Arcades of Cadence


 

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The poem of the mind is a final act
An act of longing with the universe
The script was a language
And the talent was a heart

As simple as a rain drop or a snow flake
The architect was a feeling universe
The women of the time, the something else

That made us a theater and that
Brought golden souvenirs as subjects
Allows us to feel more than we could speak

The poems would suffice, for a
Life where the scene was always setting
Repeated in an light that was always evening
Sunsets that constructed a stage
That was always glowing, it was like

Words spoken to the thin rare luminous air
Of moonlight, morning mist and the face
Of a Beloved that wasn’t an audience but

An actor, maybe created by our own imagination
That was how we survived and revealed ourselves
To ourselves, and those were the feelings that

Were rightfully ours, the finding of a satisfaction
That all life feels, the poems passing through
Wheels of light to return above some mountain tops.

arcadesofcadence

The brightness of arms


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The brightness of arms

What more is there to love
Than I have loved, that we have loved?
The lips of creation are bright

Time floods with senseless syllables
Images, identities, centuries full of
The lust of all approaching feeling
A haunted youth of this world’s
Agony of moisture, and trembling of suns

A blur of archives and smiles
Deaths and glories and forests burning
And this first clear pure canto

Of all we have ever felt, is it glittering now
A memory renacted, an augmented reality?
Earth is more than that, bathed in a body
Of oxygen and water, a blanket of snow
She’s the leaping of lakes and the dreaming of clouds

And the impersonal cities towering
Above the people, how they nameless walk
Naked into their fate, blind as circuits

What more is there to do
Than I have done, than we do by habit?
Burying ourselves in raising children
Escaping the world in our work.
We’ve called this living, but I am not sure

I am not sure we compose,
That we compose enough peace in peace time
And altruism in prosperity time

And art in dream time
And hope in harsh times.
I guess we’ll see, I guess on wings more subtle
Than mercy and compassion, I’ll find
Identity naked again, ahead of spirituality.

Transhumanica


 

 

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Where is the hand, between

The future and the past

The mouth that spells vowels

Of another kind of mind?

 

The hand between the candle

And what was once a wall

Now it’s virtual, an illuminated

Wall between all lights

 

The man in a room with

An image of the world

It’s no longer what the world is

That woman is no longer there

 

She’s somebody and something else

Where is the hand, between

One moment and the next

When time accelerates exponentially

 

The speed of human change

Giving way to algorithms, seasons

Of another kind, and is it lonely there?

As lonely as it was once before?

 

It must be that the hand

Is another kind of intelligence

Permeating what was once dead space

Now space and time have new meaning

But will love grow larger

In this automated android world?