First thunder
and then wind
But the thunder could have been rumbling
And the wind not that great
The thunder rolls again
But followed by clanks, and two-strike motors.
And again by light aircraft
But there has been clouds
And more thunder
With a blast of cool air
If it’s not strip mining
With the concussive wave
Somehow ferrying crispness
It might mean rain
But it’s might mean rain-
ing for days
I might been dancing for days
Naked in the rain
I haven’t
Yet there is thunder
And thunder booms hope
For a spell
Then fades into sunburn
And deliberate breathing
Tag: set42815
Bolster your philosophical impact
Think of it as a convenience charge. You could write this schlock, but it’s time consuming, and it takes you places you’d rather not go. That’s where I come in. I sacrifice my life to ensure our allied viewpoints are preserved.
I write for you lover, outcast, left behind and forgotten.
For you scholar, explorer, tinkerer, fool.
Natural, cosmic, and mundane.
These poems aren’t for me,
They aren’t even for me and you.
They are for us, allies—
extant, and yet to be.
I serve your current fanciful and poetic needs, but I also make testament to the sublime balancing act of our time for our future allies, like that teenager of 2032, curled up in some dark hole, will know that our time was more than conflict and strife, hatred anger abuse and drought. There were people, your allies, and they strode proud in defiance and in love. They saw the world not so differently from you.
In 2100 someone mesmerized by our time is wondering WTF happened back then, and even with changes in the language, they’ll know we ran naked in jungles and ate fruit from the vine.
In the 2200s, on an outpost on Mars, someone feels a connection to the ancient past: others have known heartache and abandonment.
2300s, and people don’t talk anymore, so much as commune, and they quiver in joy: intelligence makes due and survives, and emotion is a part of that.
Running a poetic time capsule is expensive, and consuming, and I need your help. Your patronage will ensure that our allied world views, and our secret selves, have a voice.
Samatha
Upon meeting
the goddess
of the garden
at twilight
be not alarmed.
She’s sentient
like you,
but calm.
Your gasp or sigh
won’t upset her
Because she knows,
and she’s calm.
Armor
if I could eat anything
I’d eat barnacles and fence posts
grinding metal and shell alike
into a fine slurry
which I’d smear on my face
and forearms
strengthening myself
against storms to come
The Highest Art
Chastisement comes to us from the Greek,
just kidding it’s from Old French,
and before that Latin.
And you can follow it back to PIE and beyond—
To the first poet to utter a sound, and beyond—
From since there’s been vocal cords,
or rattles,
or hairy legs,
there has been chastisement,
and poets do it the best.