an earth tone orchid spits out a tongue of purple, bucking disguise
Orchid [Haiku]
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Category Archives: Poetry
Desert Dunes [Haiku]
sand dunes textured with snaky furrows: dunes upon dunes
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Copperhead [Common Meter]
I walked along a well-worn trail with no intent but rest. I wished to be soothed by the trees, but found myself distressed. For in my path rested a snake, known as the copperhead -- a breed that has inspired wonder and no uncertain dread. I gave the snake full attention, and then gave it wide berth, but it must have been far too wide for I walked right off the earth.
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Deep Trail [Haiku]
the early trail is bare and well-defined; the deep trail hides
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98.6 [Free Verse]
The secret is... we're energy machines. This wild ride we're on is all about staying 98.6. The meaning of life might as well be 98.6. You work to make rent to be sheltered at 98.6. You go to the store for groceries to stoke the fires of 98.6. You put on your coat or slippers to keep yourself at 98.6. You go to the beach to warm to 98.6 & then sweat to drop back to 98.6. You take medicines when you're too far off the mark of 98.6. You turn on the AC to sleep at 98.6 & kick off the covers & drag the covers back & adjust the AC... all to sleep at 98.6. You may wish to be a flash fire of a million degrees, but life leaves you at 98.6. Some day you'll cool off and your career as Thermoregulatory Maintenance Specialist will be at an end & you'll be done with the trouble of staying 98.6.
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Mad Saints & Scientists [Free Verse]
Mad scientists are terrifying. Mad artists are reassuring (par for that particular course.) Mad mathematicians seem harmless enough, as long as he or she stays in his or her lane: the one with numbers and angles and sets. Mad Saints are the most hated & most beloved of lunatics. They serve as necessary examples -- not there to forcibly deprogram one, but to show that it's an option. One has the choice to be free, whether one has the will or desire to be - that's an open question. But those who sink the red pill must learn that in those waters thar be monsters. (If only those of one's own making -- i.e. Nietzsche's abyss staring back.) Voids can't gaze. Only that which one crams down its abyss-hole can do the gazing.
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BOOK REVIEW: Puella Mea by e.e. cummings
Puella Mea by E.E. CummingsMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Amazon.in Page
Free online at: Project Gutenberg
This is a single poem, Cummings’s longest, a love poem to his first wife. It’s a longform poem – at least by the standards of poets of the Modern era, though at less than 300 lines it’s far from epic in scale. It’s a beautiful love poem, favorably comparing the wife in question to Helen of Troy, Medea (from “Jason and the Argonauts,”) Guinevere, and other historic beauties.
It’s a highly readable poem; its short lines pack a lot of punch, and while Cummings writes in free verse, he’s not afraid to drop a rhyme or play with the texture of meter to give his lines an appealing sound quality.
The edition I read included art from Paul Klee, Pablo Picasso, Amedeo Modigliani, and Kurt Roesch. It’s definitely worth checking out this edition, particularly if you enjoy Modern and Surreal art.
I’d highly recommend this for poetry readers.
View all my reviews
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Snow Birds [Haiku]
Beautiful Scum [Tanka]
the algae pond - dappled with leafy fractals, patterns shift. what moves: water or branch? or, perhaps, just my mind
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Soulless Voyager [Free Verse]
I am the soulless voyager cut loose from the dock in a rudderless craft Kicked this way and that by angry winds that greet all flat surfaces, and -- having met a surface -- pushes it away with maximum effort Where will my ghost ship take to land? After all, every voyage must end -- be it purposeless or purposeful A craft can only circle (having been caught in the currents) for so long before it's whipped off into sand or rock or some unlikely port That's the great mystery, the mystery by which life is made worthy of living one never knows whether one will be tossed to a port or a rocky shoal, a shoal whose rocks will rip open the ship, like a deer dressed by a poor hunter, being torn at jagged angles so as to be unworthy to be called a ship or boat or even "thing that floats," becoming a rusty structure, resting at an odd angle near the shore but maybe this ghost ship will be tossed roughly against the rubber bumpers of a dock, coming to rest such that what remains can be offloaded
Tiger Riding for Beginners 