Toe Poetry

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Take a break from your TOE theories and create a poem....

Rhyming and story telling expand language and thoughts.

Have fun.

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Farmer's Wife

By Tp

My wife and I have a farm in the hills,
above the north oceans salty mist fills,
the cool western air breezing through trees,
tall pine and oak and elm shimmering leaves.

Today is tomatoes to harvest and jar,
preserving red freshest by far,
salt air sweetness in rich dark soil,
compost weekly enriching worms coil,
into deep moist earth breathes into roots,
come tiny leaves of vine small branches shoots,
onto fencing supports the green redding fruit,
for us to pick in straw hat and farmers suit.

She sits on our bench and takes a moment,
to stir in thought of some lighter embarkment,
to rest in her warm happiness enthused delight,
to be farming, away from a more fanciful excite.
She suddenly turns to me, with bright smile,
"Come on, lets pick some more, for a while,''
"Sure." I said, with a deep, happy grin,
For our lives were set forever in win.

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Girl and Blackbird
By Tp

One evening I went for a stroll in the woods,
a stroll, just a walk, a tender hike with some goods,
when I saw, just a sight, right in front of my eyes,
a tall beautiful girl, softly speaks as she tries,
to calm down an agitated flying, black ravenous banter,
a chattering, verbally screeching, hexing crow ranter.

I tried to speak, to say something colorful,
but my tongue was caught overwhelmed motor- mouthful,
so I stood, not a sound, not a whisper or glimmer,
not a soft tiny whimper, not a speckle of shimmer,
of life did I show, as she softly, wonderfully smile,
raven simmered down to rest for a while.

Then she moved her long dark hair back curled,
and the bird jumped on her shoulder whirled,
And looked right at me, as a raven would,
And said,"Two's mostly company, and three's not so good."
I just stood there breathing, gasping for thought,
As she turned, and finally saw me, smiled and winked hot,
They left me alone in the dark wood trees,
deep in thought in my stroll through thickets and leaves...

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My Garden
By Tp

Beyond my backyard gate is a stream,
of clear fresh water sparkling dream,
cascading gently between bright pedal flowers,
and moss rocks wet with splashes and showers.

I sit with the churning water sound,
and fragrance of blooms sweet air around
my cheeks, eyes closed, relaxing pleasure,
of relief away from stress pounds in measure,
to comfort zone in nature's harmony,
melody heart sings in rhythm to irony,
that peace is found company with allergies,
as my nose may run, itch my skin,
outdoor affecting out and within.

Blue-tail flies like to fly in my hair,
mosquitos buzz to my hearing ears blare,
and the ants crawl don't seem to really care,
where they stroll and sit, pull up a chair!
Don't sit on a flower a bee will warn,
with jagged flight patterns of scorn,
and lizards and snakes and slimy mud frogs,
seem to hear me say, "Time to jog,
time to retreat back into the house,
with my loving, spider fearing spouse.

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The Illustrated Girl
By Tp

The illustrated girl sat on the step,
as I was walking by my eyes fixed kept
staring wide open on two dice drawn
on her back, almost posing for me, gone
was my sense of time, dice began ticking
under the hand of a voluptuous blonde sitting
in glass, smiling at me, then winking,
avoiding a flirt with an artist rendition
of fantasy, I try to turn, but fixed intuition,
I must look further into the illustration.

Now all I see is this etching on the back,
of a beautiful girl, her back muscles track
with my steadfast eyes never twitching
away, moving the scenes as stories bewitching
unfold before me, pulling me in to her
tempting me, to the blonde in the glass stir
the dice, I fall into the story, casino sounds
and laughter seep into my mind, bounds
to Vegas fantasy drunken gamblers on
hot showgirls flaunting over money gone.

The blonde in the glass tells me to enter
into her world and let go of my center,
to embrace her body drenched in drinking,
as the dice rolls on the long table clicking.
She holds me tight, my breath strains
under her strong embrace, try to maintain
composure, try to escape, jolted tear
back to the steps at the park where I stare
at the girl's toned back, drawings of dice
now silent and still in the curious entice.
I walk to see the illustrated girl's face
warm smile greeting, my reluctant embrace.

[austintorn@aol.com]

A cool picture of a sculpted angel coming for a live sculptor.


THE SOLIDARITY OF THE CONCORDANCE

The blend of the coalition grows upon itself,
Striving for the dynamic-balance—of light
And dark, Yin and Yang, and wrong and right.

Reality’s not found in separate actions,
But in related events blended in twilight.

The concept of Classicism accentuates
Order and clarity of thought, simplicity,
Restraint, balance, dignity, and
A mistrust of emotion and excess;

However, since it relies on imitation and
The acceptance of objective standards,
It may lack spontaneity, and degenerate
Into excessive traditionalism and empty formalism.

Romanticism embraces an exaltation
Of the feelings, an individualism,
With new modes of imagination,
Of freedom of form, spontaneity,
Self-expression, and subjectivity.

It began, at least in art, music, and literature,
As a revolt against 18th century doctrines
Of restraint, forms and rules, decorum,
Stagnation, and blind tradition.

However, romanticism and classicism
Are now taken as more general terms.

Some exemplars of their contrast are:
Passion as opposed to reason,
The whole against the details,
The Yin facing the Yang,
The right vs. the left side of the brain,
“Don’t confuse me with emotion”
Or “don’t confuse me with facts”,
The sails confronting the rudder of the soul.

This epitome may become a battlefield,
Or it may grace a smooth sailing ship.

How easy they are not transformed,
These apparently opposing forces
That may wage war upon the other,
But how tremendous they can be
In their bond of confederacy.

Pure reason, ruling all alone,
Is a force confining and stale;
While passion, unattended,
Is a flame that burns
To its own end.

Poetry is an ideal of the unison:
The right side of the brain
Provides the inspiration;
The left side devises the rhyme.

An utter, absolute classicist
Or romanticist is an extremist!
S/he honors one worthy guest
In the house above the other,
And so loses the love and faith of both.

Witness the average classicist at IBM,
One who knows little of the humanities,
One who ever works through lunch,
Never having the time by to hear of life,
Making every decision by the book
But none from the heart.

Or the total romanticist:
One who can’t even hold a job,
even taking drugs, and losing all control.

The writing of this page—this analysis—
Is rather a classicist undertaking.
But I do not live by the unbending way
And therefore my songbird
Is never imprisoned within.

Perhaps, it chooses to be here, classically,
Or perhaps it will, at any time of day,
Burst forth and enjoy a total feeling.

Nor does a long wild night of lovemaking
Mean that you’ve gone bonkers.
Life is full of spikes of valleys and mountains—
It is only when one can’t merge the two
Or at least make jumps between
That one may need some reflection.

How can there be any sort of resolution
Of a dichotomy in which one side
Expresses itself so logically and
The other in emotions and images?

Well, if either your sails or rudder be broken,
You will soon be dead in the water...

Therefore, the discord and rivalry
Of one’s elements must become
Rhythm and all sweet melody!

It’s not the same for everyone,
But the knowledge of
The ‘contrast’ itself is the first step…

Therefore, let your blended soul exalt
Your reason to the height of passion,
That it may sing and fly about,
Letting it direct your passion with reason,
That your passion may live and survive
Through its daily death and resurrection, but
In effect, ever arising from its own ashes.

Now, no one can ever achieve
The ultimate and perfect balance
Between classicism and romanticism,
But for the rare times in the ‘zone’,
And indeed, this balancing attempt
Itself smacks of classicism!

And so we all have leanings—
And that’s what I mean when I say
The tilt is toward romanticism.

Emotion, slightly favored, rules,
But every so often I do check in
wWth logic and analytical reason.

Thereby, I enjoy the world, mainly,
Because, like many of you,
I am much impressed by it wonders…

Without perception’s deeper depiction,
One finds little that excites—
Not noticing much, ever in a hurry,
And seldom having the time…

Two other poor relatives
Of classicism and romanticism
Are substance and surface glory.

The romanticist in me likes the veneer
Of the shiny red car or motorcycle,
But the classicist in me would like
To know that the vehicle operates well,
Even be able to take it much apart,
For that is the very substance.

When I maintain my car or cycle well,
Shine it up, and then speed off
Into the country sunshine
With the wind on my face,
Then I have the best of both worlds!

Now, I really don’t know all the answers—
I just like to tug at the hem of the garment
In which life’s mysterious dualities are clothed.

As ever as in all good marriages,
“The oak tree and the cypress
Grow not in each other’s shadow”.

People involved in the arts may
Like to listen to music while they work,
In order to deactivate the left side of the brain
By giving it something innocuous to focus on.

Personally, I often dream up many ideas
While listening to music that moves me deeply,
For then the imaginative power
Of the brain’s right hemisphere
Is free and inspired to soar unbounded.

Yet, I do lean toward romanticism...
Perhaps it is my nature nurtured,
Or perhaps I feel a need to counteract
The overabundance of classicism in the world,
Or perhaps because in romanticism there is grandeur,
While in classicism there is but cold logic
And endless analytical thought.

But even with these leanings,
The good romanticists never forgets
That it is classicism that pays the bills
That authorizes some indulgence.

I have some hope, that,
In any totally classical person,
No matter how stern or dull s/he be,
That one day, somehow, somewhere,
There will come some small measure,
But then ever-luring triumph of jubilation.

Yes, the desire to be orderly and factual
Is one part of he human species,
But there are other yearnings in every person,
The desire to be imaginative and unrestrained in
Expressing personal emotions
Warmly and freely flowing,
And to take in art, music, literature,
As well as escalate the way one lives a life
From an illuminating flame fed from the self,
A source of lucid experience that
Can usher wisdom and fervency,
As the means to the rounded truth.

Then luckily, these may be some of its aspects:
Sentiment, celebration of nature, interest in the past,
A new emphasis on feeling and the senses,
Even actually enjoying melancholy and sadness.

Thence comes love of freedom, mysteries,
Even fascinating figures and heroes,
The allegorical, some delight in whimsy,
The improbable and the ‘impossible’,
Of legend, folklore, and mythology,
An awe before the immensity of what is—
The Earth as a friend and
The sky as a warm blanket,
And certainly the uniqueness of all selves.

The curious blend never lets one down,
Ever keeping one centered but ranging.

So, extroversion entertains, at large,
While love’s introversion is great one-on-one.

Intuition and sensing
Can sustain each the other
In a magnificent fusion.

Thinking and feeling combined
Are of an unbeatable synergy,
The being coalesced and intermixed.

Sensing the general direction but
Not exactly knowing one’s next move
Is of a spontaneous higher ‘order’.

There looms the classical planning of
A magnificently grand adventure,
Whether triumphant or of glorious failure
Always of the superb and the sublime.

Merge these ingredients, until smooth,
This loving mix, mingling and combining,
Soon melding into the ‘zone’, well integrated,
Stirred, whisked, and folded in and out, the commingling
That leads to the harmony of amalgamation’s union,
The marriage and the synthesis, the very admixture
Of the concoction of life’s ever-during brew.

The parts all sum to the whole flow, so,
Life must be more like a mosaic done
Than some focused laser tunnel of sun.
Since few lengthy pleasures are lent to us,
We build a stained-glass window of small ones.

Oh, thou soul, dare to live near the edge;
Brave the walk of the line, balancing fun
There between adventure and misfortune—
For the greatest blunder in life is to
Repeatedly fear that you might make one.

Hail! Lord Byron’s Golden Mean extends:
Let us have wine, lovers, song, and laughter—
Water, chastity, prayer the day after.
Such we’ll alternate the rest of our days—
So, on the average, we’ll make Hereafter!

Wholeness arrives by mixing the suspension:
Classicists drone toward dull perfection,
Romanticists drown in feeling’s affection;
Worse, others alternate between extremes—
It’s not this nor that, but a joined direction.

Harmony then rolls along, round and round:
Each holding within it the seed of the other—
Yin reaches climax, then retreats in Yang’s favor,
A cyclic movement of rotational symmetry:
Rounded life is the blend of Yin/Yang together.

The perfect balance may still call upon us:
Edges dissolve when opposites are balanced—
Time and dimensional space are transcended.
Everything joins yet remains as itself,
For what “is not” is as great as what “is”.

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Enchanted
By Tp


Enchanted one takes me away,
into a land of dreams neither night nor day,
Sorceress holds my mind in hers,
Wicken strength her arms endears,
to mold my thoughts into her bids,
I can never escape to open eyelids,
I slumber in her magic to her delight,
my need for her grows as she quietly smiles,
infatuated heart's soon cast aside in a while.
__________________

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Magical Spell
by Tp

Whimsical conjuring mastery free,
May the gods open the door with this key,
light and shadows cast upon the earth,
where new life begins with a birth,
open your mind and see with closed eyes,
and let the evil shrink and wither dies,
until the end of time forevermore,
darkness morbid crawls nevermore,
may this magical spell sparkle tantalize,
to search truth and light in hidden surprise.

[Mohan.C]

Austin, that was like the best thing, I have ever read... Thank you...

Pieces of today

And the day begins
With a prance, catching rabbits.
And some forgotten lines
From the past not so far.
Come through to expose,
Their beauty in letters,
Unexpressed and impressed,
Immersed in silence.

The day moves on with
The same tone of old,
The same new light and a few
Tinkling hints of change.

Then it takes a turn, to the
Twisted world, where everything
Looks as in a kaliedoscope,
Colorful, distinct and
Other- wordly, the day
Starts to think to make
It more beautiful as time
Unnoticed, slips past the hurdled
Faces of the past everyday!

The new waves begin their walk
As the winds start from a
Far off land to blow the
Coast away, and the fishing
Nets trim themselves, for
Their next days play. The
Stones hidden in the stomach
Reach the brain as they
Dissolve in the digestion, and
The new lights emanating in the heart
Gets crystal balls in the
Lungs to shine it through the eyes.

Leave it all, a call from the
Desperate insides, throw it all away.
Vomit on the dark, damp floor,
Engrossed in weeds. Growing in the
Seeds of plantations across the
Borderline of time.

Leave it all, it screams
Again, and you search for the
Voice here and there, fearing
A death cry from a nigh flying,
Bird colored in black and white.

The waves lap your thighs,
The air molests the sands
Time and again, and you
Join in the hunt, fearing no
Threat of old marine gold.

As the day now moves on to
A different place, with one call
In a radio, you come back to the
Deathly life, look out of the
Stony window, and hiss through its bars
Signifying its daily arrival.

You take a step forward,
Leaving the jewels scattered on the sand
Behind and move on to the
Non sense surrounding survival.

Then with a few sugar candies
You end the day, as the
Sun surrenders his debt day by day.

Engrossed in your food,
You forget, it has the same taste
Yesterday you said, was good!

[Mohan.C]

Sweet summer grass

On the sweet summer grass,
The morning dew
Decorates the blades of past.
After a night under the
Magnified moon and
The suppressed stars.