Launching a New Blog and Tripping through the same Bog

This site is supposed to be about cultural things and it has been. Lately I’ve used it for more poetic offerings... stream of consciousness and whatever I was feeling or thinking about that didn’t fit in the other blogs. So... I’m going to create a blog for that; poetry... random musings... purely creative things that don’t ‘have to be’ about anything but will always be about something.

So, I’m going to launch that new blog here today. I don’t know what I’m going to call it yet but doing this will provoke me into following through. This is just a once upon a time thing here. Next time this will go back to being a cultural blog and we’ll try to focus on the varieties of bacteria that will show up depending on the particular glass slide under the microscope. It won’t always be bacteria. There are other life forms.

I’m going to post a series of short poems that may or may not be about anything the reader imagines them to be about. Poetry is hard to define. One thing you can say about poetry is that it is either inspired or constructed. Most poetry is constructed because most poets aren’t poets. They just want to be poets. Poetry can get people laid and it’s also a medium for personal definition. Everybody thinks they want to be Don Juan DeMarcos, as long as it doesn’t get them institutionalized. People want the flash without the pain. That’s why people will go away to weekend seminars and become Reiki masters or psycho-therapists. If they had to do something all of the time and it took a long time to achieve any degree of perfection they’re not as interested.

Saying these things doesn’t make me a poet. There aren’t very many poets and those who are, are not the happiest of mortals during their time here because they straddle two different worlds. One isn’t a poet in and of themselves. Poets are those who have found the favor of The Muse. They don’t write the poetry, they are merely the delivery system. If you have the favor of The Muse, you are aware of it. Otherwise it’s more like channeling Ramtha or something. If you look into the new age adverts in any major city you will find dozens of people channeling some strange agencies. You’ll find multiple incidences of people channeling Moses and other famous figures. It’s a mystery to me why Moses or the rest of them would need more than one faucet but... what do I know?

A few years ago, one of the worst poets who ever lived and who wasn’t a poet but was mislabeled as one; ...Rod McKuen, made six million dollars in one year. It is possible that he made more money than all of the other poets put together before the century he was in. Certainly no one else came close to that figure. No other celebrated poet was as execrable as Rod McKuen. There’s a message there.

Well... just a few things to launch the boat; untitled and undefined.

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The old fellow
grew backwards
Each situation
Was a return
So that light
was
A bright sequence of mirrors
facing emptiness

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Whether you are
or have been
I do not know
I
is the pivoting of mind
upon itself
A moment in view
of what has passed beyond you

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The spirit of God sings through
everyone
but sometimes it
carries a tune

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The fool
looked long and deeply
into the pool
where swim
myriads of enchanted fish
Millions of eyes lit the forest with life
while we were
light years away
coupling in God this morning

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Graceful rivers edge you have become
the soul of nature in an unknown tongue
The nightingale of love
The softness of rain
The mist on the mountains
The heart of the flameAnd I lean upon your motion
like a wave upon the ocean

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Raft of love
ride easy on the waves
you know what makes men slaves
And though you cannot
force them to be free
You will not leave the sea

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Eternal
Forever eternal
Within the absolute
our destinies entwine
and burn
like candles of endless wax
A time traveled circle of events
Interchangeable
Creating God and man
To become each other

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Tao
is the cat’s meow
in the magic forest of dreams

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Under the deepest rock
in the furthest reach of time
God wrote his name
in little letters
In a fine hand
he wrote
God

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Moments held together
by the web of interwoven motion
like one sad and secret ocean
heaving
We plaited fingers
on midnight beaches
in shades dressed
beneath the lightof eternity’s half sister
We closed our openings with each other

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When your heart is broken
When the mirror in which you imagined yourself
has been shattered
and the glittering shards
of love’s greatest and most tragic illusion
lies broken
and utterly beyond repair
in the dust of some metaphorical street
Sweep...sweep...sweep

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