Sound of the Future Poetry

  To the sound of words I pay homage They could be anybody’s I acknowledge language pierces through me A composite nature of neuron hungry For a world that is describable to sense Not native to noble origin, but Managing …

Transhumanica

 

 

 

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?

 

At a certain phenomenon of light #NationalPoetryMonth #NaPoWriMo

At a certain phenomenon of light

In the jazz of listening to your jazz
It was a peacock’s cry
It was a re-statement of romance

When you thought romance was dead
And in perceiving this, I best
Perceive and listen to myself
Nor night nor blue, I exchange with pale light
My needs for the universe

I am an anecdote on how
To address clouds, elicit
The funest philosophers to speak from the dead

I am a promenade in mortal rendezvous
That lead nowhere, essentially
Converging upon oneself
In the streets and orchid sellers
In the women who blow kisses with just a look

They are young and do not hold candles
But I can feel evolution’s
Arrogance in their firm bodies

It’s not divine ingenuity then
To take one last look at the lilacs
Or in the hymeneal air search for a fragrance
That might help me remember
Earth, lavender, fantastic star

Looking for a Saturday metaphor
To describe the twenty bridges of feeling
The nuance of how meaning escapes
And time floods like ancient aspects.

Titled Below

Like words never wholly kissed

We played our words for keeps
Aware fully of how ephemeral
They make vowels these days

Sheep, that flood the ether
The best gestures o f
The brain went unread

And the most talented beauty
Were paragraphs unpublished
I think there is no parenthesis, love

Alphabets are ruined by the internet
Poetry lives on trapped
In the syntax of the human heart

Who will never wholly kiss you
Or find the meaning behind
The trapped sentences of our lives

And these thoughts that do repeat
We played our words for keeps
Bitter for not having more

Beauty to offer, and to share
Love made our eyelids all aflutter
But innocence died

While the spring of the world
Invented a more holistic verb
To express not what was lost

But what was gained by
The new verge, enchanted vocabulary.

Green is the Night

The Sunday baths and blueish clouds
Do not care for the sleight of hand
Of life’s irrevocable reversals

The rattled gold of her contorted change
The wheel survives the myths
And centuries outlive ignorance

We are little islands like
Geese sprinkled through the stars
We hunt for a pearlest spouse

In the wintry bronze of a lifetime
Hoping to attain a wedding of the soul
That might survive all suffering

Green is the night, pure mysticism
Where the topaz rabbit and emerald cat
Move to wake us from our petty dreams.

As the Observer Wills

It will be heaven after death
For after death there is always life
The sound of music, lasting in the sun
Voices, in the night like colors

Stars hungry for rebirth
In a prelude to objects
With a womb for evolution’s
Academics of probability

Disclosed in common forms
We design our lives
With mirrors multiplied
Souls sweeping impossible elegance

The tragic sciences finally lead
To mysticism, that’s not by chance
It will be heaven after earth
For after Sol there are planets

Ideas exchanged and sentiments
Glimmering like a study of opposites
Nude pairs to fill all composed curves
Hanging in bits of blue, for
A future as the observer wills.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Pure-438986417

Of Post Modern Poetry

The poem of the mind begins
from imitation, the sufficient finding
of ourselves in others, of language in mind

the poetry of the heart begins
from adoration, the theater of possession
when all the scripts repeat

the scenes shift with insatiable actors
I slowly construct my new stage
the poem begins with delicate listening

a repetition of silence between each vowel
with an invisible audience that cares
the poem of the mind beings after modern poetry

ended with a souvenir of free-verse
when everyone became a sufficient poet
confessing to learn the speech of themselves

now I will never know exactly how to write myself
though it is fun to make metaphysics my business
and in sudden righteousness, pretend I’m more than a spark.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-402575231