Yet another one was killed
We were torn on the reasons why
While working on and away in the background
Were shadowed devils doing their job, a job which paid well
When you look beneath the structure of the surface material it is possible
To see, a twentyfour hour, seven day a week attempt of complete and total immersion
A complete and total immersion of one's faculties so that the tune being played becomes your tune played
Poetry here.
Re: Poetry here.
Loneliness
In our lonely lives
we are talking to keyboards…
…nobody listens..
In our lonely lives
we are talking to keyboards…
…nobody listens..
Re: Poetry here.
I think this poem dangerous. Incriminating babies for future atrocities. It would be a good poem, if you wanted to destroy mankind.Ned wrote:One of the greatest poets I know: Attila Jozsef (Hungarian) wrote a poem commenting on how the worst butchers in history were innocent babies once. There is an image in that poem that has been haunting me for fifty years and now I will attempt to translate it into a haiku format.
Infants
Don't trust the infant:
while it's smiling at the breast,
grows its teeth and claws.
Re: Poetry here.
Yet we write, for we must, and in doing so, growNed wrote:Loneliness
In our lonely lives
we are talking to keyboards…
…nobody listens..
Re: Poetry here.
The poet had a horrible life. Persecuted for his socialist beliefs and his fight for social justice.
He died at the age of 32 by killing himself.
Don't be surprised that he was bitter about his species.
He died at the age of 32 by killing himself.
Don't be surprised that he was bitter about his species.
Re: Poetry here.
The system had rendered him obsolete
It was impossible to do any more
A going through the motions was left
It was impossible to do any more
A going through the motions was left
Re: Poetry here.
First snow
Snowflakes dance in air,
turning all that's dark to light...
...whitewashing our sins.
Snowflakes dance in air,
turning all that's dark to light...
...whitewashing our sins.
Re: Poetry here.
Snowing on my birthday
We went out and saw
The town turned into white
A man on a bike passed by as he did
Tracks in the snow black were made winding
We went out and saw
The town turned into white
A man on a bike passed by as he did
Tracks in the snow black were made winding
Re: Poetry here.
The war on terror is the war on terror
There is no error with the war on terror
For the war on terror is attached to reality
There is no error with the war on terror
For the war on terror is attached to reality
Re: Poetry here.
Humanity
We are not equipped to reason
about our own mind…
…when it comes to us:
we are functionally blind.
Oh, we know the Physics
we are wizards in Math,
science, engineering,
even Biology.
But when it comes to
our psychology,
our deep seated fears,
our wish to control and dominate…
we escape from the truth
into myth, denial, anger,
close ranks inside our box,
deny our true identity.
We close our eyes, ears,
chant loudly in unison,
drown out dissenting voices
in blind opposition.
We find safety, comfort,
embraced by the herd,
unified by shared desire
for the Truth about us
…never to be heard.
So we trudge through life
with blinkers on eyes,
muffs on ears,
not seeing the looming destiny
awaiting our blind, deaf,
tragic humanity.
We are not equipped to reason
about our own mind…
…when it comes to us:
we are functionally blind.
Oh, we know the Physics
we are wizards in Math,
science, engineering,
even Biology.
But when it comes to
our psychology,
our deep seated fears,
our wish to control and dominate…
we escape from the truth
into myth, denial, anger,
close ranks inside our box,
deny our true identity.
We close our eyes, ears,
chant loudly in unison,
drown out dissenting voices
in blind opposition.
We find safety, comfort,
embraced by the herd,
unified by shared desire
for the Truth about us
…never to be heard.
So we trudge through life
with blinkers on eyes,
muffs on ears,
not seeing the looming destiny
awaiting our blind, deaf,
tragic humanity.
Re: Poetry here.
They had been brought-through the system
Way back in the eighties were they coaxed
Brought to the golden apple with open arms
Little did they know their lives were being used
For a future narrative ending in death
Way back in the eighties were they coaxed
Brought to the golden apple with open arms
Little did they know their lives were being used
For a future narrative ending in death
Re: Poetry here.
Shirley Valentine
In a movie called Shirley Valentine
there is an unforgettable line:
kissing her stretch marks he exclaims
"it’s beautiful, it’s life" -- he explains…
…to the heaven she rolls her eyes
and utters this oath to the skies:
"Oh god, aren’t men full of shit?!"
and, my friends,
in a nutshell,
this is it!
In a movie called Shirley Valentine
there is an unforgettable line:
kissing her stretch marks he exclaims
"it’s beautiful, it’s life" -- he explains…
…to the heaven she rolls her eyes
and utters this oath to the skies:
"Oh god, aren’t men full of shit?!"
and, my friends,
in a nutshell,
this is it!
Re: Poetry here.
Poetry for me
Desperation brought me to poetry,
or just plain laziness,
saving the effort that would be required
for building logical structures:
facts, arguments, causes and effects,
showing all the tragic defects
humanity has to endure
in our quest to survive
on this Earth. In our short tenure
of a few thousand years of evolution…
we don’t have a guaranteed resolution.
In my naïve desire to communicate
I hoped to break through the barriers
clamped on all those skulls,
those fragile, cranial prisons
preventing them from seeing,
what our lives will depend on in the long run,
while we only wish to have a little more fun
and gleefully pretend
that everything is run the way we like
and there’s nothing to fear
in the fast approaching night.
Poetry, for me, is a last attempt to communicate,
below and beyond the defenses,
hoping that some of it will filter through
and a few will see what is true
and what is not…
…that is the best one could want.
Desperation brought me to poetry,
or just plain laziness,
saving the effort that would be required
for building logical structures:
facts, arguments, causes and effects,
showing all the tragic defects
humanity has to endure
in our quest to survive
on this Earth. In our short tenure
of a few thousand years of evolution…
we don’t have a guaranteed resolution.
In my naïve desire to communicate
I hoped to break through the barriers
clamped on all those skulls,
those fragile, cranial prisons
preventing them from seeing,
what our lives will depend on in the long run,
while we only wish to have a little more fun
and gleefully pretend
that everything is run the way we like
and there’s nothing to fear
in the fast approaching night.
Poetry, for me, is a last attempt to communicate,
below and beyond the defenses,
hoping that some of it will filter through
and a few will see what is true
and what is not…
…that is the best one could want.
Re: Poetry here.
Painting
Painting on canvas
a collection of images made for now
but not infected by the now
Standing separate from a corporate culture
which turns everything into a dead lie
A safe place to be, a starting point to be
art is the creation of light and keeps hold of light
Painting on canvas
a collection of images made for now
but not infected by the now
Standing separate from a corporate culture
which turns everything into a dead lie
A safe place to be, a starting point to be
art is the creation of light and keeps hold of light
Re: Poetry here.
Animals
Animals are sane,
reality is their life...
...humans lie and cheat.
Animals are sane,
reality is their life...
...humans lie and cheat.