Toe Poetry

[labelwench]

Life is a journey of sensations, and though all may experience sensations, each will know them in a different way,
and react in their own manner.

The subtle differences in our individual biology determines that each taste, texture and flavour will be unique, to every person, which is why 'too many cooks spoil the broth.'

Technology is marvellous, yet sometimes it disappoints. Marvellous images it may capture, and yet, somehow, the shade or detail is not the same....you had to be there....and maybe not even then, for the reasons above noted.

To a person living in the moment, fully engaged with their surroundings, the present is a miracle, writhing with life.

To another, focused on their own moment, all else is a distraction or annoyance.

Words may claify or confuse...

Images are subjective......

The space between the notes defines the music.

A space without words, images or notes.....stillness....

How would one define the sensation of stillness?

One does not.

One has to find

and experience

some things

for themself.

http://www.cmt.com/videos/alison-kra...g-at-all.jhtml

[Wick]

History

Little more
than compost
really

We gather the dead
in one mass grave
break them in pieces
wet them
turn them
heat them up
decompose them
until they smell sweet
and true

Then we sprinkle them
round our little ones
in hopes
of innoculating
the future
with goodness gleaned
from
seasons past

Little more
than compost
really

Some weed
seed
survives
some pathogens
persist
and that's ok
because
you need
humus
you need
history
to make
good earth

Wick

[Wick]

Potato Bug

I roll
upon the palm
of God

(a living pearl)

And thankfully
my covered eyes
do not reveal
my precarious
position

If I'm still
very still
perhaps He will
mistake me
for a pebble
or a seed
and put me down

Wick

[Wick]

In Wood

In wood
time and tissues
converge

Temporal ripples
freeze
fast
to form a record
of what was
what is
even
what will be.

A single tablet of wood
(written by the Almighty)
holds more history
than any human book
more science
than any human experience
more art
than any human canvas
more religion
than any human sermon

In its grain
its touch
we find ourselves
transported back
to view and hold
the carpenter-hands
of a father passed on

Each wooden knot
looks kindly back at us
as though it were
the all-seeing
and merciful
eye
of the living God

Wick

[Wick]

DNA--A Sonnet

If I could see your chromosomes, romance
would be defined again. To see you so
minutely--splitting and dividing, chance
winding up your DNA--would blow

my mind. That's intimate! Whoever thinks
he understands union and separation
without seeing protein unravel's a dink--
and idiot--with no mind for creation

or genes...or you. And if I were to hold
you, we would fit together--diagrams
of nucleic acid--and then we'd fold
upon each other, and we'd grow. Then bam!

We would divide--I taking part of you,
you of me--then we'd be three not two!

Wick

[SteveA]

To see All one can only imagine
But better yet, to know the All within

There stands a tree unmoving
It reaches beyond the minds eye

Its branches are the lives of universes
Its fruits the beauties of the soul

Collect the wonders at every fork

But there is one unending path
that is most perfect and beautiful
And only you can find it

[labelwench]

Riding through the monochrome of late autumn,
her eye remarked a small splash of colour.
An elegant spot of brilliance,
in brave denial of the muted light,
bereft of warmth.

On approach, she observed it was a wild rose,
and dismally out of season.
Dismounted she, to better observe this anomoly,
and discern, if she could, nature's purpose.

A seedling, late started,
she decided by stature,
the tumultuous spring made discordant,
that a solitary rose should bloom in October,
while her sisters were ripely convergent.

Her mare, likewise,
lowered her head to the rose,
and gently blew she upon it,
after which with polite and exquisite care,
nipped she a fruit from another.

Imminent forecast of freezing rain and snow,
and knew she, that life was too short,
for this solitary flower, and tempted was she,
to possess it, and know it's last hours.

Each petal, instead, she committed to mind,
the brave upturn of each leaf and stem,
and a gentle voice they heard
as they turned to ride away
" No mistake, I chose now to bloom,
nor by chance did you happen this way....."

[SteveA]

(Ah, you beat me to the subject, Lorrina. I posted this at the same time. Now it's redundant ... you must have catlike reflexes )

I am
The air that feels your breath
The sand that touches your foot
The ocean that watches you frolick
The darkness that covers you when you sleep

And you are All the most beautiful

[Wick]

(The caddisfly begins its life as what I referred to in my childhood as a rock roller--a tiny larvae that would gather bits of sand and build them into a tiny mineral tube in which it could live. I have always been fascinated with these tiny creatures.)

Caddisfly Child

Tell me, Caddisfly child,
as you peer through the end
of your sand and silken tube,
will you recall your underwater
world when,
transformed,
you break the surface
and fly into the air?

Tell me Caddisfly child,
will you try to forget
who you were before your flight?
Will you put your muddy, mossy past
behind
you? Will
your wings completely
shed their murky color?

Tell me, Caddisfly child,
when you tire of sunlight
and insipid air, will you,
as I, then try to find past places
of silk
and sand?
Will your hungry search
yield better fruit than mine?

Wick

[Wick]

Auschwitz in August

1

I came to Auschwitz in August
when the buttercups
and Queen Anne's lace
were in full bloom,
like sluts
wearing sequins
to a funeral.
How tactless
that they should blossom
unashamed,
that they should blossom
white and yellow
and not red
or not at all

Have they forgotten
what watered them
only decades ago,
or the thin fingers
that picked and dried them
to nourish papery bodies
with an extra cup
of weed tea?

2

I came to Auschwitz in August,
and the pigeons and crows
were wheeling on the air,
singing their ugly,
lovely songs,
carelessly,
without longing,
lightening the heavy sky
with a slice of wings
and bubbling
bird laughter.

Could they forget
the lead and granite skies
that rumbled over Poland
from the west,
or dare
diminish
that horrible memorial
to the twisted cross
and crucible,
which burned up
all Europe's leaven?

3

I came to Auschwitz in August
to be reminded,
by humming locust,
of the Baptists head,
to see it lying there
on a silver platter,
and to feel Herod's
horror.
But the locust-song,
soft and fuzzy,
was too full of joy
and hymning
to evoke pain
or unrest

Have the locust forgotten
the hungry hands
that gathered them
for food in the wilderness
of Birkenau,
the hands that gathered
until locust
was rare
as a Jew.

4

I came to Auschwitz in August,
and though the years have passed
and I am gone from Poland,
Auschwitz is still around me.
I am there
each time I glimpse
white and yellow blossoms,
or hear a crow's harsh song.
Each flying pigeon
carries me back
to this place.

And I can't forget
the fathers and mothers,
the children of God
who didn't share
in Birkenau's furnace
the good fortune of Shadrak
and his brothers.
Here on the soil,
I hear the locust singing
to bits of bone and ash.

Wick