagiarists - an acrostic poem

People wanting to impress
Liking scores, but not the mess,
Achievements not by merit earned,
Grades, ratings, so devoutly yearned.
Insincerely claim as own
All the while the lie is known.
Reaping praise for other's work,
Inwardly pleased by growth they shirk. So they record in review logs
Thoughts returned by pedagogues.
Sloathful oafs these larcenous dogs.

 [This was originally written for another site on which reviews were submitted for poetry - hence the reference to 'review logs' - and involves the rather paranoid fancy of someone stealing poetry from that site, submitting it elsewhere, and then submitting the review of a third party back to the original site, thus becoming a double plagiarist.]

The Ages of Man

The official form asks for my age, Demands I write it on the page. I puzzle long to brain engage. Is that my age? Fifty winters past, emerged From womb by strong contractions purged And midwives encouraging, urged. Is that my age? Proteins form and cells decay Some last a week, some fade today. Their passing causes no dismay. Is that my age? My present "I" became just now, And vanished 'ere it wrinkled brow. My "I" has changed you must allow. Is that my age? Within my living frame and cell Are metals from star's fiery hell, Some billion years have past as well. Is that my age? The being that thinks this thought By many teachers it is taught Has earlier lives within it, caught. Is that my age? As adolescence moves me on From child to adult I become, The father now formed from the son. Is that my age? And "I" am just a blank abstraction, Drawn to be by mental traction Existing not for merest fraction. Is that my age?

Marks and words.

Observe me well – for I am you.
Until you read me, nought I’ll do.
As cryptic as a Zebra’s pattern,
Lifeless and remote as Saturn.
 Dark and closed lie I, all hidden
Until to life, by eye I’m bidden.
And though I blow your mind asunder
The energy is yours – what wonder!
 My nature’s like a catalyst.
My power, alone, does not exist.
I cannot even hunt my prey:
With endless patience here I lay.
 People say I’m witty, slick,
But I’m no brighter than a brick.
When left alone without your aid
I’m duller than a shadow’s shade.
 Rejoice – you’ve opened up my tomb,
I’ve used your mind to be my womb.
‘Tis true my parents thoughtful were,
But I’ve been trapped where no thoughts stir.
 Perhaps you fear what you’ve aroused
Unready for the daemon housed.
No vampire I, to fear and curse
But simply lines of cunning verse.

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This poem does not really apply to cathartic verses, but for all the remainder that want to share an idea, feeling, thought, vision, story etc, it takes two to tango.