the truth in the sky
is watching you
the thing that you did
is falling through
and the fruit of the lie
that made your game
the wave that will come
sweeps you away
unhardened hearts
will see the light
the Pharaoh sees
and then he sighs
the pain you have made
comes back to you
the judgment time
is coming through
I wrote a poem about the undesired consequences of leaving spaces for people to fill with their own meaning. Something I am often in the habit of doing in the spirit of playfulness. Ambiguity can be an opening for great responses and discourse. It can also be an opening for those with less benevolent attitudes.
Internet Reflections
People bring themselves to what I write,
In a poem this is a good thing.
On an internet forum its shite.
Your head puts in place
Of my voice and my face
Your preconceptions and malevolent hate
My real tone is lost and distorted
My meaning and intent aborted
All purpose of communication thwarted.
If a poem is a partial reflection
The spaces of meaning left to cause diffraction
and
ideas
dispersed
by
others
subjectification .
As if I’d placed a looking glass to see who you are
And neither of us liked the answer
So you pour your hate into the spaces I meant
to be filled with revelation, playfulness and laughter.
do i look like a victim
so easily led
was it my hermit ways
that made you forget
i'm not really desperate
i just don't like the phone
it may look like i'm lonely
but i'm only alone
i try to remember
what made me move on
the things i've forgotten
are already gone
i don't need a memory
to tempt me from home
it may look like i'm lonely
but i'm only alone
i'd live in the past
but there's only regret
i'd rather stumble along
it's as good as i get
i'm not looking for pity
in this world that i own
it may look like i'm lonely
but i'm only alone
Renowned Poet , Distinguished Professor of English at Virginia Tech, author of 27 books, a Grammy nominee and an Oprah Living Legend. Once dubbed the priestess of black poetry, her work has spanned the themes of love and sex, anger and grief, race, politics, revolution and violence.
Everything Good Is Simple:
Everything good is simple a soft boiled egg ... toast fresh from the oven with a pat of butter swimming in the center ... steam of a cup of black coffee ... John Coltrane bringing me 'Violets for My Furs'
Most simple things are good: Lines on a yellow legal pad... dimples defining a smile...a square of gray cashmere that can be a scarf... Miles Davis 'Kind of Blue'
Some things clear are complicated: believing in a religion...trying to be a good person...getting rid of folk who depress you...Horace Silver Blowing the Blues Away
Complicated things can be clear Dvorak's 'New World' Symphony... Alvin Ailey's 'Revelations'... Mae Jemison's riding in space... Mingus 'Live at Carnegie Hall'
All things good are good: poetry... patience... a ripe tomato on the vine... a bat in flight... the new moon...me in your arms... things like that
Can anyone explain why whimsy works? There is so much beautiful poetry, there is great poetry, there is sad poetry, and then there is this sad, little tune, certainly not great, but, I guess it captures, a feeling... isn't that enough?
History of Desire
by Tony Hoagland
When you're seventeen, and drunk
on the husky, late-night flavor
of your first girlfriend's voice
along the wires of the telephone
what else to do but steal
your father's El Dorado from the drive,
and cruise out to the park on Driscoll Hill?
Then climb the county water tower
and aerosol her name in spraycan orange
a hundred feet above the town?
Because only the letters of that word,
DORIS, next door to yours,
in yard-high, iridescent script,
are amplified enough to tell the world
who's playing lead guitar
in the rock band of your blood.
You don't consider for a moment
the shock in store for you in 10 A.D.,
a decade after Doris, when,
out for a drive on your visit home,
you take the Smallville Road, look up
and see RON LOVES DORIS
still scorched upon the reservoir.
This is how history catches up—
by holding still until you
bump into yourself.
What makes you blush, and shove
the pedal of the Mustang
almost through the floor
as if you wanted to spray gravel
across the features of the past,
or accelerate into oblivion?
Are you so out of love that you
can't move fast enough away?
But if desire is acceleration,
experience is circular as any
Indianapolis. We keep coming back
to what we are—each time older,
more freaked out, or less afraid.
And you are older now.
You should stop today.
In the name of Doris, stop.
Can anyone explain why whimsy works? There is so much beautiful poetry, there is great poetry, there is sad poetry, and then there is this sad, little tune, certainly not great, but, I guess it captures, a feeling... isn't that enough?
History of Desire
by Tony Hoagland
When you're seventeen, and drunk
on the husky, late-night flavor
of your first girlfriend's voice
along the wires of the telephone
what else to do but steal
your father's El Dorado from the drive,
and cruise out to the park on Driscoll Hill?
Then climb the county water tower
and aerosol her name in spraycan orange
a hundred feet above the town?
Because only the letters of that word,
DORIS, next door to yours,
in yard-high, iridescent script,
are amplified enough to tell the world
who's playing lead guitar
in the rock band of your blood.
You don't consider for a moment
the shock in store for you in 10 A.D.,
a decade after Doris, when,
out for a drive on your visit home,
you take the Smallville Road, look up
and see RON LOVES DORIS
still scorched upon the reservoir.
This is how history catches up—
by holding still until you
bump into yourself.
What makes you blush, and shove
the pedal of the Mustang
almost through the floor
as if you wanted to spray gravel
across the features of the past,
or accelerate into oblivion?
Are you so out of love that you
can't move fast enough away?
But if desire is acceleration,
experience is circular as any
Indianapolis. We keep coming back
to what we are—each time older,
more freaked out, or less afraid.
And you are older now.
You should stop today.
In the name of Doris, stop.
"The Truth In The Sky" the
)
"The Truth In The Sky"
the truth in the sky
is watching you
the thing that you did
is falling through
and the fruit of the lie
that made your game
the wave that will come
sweeps you away
unhardened hearts
will see the light
the Pharaoh sees
and then he sighs
the pain you have made
comes back to you
the judgment time
is coming through
(2008 db michel)
"Away, Away" the storm is
)
"Away, Away"
the storm is coming
away, away
the mountains warn us
away, away
the time is over
away, away
it's time for running
away, away
the stars are falling
away, away
no surrender
away, away
the oceans boiling
away, away
it's time to remember
away, away
(2005 db michel)
RE: RE: Did you write
)
. . . beautiful Young Lady and, as usual - 'ello to Each of You here @ the Cafe
> Dan - 'Rule of Thumb' ---> you write great art [Poetry] keep iT up Sir!
and, Last - though Not least Happy New Year to Each of You
> i shall 'Submit' some other Writings - of my own - in the near Future . . .
. . . the Truth is Out There
A Poem on Sensibility Robert
)
A Poem on Sensibility
Robert Burns
Sensibility, how charming,
Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
Thou alas! hast known too well!
Fairest flower, behold the lily
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate in the clay.
Hear the wood lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
But alas! a prey the surest
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure
Finer feelings can bestow:
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
Happy Robbie Burns Day
Enjoy your Haggis
There are some who can live without wild things and some who cannot. - Aldo Leopold
I wrote a poem about the
)
I wrote a poem about the undesired consequences of leaving spaces for people to fill with their own meaning. Something I am often in the habit of doing in the spirit of playfulness. Ambiguity can be an opening for great responses and discourse. It can also be an opening for those with less benevolent attitudes.
Internet Reflections
People bring themselves to what I write,
In a poem this is a good thing.
On an internet forum its shite.
Your head puts in place
Of my voice and my face
Your preconceptions and malevolent hate
My real tone is lost and distorted
My meaning and intent aborted
All purpose of communication thwarted.
If a poem is a partial reflection
The spaces of meaning left to cause diffraction
and
ideas
dispersed
by
others
subjectification .
As if I’d placed a looking glass to see who you are
And neither of us liked the answer
So you pour your hate into the spaces I meant
to be filled with revelation, playfulness and laughter.
Physics is for gurls!
Magnanimity. In the
)
Magnanimity. In the desert
the parched padre turned
to bless the scorching sun.
Uncredited writer.
"Only Alone" do i look
)
"Only Alone"
do i look like a victim
so easily led
was it my hermit ways
that made you forget
i'm not really desperate
i just don't like the phone
it may look like i'm lonely
but i'm only alone
i try to remember
what made me move on
the things i've forgotten
are already gone
i don't need a memory
to tempt me from home
it may look like i'm lonely
but i'm only alone
i'd live in the past
but there's only regret
i'd rather stumble along
it's as good as i get
i'm not looking for pity
in this world that i own
it may look like i'm lonely
but i'm only alone
(2009 db michel)
Nikki Giovanni Renowned
)
Nikki Giovanni
Renowned Poet , Distinguished Professor of English at Virginia Tech, author of 27 books, a Grammy nominee and an Oprah Living Legend. Once dubbed the priestess of black poetry, her work has spanned the themes of love and sex, anger and grief, race, politics, revolution and violence.
Everything Good Is Simple:
Everything good is simple a soft boiled egg ... toast fresh from the oven with a pat of butter swimming in the center ... steam of a cup of black coffee ... John Coltrane bringing me 'Violets for My Furs'
Most simple things are good: Lines on a yellow legal pad... dimples defining a smile...a square of gray cashmere that can be a scarf... Miles Davis 'Kind of Blue'
Some things clear are complicated: believing in a religion...trying to be a good person...getting rid of folk who depress you...Horace Silver Blowing the Blues Away
Complicated things can be clear Dvorak's 'New World' Symphony... Alvin Ailey's 'Revelations'... Mae Jemison's riding in space... Mingus 'Live at Carnegie Hall'
All things good are good: poetry... patience... a ripe tomato on the vine... a bat in flight... the new moon...me in your arms... things like that
Author Nikki Giovanni
Can anyone explain why whimsy
)
Can anyone explain why whimsy works? There is so much beautiful poetry, there is great poetry, there is sad poetry, and then there is this sad, little tune, certainly not great, but, I guess it captures, a feeling... isn't that enough?
History of Desire
by Tony Hoagland
When you're seventeen, and drunk
on the husky, late-night flavor
of your first girlfriend's voice
along the wires of the telephone
what else to do but steal
your father's El Dorado from the drive,
and cruise out to the park on Driscoll Hill?
Then climb the county water tower
and aerosol her name in spraycan orange
a hundred feet above the town?
Because only the letters of that word,
DORIS, next door to yours,
in yard-high, iridescent script,
are amplified enough to tell the world
who's playing lead guitar
in the rock band of your blood.
You don't consider for a moment
the shock in store for you in 10 A.D.,
a decade after Doris, when,
out for a drive on your visit home,
you take the Smallville Road, look up
and see RON LOVES DORIS
still scorched upon the reservoir.
This is how history catches up—
by holding still until you
bump into yourself.
What makes you blush, and shove
the pedal of the Mustang
almost through the floor
as if you wanted to spray gravel
across the features of the past,
or accelerate into oblivion?
Are you so out of love that you
can't move fast enough away?
But if desire is acceleration,
experience is circular as any
Indianapolis. We keep coming back
to what we are—each time older,
more freaked out, or less afraid.
And you are older now.
You should stop today.
In the name of Doris, stop.
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi
Can anyone explain why whimsy
)
Can anyone explain why whimsy works? There is so much beautiful poetry, there is great poetry, there is sad poetry, and then there is this sad, little tune, certainly not great, but, I guess it captures, a feeling... isn't that enough?
History of Desire
by Tony Hoagland
When you're seventeen, and drunk
on the husky, late-night flavor
of your first girlfriend's voice
along the wires of the telephone
what else to do but steal
your father's El Dorado from the drive,
and cruise out to the park on Driscoll Hill?
Then climb the county water tower
and aerosol her name in spraycan orange
a hundred feet above the town?
Because only the letters of that word,
DORIS, next door to yours,
in yard-high, iridescent script,
are amplified enough to tell the world
who's playing lead guitar
in the rock band of your blood.
You don't consider for a moment
the shock in store for you in 10 A.D.,
a decade after Doris, when,
out for a drive on your visit home,
you take the Smallville Road, look up
and see RON LOVES DORIS
still scorched upon the reservoir.
This is how history catches up—
by holding still until you
bump into yourself.
What makes you blush, and shove
the pedal of the Mustang
almost through the floor
as if you wanted to spray gravel
across the features of the past,
or accelerate into oblivion?
Are you so out of love that you
can't move fast enough away?
But if desire is acceleration,
experience is circular as any
Indianapolis. We keep coming back
to what we are—each time older,
more freaked out, or less afraid.
And you are older now.
You should stop today.
In the name of Doris, stop.
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi