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Meta
Roseheart
Posted in Animations
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While
While poets write surface words
paradoxically penet/rating
consciousness
where feelings go deep,
I blow a/part language,
words and syntax,
with p(h/r)oton guns,
accelerated with
sl/ashes and paren(theses
into elemental particles,
underlining letters,
hidden meaning,
qua(i/r)ks, strange associations,
new, clear spin, [apologies for the pun]
wormholes
to other dimensions,
and wonder how to relate
to poets
of color, sound and smell
from my tiny soundless universe.
Posted in Poetry
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Check, Mate
Check, Mate*
We don’t own our children, we rent them. –after Kahil Gibran
No mere
groping
play)mate’s
chess/t,
groping for
answers.
No mere
wor(l)d play.
Pregnant within
this aborted poem
is (to be or not to be)
the question.
As we wrestle
with this
conundrum,
what choice
(to have or have not)
is t(here?
Early endgame,
Fool’s Mate.
Ripped, torn,
never born.
Contra love,
against conception.
More is less,
less is more,
or less
convenient?
No)w love lost.
Bishop rants,
“You lose
the right
to choose,”
Slanted, straight,
can’t move
off his col(la/o)r.
“Be fruitful and multiply.”
Beginning and end?
“No room in the inn”
for Malthus.
Can’t stay in
y(our ivory tower,
rooked at the end
of the universe.
Sooner or later
dead.
Renting earth.
Rats gnaw rats
in crowded cages,
playing out
this long, crooked
k(night
fork
of earth’s demise.
Love to eat, hate to kill.
Where’s the fatted calf?
Slim waist land.
T.ough S.hit Elliott!
Mere pawns,
stumble forward,
ready for sacrifice.
Or queen status,
to mate the king,
like praying mantis.
Hail, Mary, mother of God
knows what,
lend us your ear
to conceive
a better decision.
Not so black and white,
this chessboard of life.
Ripped, torn,
mother/earth
to mourn.
I see you (check)
early of late.
You used to be (check)
behind before,
But now
you’re first
at last (mate)
Check,
Check,
Check,
Check, mate,
before you put it in, Finnegan,
wake up.
No shroud
of m(i/y)s(t)ery.
Contraception,
not contra life.
A mater(n/i)al thing.
Who’s
gonna pay
the rent
in the fabric
of our
l(i/o)ving choices?
Checkmate.
*previously published in Voices: The Art and Science of Psychotherapy, 2011
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged checkmate, chess, contraception, over-population
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Liberating Arts and Sciences
Between (H)eaven and (H)ell–
(O)nly the flask of poetry
can contain the chemistry
of my volatile, earthy emotions.
Catalysed by platinum
metaphors,
sparked by insight,
[a BIG BANG,
new wor(l)ds
form fr(om
the uni-verse
of po*etry
heat dissipates,
the void materializes
water
and I move from MT to T
and get flowing again
(HOH)
[Look, what solution can you expect
from a free radical?]
*
PO
* “PO”, a word created by Edward de Bono in the book, Lateral Thinking, and found in the Oxford English Language Dictionary, is an alternative to either/or, yes/no, heaven/hell thinking. PO unlike NO is non-judgemental, non-rational, and introduces a pause to consider new alternatives. The word is derived from POetry, POssibility, supPOse. PO is provocative. It generates and re-arranges information in ways that do not usually occur. Through the use of PO one delays judgement on these new arrangements of information containingthat information long enough for new patterns to emerge. PO puts together unrelated things, holding them and allowing them to interact without premature evaluation. It allows the connection of random words to set off new ideas. PO even promotes going off in a “wrong” direction, looking to see where a “crazy” notion might lead, such as finding a new route to solutions through the backway. PO looks forward to possibility rather than backward to judgement based on prior assumptions, from why? to why not? PO acts as a non-sensical stimulus, a catalyst, to new connections and arrangements. It might even suggest Winnie the PO or Edgar Allen PO)e or Jackson POlluck.
Posted in Adventures in Creativity, Poetry
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Ring Around the Rosie, Another look
Part 1
round and round,
summer, fall, winter,
sp(ring
around the rosy)
poets recycle
(pocket full of posy)
life and dea[r]th
sentences–
no period
at the end
my men(o)pause
no periods
no point
(ashes, ashes)
stuck, depthless
on a [M]obius [S]trip mall,
can’t buy a ride
to the other side
twisted fate
pain, suffering
well, then not
well, then not
then not
what’s the point?
diminished dimensions
(we all fall down)
Part 2
(Ring around the not so rosy)
Dust to dust,
dawn to dusk,
then night falls
Follow the dots here . . .
(Pocket full of prosy)
Around this subject
silent, but not pointless,
the paradoxical point . . .
being without dimensions,
which is the point
of our Being:
Non-being,
(ashes, ashes)
for (we all fall down.)
Posted in Digitial Art, philosophy, Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged death
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What is T?
T.S. Elliot’s first name
but no waste land?
A drink, a ceremony,
a time of contemplation?
A shirt to wear with jeans?
Two lines at cross purposes?
A cover for Ph.D.s
arguing two angles,
both of them right?
It’s a paradox.
Both sides necessary,
no mobius strip
TTTTTTTTTT here.
What is T?
A man without a head?
(rue that thought)
The base of ankh
supporting the circle of life
or just a ghost?
What about this host, with
arms reaching
to hold us ?
What is T?
Absolute Temperature,
tritium, octodecimo, triton,
the meridian angle or the time remaining?
Which angle is right
when art is
A more or B less
True to life?
Don’t be T‘d off
at my TTTTTTTTTT,
T up, Try it out.
Take a chance
on T.
T(rue, that thought)
Time out.
-T
For us believing physicists the distinction between the past, the present, and the future is only an illusion–Albert Einstein
Puzzle
of physicists,
real as
negative
numbers,
a second
chance,
wonder
of memory,
yearning
to return.
but all
is now
t = 0,
when nothing
is everything.
Tea
[This multimedia poem I had written several years ago and was up on www.adventuresincreativity.net which for some reason is down now, so I thought I would put it up on this site. It derives from the video, The Creative Adventure but goes further with whimsy]
Tea
In the beginning was the word
St John, the Divine
In the beginning was the word(play
st) john, the not so Divine
A certain novice asked his teacher
how to become enlightened.
The teacher suggested
they have some tea.
The teacher did not stop pouring.
The pupil soon saw the light:
He had to become empty,
transmuted to be able to receive
something new.
The teacher said, “That’s it.”
But there’s more.
The T)ea)cher then said, “En(lighten up.”
The no)vice took the right angle
between the lines and purely replied ,
“It fits me to a T.”
Afraid to choose.
Afraid to(o) lo(o)se.
We all know the sound
of one hand clapping–
a big wave,
no)thing
is so tragic
as a poet who lacks
whimsy.
My patient with an IQ of 30 or less,
drinks her tea saying
to everything
that passes her notice,
“That’s it.”
“That’s it.”
Tough
between sense and non-sense.
At cross purposes,
I never metaphor or five or six
I didn’t like.
I’m a many headed hydra,
fecund to the core.
Cut off one,
there’s more
to choose
between A) richness and complexity
That’s it
or B) simplicity and unity.
That’s it.
That’s contradictory.
That’s i(T.