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Poem: The Velvet Road

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posted on Aug, 26 2017 @ 04:53 PM
A Tammet

A Tammet can pose a problem,
And watch showers of sparks
Yield mysterious shapes,
In the form of a solution.

Numerical topography
Is given to him to see,
An inner landscape,
But not its topology.

Until the answer is ready,
Young Tamett must gape,
And the brain, too, shows
Shapes, and then a shape.

The answer, known only
To the logical chain
Applied to known numbers,
Filters through the brain,
In just a mechanical way,
Described long ago in
Turing's mechanical day.

Our thoughts are deceptive
Without meaning to be,
Like idling goldfish
In a painting by Matisse.

They flash their shapes
On the plane of awareness,
While fanning their fins
Deep beneath the surface.

edit on 26-8-2017 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Sep, 2 2017 @ 08:37 PM

Clouds with halos
Of light,
Hanging in summer
Sunny skies
Over Toronto.

Thick yellow clouds
Of pollen,
Drifting along Austin Terrace
From the corner
Near the Coach House.

Germinal exertion
Of flowering trees,
Flowering plants,
We call them,
And call ourselves,
Or blossoms,
Culmination of blooming,

Sending and receiving
Cellular completion,
Seasonal pulsation of

Floating like dust
Shocked by a sudden
Now drifting
Into memory.

The mystery of
The pollen,
Casually passing
Along Austin Terrace into

A grain of pollen
In the heart of
The flower
At the moment
When the plant,
The person,
From root to stem
To blossom,
And the peculiar shaped
Grain is released
Into the wind of histories,

Taking leave
Of the husk
Of the body
To wander,
Carried by whims,
Breezes of intentions,
Into the whims of others,
Into signaling waves,
Directional beacons
And beams of influence,
With which one need
Only resonate,
To navigate,

Toward a destination,
A field of radiance,
A field of resonance,
With which it resonates,
In the heart of receptivity,
In the place where it awaits
And assists
The coming completion
It requires
To take fleshly form

Throbbing, blissful
Physical and mental
With resonant pulses
Of its own,
As it waits,
Drawing the sperm
Into union with the egg,

The collision,
The cataclysm,
The obliteration
Of isolation,
First Shunyata,
First cell.

The biological process,
The summit and sum
Of all processes
Which lead to
Becoming human flesh,
A baby's toes,
And chubby limbs,
It's heavy head,
The foyer of
Heavy with the mystery
Of its beginning,

A baby's head,
In which is seated
A mind,
Which is not a baby's

A mind
Heavy with history
Layered over
By accretions
During the process,
Of being tied
And bound
By thousands
Of millions
Of knots connecting
It to that new thing,
That dock
That tether
That shell
That shield
That shelter
That resting place
And vehicle,
Where it sits,
The mind,
Having departed
That survival
That pollen
Of its own
That grain,
In space,
The celestial ocean,
Conveying a mystery

A cargo of accumulations
Set aside,
Once again ashore,
And most often forgot,
To which it may,
On some momentous day,
Be given the key,
Or not.

edit on 2-9-2017 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Oct, 15 2017 @ 09:19 AM

The essence of popular art is fulfilling expectations.

posted on Nov, 27 2017 @ 10:07 AM
Who Will See The Snow?

One poisoned egg
A world to bust,
A flush of fury,
No moment to think,
Hiroshima sent
Its glistering dust
And cloud of souls
Aloft without a blink.

What came to mind
That morning on the brink,
But what does a shadow
On a wall know?
What was planned,
A smile, a kiss, a wink,
And who, next year,
Will see the falling snow?

Like flies to rotting meat
Fly shades to lust.
Can that be true?
What do you think?
If we acknowledge impulses,
Acknowledge imps we must.
Into the pulpy brain
Like weevils they sink.

They bask in ethical
And moral stink.
Evil gathering evil,
Quid pro quo.
A committee of devils
Doesn't need to think,
And who, next year,
Will see the falling snow?

They sap and skew and
Keep the mind well trussed.
Politicians, like devil
Infested devils, slink
By sly maneuvers,
By squandering trust.
And we mere swine,
Gallop to the brink.

Each strives to be
The impertinent link
To some delightful
Hideous overthrow,
Another flush of souls
Through life’s last chink.
And who, next year,
Will see the falling snow?

And so dear reader
Before I go, let's drink.
Before you go, before
We all go,
Before that last blink,
Another drink,
And who, next year,
Will see the falling snow?

Note: In this poem I have revived an archaic word, "glistering". It occurs in Shakespeare's Macbeth and there are earlier instances. It is like "glittering", but seems more appropriate than glittering, to the appearance and blistering effect of the cloud from an atomic blast.

Note also, "falling snow" is a symbol of satori, an advanced stage of spiritual development. Politicians might not be aware of it but people are capable of this. Everyone, actually, is capable of this. Our survival, ultimately, depends on it. Oops. That's supposed to be a secret.

Also, the form and of course the refrain comes by way of François Villon, Ou sont les neiges d'anten.
edit on 27-11-2017 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Nov, 27 2017 @ 08:58 PM
In the above, "Like flies to rotting meat, fly shades to lust", should read "Like flies to rotting meat, fly imps to lust". Unfortunately I couldn't get the edit in within the time limit. Apologies.

posted on Dec, 26 2017 @ 10:10 AM
Sonnet From The Kennebecasis

Gasping on a rock, trying to survive,
A sunfish, a little bit, still alive,
Glowing brilliant like the furious sun,
Not ready yet to end life's river run.

A pickerel in the weeds is waiting.
Just behind the mirror undulating,
Of the river, suspended, in clarity,
Between the muck and the immensity,

Prelude to a pickerel is a swirl.
Prelude to a death, never out of breath,
Is the road not taken with a girl.

In desperate terror, knotted with hate,
Memory, like an eel, pulls to tug me
Against the simple trick that sealed my fate.
edit on 26-12-2017 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Jan, 2 2018 @ 12:50 PM
The World Is Unexpected

The world is unexpected
Observed by me.


It is alright.

It is there.

I am here
In this straitjacket,
Of the body
And limbs,
Which move
With effort
To no purpose,
I can do it.

I tire quickly
And close my eyes.

I am awake again,
Still interred,
In a body.

I wait.

The light,
Is right.


I don't know
That I am naked.

I try to move
My arms and legs.

I make an effort.

I push harder,
Arch my back,
And roll
To the side,
For the first time.

edit on 2-1-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Jan, 24 2018 @ 05:34 AM

"Rules are made to be broken."


If we didn't have rules they would have to be invented.
edit on 24-1-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Jan, 25 2018 @ 05:41 PM
a reply to: ipsedixit

I have missed quite a bit. So good.
I’m going through a spiritual awakening .. researching and filling my heart with light and love. I wanted to drop a poem I wrote recently after listening to a woman named Natalie play piano ..

As the piano vibrates through my soul
I feel a certain bliss
Every note
Every stroke
I become the music
The melody of a thousand fingers singing in my ears
Transforming my being into notes floating through the air -

Nice to see you are still writing
I had a writers block for awhile then I wrote that on Jan 18 of this year. Everything seems to be unfolding the way it should ..
how’ve you been?

posted on Jan, 25 2018 @ 06:44 PM
a reply to: natalia

I like this. I like it very much. I think it's wonderful. One thinks of Keats's "negative capability", getting the ego and its postures out of the way to let the mind become the object of its observation. There is also a kind of meditation called "samyama" in which a similar thing happens.

I had a similar experience once when a piece by Mozart was playing on the radio as I was half asleep and my mind was with every note as it move from one to the next, and the logic of it seemed perfect.

Personally, I'm fine. Trying to generate new material. The "big confront" as Jerry Seinfeld put it.
edit on 25-1-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

edit on 25-1-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Jan, 25 2018 @ 06:54 PM
a reply to: ipsedixit


The ego is a tricky thing. I used to be scared of meditation because things would follow me out after but now I’m protected. I have meditated 3 times and it’s been very peaceful. I tried a chakra one today, I haven’t heard of the samyama.
It’s a cool experience when you become the music

edit on 25-1-2018 by natalia because: Spelling

posted on Jan, 25 2018 @ 07:01 PM
I've been meditating for a long time, since the mid 1970s. I wouldn't recommend it for everyone, since a lot of it is directed toward spiritual goals that are sometimes more of a burden than one would knowingly choose for oneself. Contemplation is good though. Stillness, patience with the mind, being willing to wait for it to provide illumination and understanding.

As far as my practice goes, it is good not to underestimate the following words when thinking about Buddhist practice.

“Call forth as much as you can of love, of respect and of faith! Remove the obstructing defilements and clear away all your taints! Listen to the Perfect Wisdom of the gentle Buddhas, Taught for the weal of the world, for heroic spirits intended!

edit on 25-1-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Jan, 25 2018 @ 07:09 PM
a reply to: ipsedixit
I like this one ipsedixit! I have been thinking about death, rebirth, birth, and pre-birth, lately, so it fits my mood. Thanks!

posted on Jan, 25 2018 @ 07:20 PM
a reply to: gwynnhwyfar

Do you mean Pollen or The World is Unexpected? I think both are important things to have said. The Pollen experience was a gift from a great being, but the topic is a very sensitive one. People should not make too much of the poem and should not confront others with it. It is to be read and perhaps rejected. I'm happy that it merely exists, perhaps for someone's benefit or reassurance.
edit on 25-1-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on Apr, 17 2018 @ 12:38 PM
Manque de Politesse

Day after day after day,
I stand by the river in Phnom Penh.
It flows away, steel grey,
Under the flowing sky,
Under the steel grey flowing sky.
I didn't ask for this,
That day should follow day.
I didn't want it this way.
I wasn't given a say,
And so I flow with the river
And sigh with the river,
To the sky.

edit on 17-4-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

edit on 17-4-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on May, 6 2018 @ 05:38 PM
Villanelle for Natalie D.

I know that we are dead
More than alive.
Dead's easy, it is said.

Loaded guns to the head,
Buzzing in the hive,
I know that we are dead.

Forget what you have read.
It's just a lot of jive.
Dead's easy, it is said.

On the edge of the red bed,
Relieved to survive,
I know that we are dead.

What mischief lies ahead?
The dead surely thrive.
Dead's easy, it is said.

No treadmill to tread,
No requirement to strive.
I know that we are dead.
Dead's easy, it is said.
edit on 6-5-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on May, 6 2018 @ 09:00 PM

Wraith of the Sahel,
Eyes sunken into the well of sadness,
Stare at the mechanical eye
Of the world of plenty,
As it looks into the mirror.
You are the image
Of its generosity.
edit on 6-5-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on May, 10 2018 @ 12:26 PM
a reply to: ipsedixit

It's a good one. Thanks for sharing. Keep expressing yourself through the poetry.

posted on May, 11 2018 @ 10:53 AM
a reply to: kellyshane

Thank you so much. Here's a surprise for you. I just finished it.

K.C. Irving

The wind from the harbour
And the sea beyond
Pushes like a mad child.
It pushes my hair
And damp and cold,
Pushes my jacket,
Pushing me around,
As if to push me
Out of my life.
It pushes across the humps
Of moss covered turf,
Where we, mad children,
Ignored the chill
And played at life and death
And came to terms
With one another.
It pushes the grasses
We made into whistles.
It pushes the blueberry bushes,
Meal ready and luscious.
It pushes the clouds
Above our drifting minds,
The grey, obscured,
Restless, rainy
Atlantic empyrean,
Into which our aims
Soared like seabirds,
Just as unknowing.
It pushes the spruce
And fir and poplar
Rooted around us,
As if there were a chance
That they and we
Could persist,
Beside the refinery.
It pushes the paint
Off the pastel walls
Of our hopeful houses
And fouls the air.
It pushes and pushes
And pushes me
Out of my life.

Note: This reflects my experience living outside of Saint John, New Brunswick in the early 1960s. Generally I don't think of it this way, but the fact remains that I am part of the "Atlantic Diaspora", living in Toronto, and all across Canada.
edit on 11-5-2018 by ipsedixit because: (no reason given)

posted on May, 24 2018 @ 08:59 AM
I have written about 100 or so poems will share them when I'm at my desktop

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