workshop
.
from the depths of microbia
arose man, and a world
from throngs of ignorance
was born a taught man
from the confusion of knowlege
was made a poet
from the muddiest of mud
grows a beautiful lotus
delightful
she balanced her body's substance
of stardust and shadow
delicately
on bitter point of
that pin
in glimmered dance
breathtakingly
delightful
to a music universe
plays on and on
in perfect rhythms
her feet followed each
chord's phrase
as falling rain
caused concentric circles
to glow
as afterthoughts
she smiled for those
who could
see.
vcp
6 December 2010
We all do our small part
to make things better
for ourselves
And sometimes others
notice the differences
and make their own
adjustments
I've been buying
almost all
of my vegetables
from friends
and farmers markets
A friend explained
the concept
of food miles
and I have consumed
along those lines
for alot of years now
Except for tea
and olive oil,
one has to support
the farmers of far off
enterprises also
i looked up in the stars then made a wish,
to yearn for you is to cry for the moon
wished that you had never been this hard to reach,
so that we'll both be love existent very soon.
man is living as the Earth is rotating,
so is the time passes the same time it exists,
why was this love born out from a distance?
leaving me hanging with droplets of chance...
The evening is now growing old,
a bit like , or so I'm told.
I sit here way too tired to sleep
and watch the long hand slowly creep.
My mind wanders to places far
where my new writing friends are
all the way around the world
where Aussie flag is kept unfurled.
So much talent in so many places
spread among so many faces,
some are gals and some are guys.
Compared to me they're mostly wise.
Lost in a world
That I don’t know
That I just don’t understand
Everyone is trying
To be someone
Someone they are not
Success is judged
By how much we have
As a people
As a nation
Children going hungry
To help support tax cuts
For people who don’t need them
Everyone cries
They are not responsible to help
The world is full of Cains
And no one seems Able
And the king of nothing
Writes another poem
Because he doesn’t know
What else to do
God’s Creativity!
To my mind
What a God
If there is one,
Has created
Is the Human Mind
And
That’s His personal,
Gifted unique,
Biggest
Monumental
Creation
6.50 billions
Working simultaneously
Conveying his order
And wish.
Amen.
On the coldest day of a past year
( the low was ten degrees F or near )
in quiet hollow of mixed hardwood trees
I feel like I'm in a deep freeze
Deer hunting's the excuse I use
to enter this forest of frozen views
and test myself against the cold
I still do this, though growing old
It rained last night before this front
brought all the cold one man could want
but now at dawn it's calm and clear
I hear frost jacking the ground near
too close to the forest to see the trees
to cross the I's and dot the T's
better forget the edit
and call the medic
prep and get him in a gown
going to have to remove a noun
and maybe put in a verb
if it fails, it's out to the curb
It's a dire situation
can't find any punctuation
the spelling and bad grammar
throw this writer in the slammer
the right diagnose is slim
the prognoses is grim
FLAT LINE OOPS! I hit delete
OH! well, nurse, let's eat
when you're just not
inspired that much
or just writing
out of obligation
one tends to just
produce junk
worthless crap
like the poem before
and the one before that
But hell, who's perpetually
hooked into the muse
or always obsessed
with perfection
and finely tuned in
Writing these things they call poems
is just an outlet
for the flow of substandard
horseshit,
that makes up
almost all of my
inventive thinking
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