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My Brain is a Cheap Gadget That Spins
Cheap Gadget that Spins
My Brain is a Cheap Gadget That Spins
I am from the ten commandments
to be taken senselessly, with finger language:
energy overshadows bewilderment.
I am from feasts and head pats
where polished round people were obediently sober.
I am from a place where tea was clouded by milk;
where it was natural to protect yourself;
where the trivial was antiseptic.
I grow in my mind, and create my own misfortune.
I forget to be tired:
my brain is a cheap gadget that spins.
I journeyed to nuclear accidents
and pretended only snowmen melted.
I strive to hear the tales of the doltish
and forsake ideals that some consider pungent.
I do not blanch, even without notice,
clean ’round the mind, a melancholic manifestation.
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Hear this
on Sound Cloud
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Written for:
Poetics – Where are You From?
Also posted on:
Poetry Pantry #250
Today, I wrote the poem for D’verse Poetry prompt by Mary with a theme of with a theme of “This is Where I am From.” . It has a lot of strict rules to this. I hope I don’t get thrown off for not following all the rules: “begin with the words “I am from…” and then go with the flow. Try to use some interesting metaphors and some vivid imagery! Include words and sounds, smells and tastes, and sites.”
I think it will be fun to learn a bit more about each other in a unique sort of way.” I am very worried about this. I hope this is acceptable.
Image Credit: Bat-Ami Gordin © 2015 all rights reserved. Credit if you use it, please.
Things Could Be More Reliable
Smiley On Mountain -> This has nothing to do with this poem, but it’s an Eight Lane Road, so I think it fits the overall theme. Besides, I think the living embodiment of an emoticon on a mountain is a very cool concept and needs to be published.
Things Could Be More Reliable
Things could be more reliable:
piss water tea, more stale than old;
valves that leak with familiar beat.
I will only come here at night,
boulevards emptier than roads,
dim lights glow from windows of homes.
So many memories, where I cry,
buried in your shoulder with grief.
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Hear this on Sound Cloud
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Written for:
Poetics Of The Road
Also posted on:
Poetry Pantry #249
Today, I wrote the poem for D’verse Poetry prompt by billgncs to write an Octet, which is an eight line poem. For more of a challenge, we could write 8 syllables per line and also try to make it be about the road. So this is my attempt.
Image Credit: Bat-Ami Gordin © 2015 all rights reserved. Credit if you use it, please.
Woman Who
Woman Who
woman who’s lips are a complex mystification
conforming structurally into my own
i touch my nose lightly onto her lips
then swiftly maneuver down
to buoyantly lick and twist and braid
and weave our tongues
like fruity moist leather candy
woman whose jaw nodes
expel succulence into her mouth
i nibble on her orifice
and froth it up
with ambrosic juices
i am drenched with her devotion
woman who leans into my body
and settles like putty into my nooks
and clings to my frame like cellophane
our skins reach through our clothes
longing to unite the contrast
of textures, of colors, of hormonal scents
and the similitude of taste and mettle
as we smelt into robust regalement
woman who’s seat is softness
where all her life sits
who’s handfuls of flesh
are the size of her heart
she rolls herself along my thighs
and rubs her scent onto my own
we reach around each other’s torsos
to hold our fundamental interconnection
to brace our loads freely
and without calculation
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This was posted for:
dversepoets.com Poetics The Other.
I posted this for Brian Miller who caught me the other day on my Fruit Leather poem, saying that it sounded very sensual, and I actually took some parts of this and turned it from a sensual poem to a food poem. And well…that’s how to use words. So Brian, this is for you! 🙂
Also posted on:
Mag 97
Photo Credit: sodahead.com Was Jean Harlow The Sexiest Sex Symbol of the 30s.
Present Value
Einstein Discovers That Time is Actually Money
Present Value
every day
present worth of future sums
determined as the cash current flows.
a mortgage paid, keeps you warm.
one earns what one is obliged.
zero coupon bearing products
swamp the maturity rates.
yields are fixed: iteratively, recursively.
the lucky ones
winner of unaccountable lottery:
stress free with investments
and procurements out of
dispersed present valued sums
payment accelerated.
devious calculations
when all one seeks is linearity,
it curves with assumptions,
varying external information.
periodic payments in a
bootstrapping
construction
paradigm.
deferred amount
periodically increased or decreased
who is it that assigns or encumbers
a language structure
for the elite to understand
retiree
flee from the workers world.
the bounty of the retiree
a series of payments
for the present value
of life’s past work.
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I wrote this for the Sunday Scribblings challenge called present. I chose to write about an economic/business concept called present value. Why? Because first of all, no one else would, so that’s cool to me. Secondly, because I write all these science poems, but today, business and economic concepts use complex math, like finite element equations, to take account all the variable. So, instead of writing a poem about science, math or engineering, I thought I’d spread a bit.
The picture of the scales is from:
http://www.12manage.com/description_npvgo.html
I got the Gary Larson cartoon from:
WHAAM!!
- Roy Lichtenstein, Whaam!, 1963
WHAAM!!
in the midst of constant multi-tasking, you stab unity.
limitless mythologies.
battle lines redefined.
set in a destructive path,
tremendous tremors
in the seat of your pants.
new density patterns are exemplified with complexity.
flashing shapes,
spatial dynamic swirls,
organize in technicolor.
contractual textures machines take you into darkness.
busy angels guard you silently.
you scream and pray
as you head deeper
into an inescapable hell.
the song drones on. you shatter. shatter. shatter.
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Written and Posted for:
dVerse Poetics–Pop Art. Victoria Ceretto-Slotto challenged us to write about Pop Art.
Also Posted on:
Come fly with me – Prompt # 139
Also Posted on:
challenge – “action”
Picture Credit Tate Museum.
Winds of Adventure
- Wind Storm By KC
Winds of Adventure
creative journeys
mutate in the wind.
observe, notate, innovate.
entrap impressions.
oppressively tempt
powerful invisible patterns.
shape revealing events.
teach beyond obsolescence.
anxious illusions
confuse resources,
overwhelm
repressed disturbances.
reservoirs intact,
spurious brutality
dredges dual power plays.
in a nest of delicacy,
inner perjury takes
a chokehold on recklessness.
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Written and Posted for
Challenge by: Emmett Wheatfall – write a poem about writing poetry.
I also posted this for Thursday Think Tank # 72 – Writer’s Block, because I think it does have something to do with being creative and chocked at the same time.
Photo credit:
http://kaseytararuj.blogspot.com/2010/07/wind-storm.html
There’s a funny little history to this. I wanted to send this poem for publication. I emailed it to my son @roniweiss who refused to read it on the grounds that it was masturbatory, that is, a writer stroking herself. Then I brought it to writer’s group. We had a big discussion about it, and they commented on my poetry in general, saying I had too many big words in my poems, and I had to tone it down. That I would even scare away the literary magazines. Then, came this prompt on dverse, and I had this poem done, and was debating whether to send it for publication, and well, the fact that this was exactly the prompt, on the poem that I exactly was not sure what to do with, well, that solved the dilemma for me.
Train At Night
Train At Night
The slow surf beats
until the rocks
are pillows.
High tide
is a sigh.
Potent stars
defiantly battle
city lights.
The sandy beach
is exhibited
as a satin spread.
Vertigo is
the offspring
of the Island’s beacon
until a circle
of light
snaps in the horizon.
From miles beyond
the vain beam gropes for
reflective metals
embedded in the cliffs.
When the angle
is just right
the spherical ray
ignites
the lonely shores.
Like a clap
of thunder
a whistle warns.
Stillness.
The chug captures
every
biological pulse.
The cars’ silhouettes
grow and diminish
in the wake
of the winds.
At the tail
Everything
along the parallel avenue
Defies gravity
then
breathlessly
settles into place.
The sounds slip
behind another hill.
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Written for:
D’verse Poets
Challenge posted by Claudia Schoenfeld
Photo from Moonlight at Albermarle Sound, Edenton, NC
I wrote this in 1992, when I was living in Edwards, WA. It was inspired by the way the train coming down the tracks, by Puget Sound.
Not all Heroes Cried
Rescue team hunts through the steel wreckage for survivors.
Not all Heroes Cried
Flying across fields of rebar
as if they were fields of grass,
no concern for the deep black holes
of torn metal, wood and glass.
Where rescuers could not attempt,
our heroes mounted without trouble,
exceeding expectations
in deposits of baking rubble.
When they came upon a scent,
they scurried in significant rush.
Steadfastly they worked for reward ―
toys or water bottles to crush.
Comforting and making people laugh,
they were loving and most giving.
Their biggest reward, was to locate souls:
so they could play with the living.
Not all heroes cried,
they just didn’t wag their tails,
their noses and their hearts
soothing the pain of those not lost.
They came to find the living,
but living were not there.
Three dead bodies in half an hour
“Get the body bag.”
Twenty pieces of DNA
“Get the ice cooler.”
In their search, each one was grey ―
the Big Mutts and the Small.
Jumping on heaps of melted steel
toward endlessness they did crawl.
Their bloody paws were bandaged up,
eyes and noses filled with grunge,
exposed to toxic materials which
were washed with hose and sponge.
They were there for all the rescuers,
more loving than partners and peers.
Some played fetch to help others relax.
They soothed those with heavy tears.
Thunder, and Storm were just as dry
As Porkchop, Jax and Servus.
The rescuers gave away their drinks,
before quenching their own thirsts.
Not all heroes cried,
they just didn’t wag their tails,
their noses and their hearts
soothing the pain of those not lost.
They came to find the living,
but living were not there.
Three dead bodies in half an hour
“Get the body bag.”
Twenty pieces of DNA
“Get the ice cooler.”
Tascha ceaselessly gave her all
‘til overcome by heat and smoke.
Bretagne managed to take a snooze
so she wouldn’t have a stroke.
Billy calmed himself right down,
traversing treacherous terrains.
Wolf, Bear, Eagle, and Trackr
lived up to their doggie names.
Dorado, Roselle, Salty, Max, Wuss
all made it out alive.
Kaiser choked on hazardous soot
when, into debris, he took a dive.
Sunny Boy stayed on task
although it was so dreary.
Woody, Jake, and Hoke,
found no one, then got leary.
Not all heroes cried,
they just didn’t wag their tails,
their noses and their hearts
soothing the pain of those not lost.
They came to find the living,
but living were not there.
Three dead bodies in half an hour
“Get the body bag.”
Twenty pieces of DNA
“Get the ice cooler.”
There are stories about Cowboy and Red,
Or about Thunder, if you prefer.
Dusty arrived there clean in heart,
but left with contaminated fur.
They came in many sizes.
They came from any breed.
Abbey, Thea, Jena, Sue, Ivey, Mika
were all good girls indeed.
Riley, Willow, Cody, Hawk ―
each one was some kind of hero.
Moxie, Tara, Guinness, Merlyn
or Gus, Cowboy, Sirus, or Apollo.
Two sets of list must exist,
a short one for those who came out,
a longer one for those who searched,
although doing it with doubt.
Not all heroes cried,
they just didn’t wag their tails,
their noses and their hearts
soothing the pain of those not lost.
They came to find the living,
but living were not there.
Three dead bodies in half an hour
“Get the body bag.”
Twenty pieces of DNA
“Get the ice cooler.”
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The other day @NannersMom asked me to write a 9-11 poem about the dogs who were involved in the the 9-11 tragedy. It took research, and also a lot of tears. It was not easy to get away from the emotions, and get to writing it. But I did it. Yay.
Then @RaneeDillon was kind enough to edit it for me, so I could get it posted. Once she put her hands on it, it just started flowing so nicely. Wow.
Pciture credit: http://www.easyvegan.info/2007/09/11/remembering-the-non-human-heroes-of-9-11/ (it’s a FEMA picture)
Also on:
Challenge by Mark Kerstetter
Lillian Gish
Lillian Gish
Born in the right era,
with ethereal beauty and grace,
Lillian was a glorious actress
with the most angelic face.
She suffered for performing arts
a player with much obsession,
the quintessential heroine
in a time of Great Depression.
Her characters were often weak,
though her strength each time, came through.
Her popular films would guarantee
a magnificent, gracious review.
Archetypal damsel in distress,
a delicate flower of docility,
she fainted on a heaping ice floe
with self-sacrificing nobility.
She cowered before a brutal bounder.
She languished in a garret.
She was the original prototype
for the legendary Hollywood Starlet.
The first lady of the silent screen,
advanced the histrionic art.
She danced and acted all her life
with talent, verve and heart.
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Written and Posted on:
D’verse Poets, challenge by Sheila Moore:
And yes, I wrote this quickly just for this prompt, which is why you see such undisciplined rhyme and meter.
For those of you who never saw her, or heard of her, enjoy:
The Sestina of KT
The Sestina of KT
If they could only see her face
and the pride in executing these techniques.
Was she a work horse freed from her stable?
No! She is as free as the optical bird
flying above the Earth. “Oh Hubble!
I’ve come to fix your trouble!”
Nation: take time and trouble
to see freedom upon the face
of the attendant of Hubble;
with extraordinary skillful technique
holding a caged wing of the broken bird
drifting downtide toward a distinguished stable.
It takes an astronaut with style so stable
to considers it no trouble
to liberate a fellow solar bird:
reflections of white diamonds in the face-
mask of a sorceress, practicing her technique,
on the broken parts of Hubble.
Caged in her two hands is Hubble,
reconnoitered in its high tech stable
responding to input of dexterous technique:
There is nothing trivial about this trouble.
Road lights are maps of highways on the face-
plate. “How high am I?” asks this American bird.
The wings flap and waver as the paneled bird
escapes her hands. She looks down on Hubble.
The muscles relax: a smile on the face
of a woman who is able, to stand in the stable
of the horses of Apollo. It is no trouble
going forth with privileged technique.
She found her own working techniques
as her tired, heated wings, like a bird
of prey, were cooled by the flowing troubled
draught. She prays for answers from Hubble,
in a universe which may be expanding or stable;
to report the narrations on time’s face.
A rollout of new technique re expresses Hubble
as this thunderbird escapes by a flaming stable.
No more trouble upon this angel’s face.
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Written for:
Matt Quinn challenged us to a Sestina. I wrote this in 1993, when astronaut Kathryn Thronton fixed the Hubble Telescope along with her fellow astronauts.
The other astronauts called her KT. She teaches at University of Virginia now.
Here NASA bio:
http://www.jsc.nasa.gov/Bios/htmlbios/thornt-k.html
Her bio currently at UVA/Engineering Department
http://www.virginia.edu/facultyexperts/expert.php?id=437
Verification wastes my time, and often doesn't work. I am going to stop commenting on pages that require verification one of these days.
ZONGRIK 
