Originally intending this as an essay to my children, I thought teaching by example would be better. It shall go on. . .
Write up -- down -- up -- experiences
now while they are still fresh --
not wait till half a century's time has passed
to try to recapture those fading memories
as if they were etched in stone,
marble carved on granite obelisks,
becoming more -- each moment passed --
a fleeing piece of shrapnel
from a mind exploding
energetic input, kinetic output
on no certain medium
for all the passing world to notice not
even when the fertile soil hardens
stone like clay, and promises to visit you
vanish like unremembered dreams
in an idle mind,
miscellaneous chunks of gravel chips
trod under by those passing feet
that crunch the memories of existence
into sandy beaches of indiscernible particles,
molecular anonymity no one knows
nor cares to ask about.
Read what others wrote in their archival legacies,
their contributions to their universe hereafter
in other folios of mindless banter
left for their issue to discuss at length
what connotation they might have meant
but didn't say to you and anyone else
who chances upon their random words,
chancing accidentally on lonely volumes
crammed alphabetically on secluded shelves
between reference behemoths and their midget sons
to the left of self-help dogma and fictional doggerel,
each slimfast volume screaming with distinction
that IT should find its way into YOUR mind,
an adopted ideology painted on fresh canvas.
Think divergently what eyes all others see
but none discerns the same
in color, shape, significance,
or where what lives will die and go away
how far how long in what direction
for sure in what condition,
affected by what elements,
aether air or roasting flames
as nothing left or sacred names,
traversing from mortality to this
the other place
from there to here
more than the speed of life
through mindless barriers
religious freaks call the Apocalypse
others Armageddon
some a passing
a quickening in a gathering
becoming an immortal
amongst all mortal life.
Wade through the cataract of words
that spill into a pulsing stream of consciousness
rumbling through rough roads of rhetoric
searching for the gem of meaning,
germ of understanding, that lingers
precipitously on the brink of mumbling
something meaningless to no one listening,
anyone reading, scanning lines for substance.
Explore all ways of scraping scenes from mossy stones,
dancing wheat stalks
rollicking reeds by muddy marshes
tall oaks that stand alone
short stumps in empty fields
sweet elms on quiet streets
dead bricks in flattened lots
cuddly bunnies teddy bears
goldfish in tanks silverfish, no thanks,
carry-on baggage carrion roadkill
damp showers, twin towers
lost in rebellious rubble, peace trouble,
peace, wars, wives, whores
wherever you want to go today.
Be the writer, reader, subject of your thoughts
and editor most of all
to challenge that your every syllable
is better than every other word
possible to relate the picture in your mind
to those who wonder what it is you really want to say.
Once words are drawn not immutably,
fear not to look in retrospect
that words evoke the feelings you intend.
Reread the written lines aloud
for rhythmic continuity
lest circles loop in random coils
aimlessly around uncertain themes
lost within concentric rings of verbs
that ready, aim, and miss the mark
with dimlit phrases in dimwit clauses
mistaking nightingale for lark
inverting reasons losing causes --
lines sublime, ideas superb
to verses formed a shapeless cloud
constant changes, oxymoron
leaving writers' sense behind
with eyes that see insightless, blind.
Remember, readers do not know
what lurks within, what bursts without
nor read the signs you post throughout
the stanzas' rhythmic feet which flow
iambic fast or trochee slow.
Somewhere each page, a stanza,
line or word
like pollen germinates,
plows deep a fertile field . . .
Edit out what nothing says
fits not the theme
nor order in your mind
though likened to vile amputation
of seemingly essential parts
which seemed axiomatic
at their immaculate inception --
you the father mothering the fetal words
to immortality or fatal damnation.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 951 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2006-12-24 at 05:46
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Random Words to a Young Writer
Write up -- down -- up -- experiences
now while they are still fresh --
not wait till half a century's time has passed
to try to recapture those fading memories
as if they were etched in stone,
marble carved on granite obelisks,
becoming more -- each moment passed --
a fleeing piece of shrapnel
from a mind exploding
energetic input, kinetic output
on no certain medium
for all the passing world to notice not
even when the fertile soil hardens
stone like clay, and promises to visit you
vanish like unremembered dreams
in an idle mind,
miscellaneous chunks of gravel chips
trod under by those passing feet
that crunch the memories of existence
into sandy beaches of indiscernible particles,
molecular anonymity no one knows
nor cares to ask about.
Read what others wrote in their archival legacies,
their contributions to their universe hereafter
in other folios of mindless banter
left for their issue to discuss at length
what connotation they might have meant
but didn't say to you and anyone else
who chances upon their random words,
chancing accidentally on lonely volumes
crammed alphabetically on secluded shelves
between reference behemoths and their midget sons
to the left of self-help dogma and fictional doggerel,
each slimfast volume screaming with distinction
that IT should find its way into YOUR mind,
an adopted ideology painted on fresh canvas.
Think divergently what eyes all others see
but none discerns the same
in color, shape, significance,
or where what lives will die and go away
how far how long in what direction
for sure in what condition,
affected by what elements,
aether air or roasting flames
as nothing left or sacred names,
traversing from mortality to this
the other place
from there to here
more than the speed of life
through mindless barriers
religious freaks call the Apocalypse
others Armageddon
some a passing
a quickening in a gathering
becoming an immortal
amongst all mortal life.
Wade through the cataract of words
that spill into a pulsing stream of consciousness
rumbling through rough roads of rhetoric
searching for the gem of meaning,
germ of understanding, that lingers
precipitously on the brink of mumbling
something meaningless to no one listening,
anyone reading, scanning lines for substance.
Explore all ways of scraping scenes from mossy stones,
dancing wheat stalks
rollicking reeds by muddy marshes
tall oaks that stand alone
short stumps in empty fields
sweet elms on quiet streets
dead bricks in flattened lots
cuddly bunnies teddy bears
goldfish in tanks silverfish, no thanks,
carry-on baggage carrion roadkill
damp showers, twin towers
lost in rebellious rubble, peace trouble,
peace, wars, wives, whores
wherever you want to go today.
Be the writer, reader, subject of your thoughts
and editor most of all
to challenge that your every syllable
is better than every other word
possible to relate the picture in your mind
to those who wonder what it is you really want to say.
Once words are drawn not immutably,
fear not to look in retrospect
that words evoke the feelings you intend.
Reread the written lines aloud
for rhythmic continuity
lest circles loop in random coils
aimlessly around uncertain themes
lost within concentric rings of verbs
that ready, aim, and miss the mark
with dimlit phrases in dimwit clauses
mistaking nightingale for lark
inverting reasons losing causes --
lines sublime, ideas superb
to verses formed a shapeless cloud
constant changes, oxymoron
leaving writers' sense behind
with eyes that see insightless, blind.
Remember, readers do not know
what lurks within, what bursts without
nor read the signs you post throughout
the stanzas' rhythmic feet which flow
iambic fast or trochee slow.
Somewhere each page, a stanza,
line or word
like pollen germinates,
plows deep a fertile field . . .
Edit out what nothing says
fits not the theme
nor order in your mind
though likened to vile amputation
of seemingly essential parts
which seemed axiomatic
at their immaculate inception --
you the father mothering the fetal words
to immortality or fatal damnation.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 951 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2006-12-24 at 05:46
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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