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| today..
Posted: 9/3/2009 5:58:10 AM | all my yesterdays
slipped into tomorrow
without a thought or care
i did not plan
or calculate
or predict
i simply lived
until he asked
how do you
want to spend
the rest of your life?
and
i cried | |
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| today..
Posted: 9/3/2009 9:17:35 AM |
all my yesterdays
slipped into tomorrow
without a thought or care
i did not plan
or calculate
or predict
i simply lived
until he asked
how do you
want to spend
the rest of your life?
and
i cried
Wow! One cannot know whether the tears were because, at last, he appeared to be proposing - or because you realized you had no vision of the rest of your life. And perhaps you yourself didn't know, exactly, why you were crying - which makes that such a moving and memorable conclusion! | |
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| today..
Posted: 9/4/2009 12:35:35 AM | In response I ask rather 'how can you suspend' the rest of your life, or just let it go about? on it's own?
I agree consciousness cannot be consciousness of this self unless there were
something else presently available to consciousness such as an historical self, a
cultural self, and even simply a self being aware of itself. The very young
child perhaps is not aware of boundaries that designate the non-self from
the self. This is conflation, but not yet conflagration.
Again there is something practically referred to as the "relationship-less
marriage" where the self consciousness of the owners 'ownmost' interests are conjoined conjugally and
alternate as within two partners, hence there is no relationship, though
there is a dynamism. Two people must be separate to be involved in a
relationship. For some consciousness, and being deliberates within two, and alternates episodically.
Bodies are extended being within space and time but they are more and
within diverse domains a body is not the body, but could be a multiplicity,
a collectivity, or as a cloud the body may be a metaphorical embodiment.
The 'body is the manifestation of mind' and the 'mind is the meaning of body' Cassirer
Nonetheless, Body is that which is presented within an encounter. In the
mania of the pursuit through passion for some other body or bodily state
the body is the vehicle in which the encounter most occur. For it is the
perception of the other body and the bodily state that acts upon the
waiting precipient senses and the emotions in expectation, anticipation. It is the
getting a little taste of eternal life as a means of sensing the original
feeling of being a free "peregrinus" or free soul in the world. That all
"peregrines" are free labourers then suggests that they are visitors to this
world. They have a history of being from another incorporeal realm, perhaps
an originary extra-ordinary place of being, dynamically situated in
experience. It is often said that humanity is a "becoming" and in process
of engagement and disengagement.
Of course within the temporality of becoming and engagement there is the
pure entanglement with other bodily presences, and thus the complexity and
awe of working and playing together. | |
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| today..
Posted: 9/4/2009 7:51:38 PM | lived my life
simply
doing what was
in front of me
happy?
sad?
didn't really matter
the steadfastness
of duty
brought me to
this moment
in time
opening my eyes
i realize
i only have this moment
and the next
to life my life
forever | |
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| today..
Posted: 9/5/2009 7:15:13 AM |
i only have this moment
and the next
to life my life
forever
Such a wonderful epiphany! Unfortunately I suspect you might fall away from that from time to time but, hopefully, you'll always come back to it again. Personally I've always had trouble with living in the "here and now" because my here and now always includes a bit of the there and then... or should I say, the there and when?
Going to send you (if your mail restrictions permit it) a poem I wrote on this subject, which I won't post as yet because I understand that publishers won't accept poems that have been posted. | |
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| today..
Posted: 9/5/2009 8:35:00 AM | thank you for your words
haunting in a sense
can't stop thinking about it.
again, thank you.
and yes i agree
the now is weaved
with there and then
and when.....
to begin again | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/9/2009 11:16:31 AM | A young woman
with a birthmark
on the calf of her right leg
pauses, as if deep in thought,
before entering the café.
When I go in to pay
she’s nowhere to be seen. | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/9/2009 8:27:21 PM | | Saw a butt hat yesterday from a gal bending over the trunk of her car. Dam, the sun hit the spot and the picture was better than the Mona Lisa. And I'm not much into tatoo's but I couldn't look away. I was trying to find ther mystery of the smile. Love your rambling observations Jer. | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/9/2009 9:42:19 PM | Hot little chickie boarding the bus
Legs curved against some praire sky
Hair resembling a cover
Lips suggestive, ready to slay you
Black eyes.
Heavy eyelashes, dynamite walk.
Frequent slashes of gazes...taking in
five minutes, maybe fifteen of ectasy
How interesting that men became furtive.
What is that? why? | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/10/2009 5:24:45 PM | *sigh* wish I could write like this...
sorrows
who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be
beautiful who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals
that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin
sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls clicking their bony fingers
envying our crackling hair
our spice filled flesh
they have heard me beseeching
as I whispered into my own
cupped hands enough not me again
enough but who can distinguish
one human voice
amid such choruses of desire
by Lucille Clifton
Source: Poetry (September 2007). | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/10/2009 11:11:14 PM | Insert Slate
Green Serpentine
Slats to filter incoming light
Ribbon’s of Un-Definitions
Sledge Parsley
cryptogramous
terricaulous tudinus
The shore extended outward
Marvelous large river rock
kidney bean like
Elliptoids
Jade and the like, smooth, toothed,
Many wood fragments,
A* shall enclose pool, heap up
Stones, sand, a small girl in bright clothing
Flutters away | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/10/2009 11:16:01 PM | beautiful is the weaver of the winds
that shelter you with your face close to sand
and the soil and the trunks of ericacious dawn
this idea is only for you a moment away
when they hover and occur
it blooms and you are alone with yourself
but not alone
this nectar sounds like nectar
this nectar is fluid succession
this ambiance is finally
occurring
when the ancient artemesia blooms | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/11/2009 8:30:05 PM | | Sorrows was gorgeous Brizo and you can write like that so don't sell yourself short. | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/11/2009 8:41:49 PM | Autumn, it was, wasn't it...I especially liked the part about whispering into your cupped hands, who hasn't done that? As if speaking out loud will attract the bad luck....
trulio, I really liked that last poem there, I think it might be my favorite of yours... | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/13/2009 7:47:45 PM |
*sigh* wish I could write like this...
Actually you can and do Brizo......don't diminish your amazing talent
I am listening to some amazing music from Senegal.....I grew up in Africa and my roots still define who I am.......
Memories
a bioscope of sounds and scents
flickering images
linked to rhythms and stanzas
of childhood
my feet tap and I sway....
alone... yet part of the magic
that is Africa | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 9, 2009
Posted: 9/14/2009 11:14:08 PM | He Ho
a small farmer in Manchu
wanted to know
exactly
whether there should be something solid
that you could make of
such as a block
something that did not destroy trees
The Great Detail, of the last century, and progress,
was nothing more than a scent of food cooking slowly
over juniper
You end up being more divine, encased, lightly in a fog,
that is you and me encased in fog | |
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| Snapshots; Sept. 16, 2009
Posted: 9/16/2009 11:13:59 AM | I was sitting on a bench
outside the Mile-End Mission
hoping to bum a conversation
from some passerby.
Cars shushed or growled by
along rue St. Urbain,
metal and glass anonymous containers
of stories I would never hear.
One of the Mission habitues
brushed the debris from the sidewalk.
Things were happening. Lord, I thought,
This is a city! This is Montreal!
Things are always happening here... | |
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| Poets & madness: some preliminary notes
Posted: 9/22/2009 4:57:27 AM | For those of us who consider ourselves poets,
madness is a tame dog
that runs at the end of an easy leash.
We lope the streets together
and only the cognoscenti
recognize that we are eccentrics. | |
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| Poets & madness: some preliminary notes
Posted: 9/24/2009 7:30:44 AM |
there are no recognitions
which you write of
these recognitions
do not last
and if they did
whole worlds would collapse
Oh, there ARE recognitions a-plenty though some times they last no longer than the simultaneous creation of electrons + positive electrons and are as difficult to pin down otherwise than by equations. | |
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| Stuff Happens
Posted: 9/24/2009 12:36:25 PM | It's been too long since I visited but the muse just stopped by this morning.
Love you Jer.
The Weight of Disenchantment
People think sorrow grows softly pliable, becoming
faint like a photograph fading on acid-washed paper.
My bittersweet moments of loss are cutting-edged
snowflake stars, so frozen they burn from within.
I see traces of you, long after you've gone.
In the morning snow, your striding step
tracks sharply away from my door, then
evaporates like my cat-eyed dreams.
Disenchanted, trailing you, I
evacuate an impression left on
the careworn foundation of my hearth.
I can still taste your dark honey
and needing to preserve inviolate
all the frozen vibrations of love,
that numb me twenty times a day;
I crave the only cure, you, you, you!
I quiver, become a ghost-town;
with tombstones canted on boot hill...
The bits of your saliva, significant
on my unwashed skin and bedding.
I bend and try to smell you, inhale
deeply all the cells you abandoned,
as I wait in the dark, to be filled. | |
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| Stuff Happens
Posted: 9/24/2009 1:12:41 PM | | Oh, my dear, dear friend! I'm so happy you're back, though not at the cost of what I suspect lies behind this poem... | |
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| Mirror, mirror on the wall
Posted: 10/1/2009 7:48:58 AM | Mirror, mirror on the wall,
who is the raunchiest poet
of us all?
Here, among lovers of the politest sort
who love (if we may call it that)
with our pinkies extended,
dabbing at the corners of our lips
with linen napkins woven
by third and fourth generation virgins;
here, where agape appears
to have squeezed the spunk
out of eros, raw, naked, sweaty
lust is not to be found
and we fastidiously eschew
all mention of buttocks,
soft, silvery thighs, rounded
protrusions with their swarthy-coloured
apices, and anything (God forbid)
phallic! | |
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| Mirror, mirror on the wall
Posted: 10/1/2009 9:43:50 PM | Phallic. It is all phallic.
we live in phallic shadow.
womb like, it is all womb like
we arrive from the shadow of the womb.
In between episodes of lust
Seize, then release.
Ahem, what glistens better
than phallic meeting the womb? | |
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