From Newsgroup: alt.arts.poetry.comments

Here's another Sunday Sampler from days of yore, edited by NancyGene:

nancygene
3:49 AM

Shapes
a poem by NancyGene

Skin or fur or scales
is Nature flawless
in our materCOs details?

We see the outward,
not alike but like.
Love shifts us inward

To what we both are.
Others would break us;
we salve each other.

Inhuman evil
ever is out there
and seeks us to kill.

We sink to your world,
realm beneath moonlight,
tides guide us uncurled.

The seas rise and fall,
our love will but grow.
We constitute all.

For one year we drift,
see none but the pods,
yet a dermal shift.

Now your seabed steppes
Ill dwelling for me--
schooled in rooms not depths.

Return us to shore,
where thererCOs grass, not kelp.
WerCOll fade into lore,

Or werCOll die apart.
__________

Dental River
9:00 AM

Crowd Nature

From Friday on,
leaves on the trees clump
in drinking groups
to comprise our audience.
They don't fancy the fleshless fruit,
and shoot from a common mind
like oiled carbines.
Pageantry is just another
organic process eliminating all sense.

Leaves bleed themselves senseless
each year and expect
transfiguration in the rain.
Down the street,
our dance company crushes
the heart of a greener Palestine.
Bottled and drunk to no satisfaction,
we perform near His yet
stranger terrain.
__________

michaelmalef...@gmail.com
10:14 AM

MY WILD WOODLAND HOME

O! could I again roam in my wild woodland home
In my wild woodland home by the bay,
Where the chinquapin bloom with the coming of June
And the blazing stars gleam in the May,
Where the days flutter by in the blink of an eye
In the wink of a firefly dream,
Where the snow goose's cry greets the lonely oak's sigh
While the chinook are splashing upstream,
Where the nectars of Spring scent the bluebells that ring
In the blush of a butterfly wing.

With the sun beating down on the back of my neck
On the back of my neck, the long day
And the strong Summer grip of a double bit axe
With its broad face of silver and gray,
While the wind in my hair sings a half-whispered prayer
As I throw back my leathern canteen,
And I breathe God's green air, 'til I no longer care
And let nobody dare come between,
Between me and the sky and the Maker on high --
The wild woodlands I'll love 'til I die.

Where the hours seem to stop, like a mountaintop cloud
And the shy, bobtail deer pass unseen,
Hidden far from the crowd in the wild woodland glen
Draped in solitude, safe and serene,
Let me toil in the sun 'til my day's work is done
With my barge and a twenty-horse team,
Like the prodigal son, how my spirit would run
To my homeland, my soul to redeem --
To the sheltering face of the forest I love
To the arms of my father, above.

Let me roar through the day, like a rainstorm in May
Let me play like a bass in the stream,
Let me stride 'cross the land like the billowing sand
In a sultry Arabian dream,
Watch the crimson and gold of the sunset unfold
Like a banner proclaiming life's worth,
Heaven's splendor unscrolled, that all men might behold
And delight in the wonder of earth;
'Til a strange music weaves through the rustle of leaves
Through the lullaby rustle of leaves --
Then I'd glide like a sprite, on the soft silver light
Of the moonbeams that sift thru the trees,
And my dreams would give thanks to the white river banks
And the moss beds where I take my ease,
To awaken, reborn, on the brink of the morn
Greet the dawn, break my camp and depart;
While alone and forlorn, sounds the faraway horn
Of a freight train that beckons my heart
To race with the new day, on its vagabond way
Seeking pleasure wherever it may.

But like circus parades, gypsy promises fade
And the primroses wither and die,
And an old man called "Time" dabs my temples with white
And dims down the light in my eye,
And he bows down my head and he buckles my knee,
Breaks my posture and stiffens my gait;
Then my spirit would flee 'neath the chinquapin tree
Would lie down on the moss bed and wait --
Watch the brittl'd leaves fall by the old cabin wall
While I wait for the Maker to call.

How I long to return to my wild woodland home
To my wild woodland home by the bay,
To the redwoods and pines and the Tillamook trails
Where this old heart is longing to stray,
Where my memory thrills to the chickadee's trills
And the hum of the hummingbird's wing,
And the echo of ghosts from the faraway hills
And the whisper of windflow'rs in Spring,
Where the coyote's cry sends a hymn to the sky --
Where this old heart is willing to die.

When this soul, worn and gray, shall pass on like the May
Or the castaway petals of Spring,
Leave the clay on my boots and the dust in my hair
And the felt hat I wear like a king;
Let no farewells be said, let no sermon be read
Take me not to the churchyard, I pray,
Wrap no shroud 'round my head, no pine box for my bed
Let no funeral march pockmark the day --
Only carry my bones to my wild woodland grove,
Take me home to the woodland I love.

-- Michael Pendragon

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s2-4HjdKV_k
__________

Richard S. Oakley
10:35 AM

Cuts are Made by Smooth Hands

Your hands are glass...

LetrCOs pretend theyrCOre something else,
Something less fragile,
Something that would not hurt if broken,
Transparent.

Have small cracks, imperceptibly small, formed;
Is it your nature to shatter so spectacularly?

I am a bit of you, thrown in with new sand
Into the kiln, and I am fired and formed.

WhorCOs to say if IrCOm as fragile? Have I a shattered
Touch, like you?

If I reach for someone new, should I be somehow hopeful
To stay intact, or should I break away?

r.
___________

drive-by
11:43 AM

Granite Beds Built Atop Foam

They sprout from the footings of cement;
reinforced re-bar, brick towers slow growth
reaching up the sun; glass petals
lifted by odd dragon fly cranes,
reflecting the urban gardens of neon and Mylar
and below, people ants roam fenced pathways
to destinations of double-locked security,
traveling up man-made stems to varnished leaves
as rain washes the night;
flowers of glass and stone stand firm
as the wind howls.


Earthworm subways aerate beds of granite,
the streets are swept of muddy mulch
and gardeners hang up high from scaffolds
their delicate touch preen glass in a quest
for best in the show but surely
the Empire State tulip will once again
take the ribbon for magnificent growth
and longevity in this garden of ingenuity
and defiance of gravity.


Caution though, a thunderhead approaches, perhaps a funnel
ripping, splintering weak walls of man,
and, as if an aimed garden hose, those people ants
are swept to the sewers, rafting down to the oceans
leaving behind destruction, no man can fight and come morning
all has been washed and blown away, hospitals filled with broken bone,
graves dug and filled, a body count for the eleven o'clock update
as the sun once again breaks through by morning
and thoughts of stronger levies, more cement to fight
a consistent losing battle as nature's arm
is once again raised in victory.
__________


__________

ME
12:26 PM

I love nature in its splendor.
I watch the sun as it
Melts into the earth.
And each time, I'm amazed
At this magnificent show
Of the most beautiful colors.
One day I hope to ask
'How did you create those colors?'

I know it doesn't rhyme. Just feelings so, Nancy gene, I won't be upset that it won't be included.
__________

leodi...@gmail.com
12:59 PM

Funny, how a little rain can instill wonder and absolve pain

How a thunderstorm can make you feel so small
Or the vast night sky, like nothing at all

Strange, how a sunrise or sunset can surprise or upset
How a drought causes doubt and the fog makes forget

The fading light of the sun, proclaiming another victory won
The ominous glow of the moon, foreshadowing another battle soon

How a field or a stream can be a shield or a dream
How a cloud or a canyon can be a shroud or companion
__________

Robert Burrows
2:55 PM

Still Life

time's ants
(your eyes
like picnic
grapes)

your skin
(split like
September
cattails)

roses
burst from
your ribcage
(breathe deep)

***********

NOTE: I've taken the liberty of deleting a poem by our resident Dunce, as I'm sure he would no more wish to have his poetry affiliated with ours, as the rest of us would with his.


__________


View the attachments for this post at: http://www.jlaforums.com/viewtopic.php?p=697363125#697363125
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From Newsgroup: alt.arts.poetry.comments

HarryLime wrote:
Here's another Sunday Sampler from days of yore, edited by NancyGene:

nancygene
3:49 AM

Shapes
a poem by NancyGene

Skin or fur or scales
is Nature flawless
in our materCOs details?

We see the outward,
not alike but like.
Love shifts us inward

To what we both are.
Others would break us;
we salve each other.

Inhuman evil
ever is out there
and seeks us to kill.

We sink to your world,
realm beneath moonlight,
tides guide us uncurled.

The seas rise and fall,
our love will but grow.
We constitute all.

For one year we drift,
see none but the pods,
yet a dermal shift.

Now your seabed steppes
Ill dwelling for me--
schooled in rooms not depths.

Return us to shore,
where thererCOs grass, not kelp.
WerCOll fade into lore,

Or werCOll die apart.
__________

Dental River
9:00 AM

Crowd Nature

From Friday on,
leaves on the trees clump
in drinking groups
to comprise our audience.
They don't fancy the fleshless fruit,
and shoot from a common mind
like oiled carbines.
Pageantry is just another
organic process eliminating all sense.

Leaves bleed themselves senseless
each year and expect
transfiguration in the rain.
Down the street,
our dance company crushes
the heart of a greener Palestine.
Bottled and drunk to no satisfaction,
we perform near His yet
stranger terrain.
__________

michaelmalef...@gmail.com
10:14 AM

MY WILD WOODLAND HOME

O! could I again roam in my wild woodland home
In my wild woodland home by the bay,
Where the chinquapin bloom with the coming of June
And the blazing stars gleam in the May,
Where the days flutter by in the blink of an eye
In the wink of a firefly dream,
Where the snow goose's cry greets the lonely oak's sigh
While the chinook are splashing upstream,
Where the nectars of Spring scent the bluebells that ring
In the blush of a butterfly wing.

With the sun beating down on the back of my neck
On the back of my neck, the long day
And the strong Summer grip of a double bit axe
With its broad face of silver and gray,
While the wind in my hair sings a half-whispered prayer
As I throw back my leathern canteen,
And I breathe God's green air, 'til I no longer care
And let nobody dare come between,
Between me and the sky and the Maker on high --
The wild woodlands I'll love 'til I die.

Where the hours seem to stop, like a mountaintop cloud
And the shy, bobtail deer pass unseen,
Hidden far from the crowd in the wild woodland glen
Draped in solitude, safe and serene,
Let me toil in the sun 'til my day's work is done
With my barge and a twenty-horse team,
Like the prodigal son, how my spirit would run
To my homeland, my soul to redeem --
To the sheltering face of the forest I love
To the arms of my father, above.

Let me roar through the day, like a rainstorm in May
Let me play like a bass in the stream,
Let me stride 'cross the land like the billowing sand
In a sultry Arabian dream,
Watch the crimson and gold of the sunset unfold
Like a banner proclaiming life's worth,
Heaven's splendor unscrolled, that all men might behold
And delight in the wonder of earth;
'Til a strange music weaves through the rustle of leaves
Through the lullaby rustle of leaves --
Then I'd glide like a sprite, on the soft silver light
Of the moonbeams that sift thru the trees,
And my dreams would give thanks to the white river banks
And the moss beds where I take my ease,
To awaken, reborn, on the brink of the morn
Greet the dawn, break my camp and depart;
While alone and forlorn, sounds the faraway horn
Of a freight train that beckons my heart
To race with the new day, on its vagabond way
Seeking pleasure wherever it may.

But like circus parades, gypsy promises fade
And the primroses wither and die,
And an old man called "Time" dabs my temples with white
And dims down the light in my eye,
And he bows down my head and he buckles my knee,
Breaks my posture and stiffens my gait;
Then my spirit would flee 'neath the chinquapin tree
Would lie down on the moss bed and wait --
Watch the brittl'd leaves fall by the old cabin wall
While I wait for the Maker to call.

How I long to return to my wild woodland home
To my wild woodland home by the bay,
To the redwoods and pines and the Tillamook trails
Where this old heart is longing to stray,
Where my memory thrills to the chickadee's trills
And the hum of the hummingbird's wing,
And the echo of ghosts from the faraway hills
And the whisper of windflow'rs in Spring,
Where the coyote's cry sends a hymn to the sky --
Where this old heart is willing to die.

When this soul, worn and gray, shall pass on like the May
Or the castaway petals of Spring,
Leave the clay on my boots and the dust in my hair
And the felt hat I wear like a king;
Let no farewells be said, let no sermon be read
Take me not to the churchyard, I pray,
Wrap no shroud 'round my head, no pine box for my bed
Let no funeral march pockmark the day --
Only carry my bones to my wild woodland grove,
Take me home to the woodland I love.

-- Michael Pendragon

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s2-4HjdKV_k
__________

Richard S. Oakley
10:35 AM

Cuts are Made by Smooth Hands

Your hands are glass...

LetrCOs pretend theyrCOre something else,
Something less fragile,
Something that would not hurt if broken,
Transparent.

Have small cracks, imperceptibly small, formed;
Is it your nature to shatter so spectacularly?

I am a bit of you, thrown in with new sand
Into the kiln, and I am fired and formed.

WhorCOs to say if IrCOm as fragile? Have I a shattered
Touch, like you?

If I reach for someone new, should I be somehow hopeful
To stay intact, or should I break away?

r.
___________

drive-by
11:43 AM

Granite Beds Built Atop Foam

They sprout from the footings of cement;
reinforced re-bar, brick towers slow growth
reaching up the sun; glass petals
lifted by odd dragon fly cranes,
reflecting the urban gardens of neon and Mylar
and below, people ants roam fenced pathways
to destinations of double-locked security,
traveling up man-made stems to varnished leaves
as rain washes the night;
flowers of glass and stone stand firm
as the wind howls.

Earthworm subways aerate beds of granite,
the streets are swept of muddy mulch
and gardeners hang up high from scaffolds
their delicate touch preen glass in a quest
for best in the show but surely
the Empire State tulip will once again
take the ribbon for magnificent growth
and longevity in this garden of ingenuity
and defiance of gravity.

Caution though, a thunderhead approaches, perhaps a funnel
ripping, splintering weak walls of man,
and, as if an aimed garden hose, those people ants
are swept to the sewers, rafting down to the oceans
leaving behind destruction, no man can fight and come morning
all has been washed and blown away, hospitals filled with broken bone,
graves dug and filled, a body count for the eleven o'clock update
as the sun once again breaks through by morning
and thoughts of stronger levies, more cement to fight
a consistent losing battle as nature's arm
is once again raised in victory.
__________

__________

ME
12:26 PM

I love nature in its splendor.
I watch the sun as it
Melts into the earth.
And each time, I'm amazed
At this magnificent show
Of the most beautiful colors.
One day I hope to ask
'How did you create those colors?'

I know it doesn't rhyme. Just feelings so, Nancy gene, I won't be upset that it won't be included.
__________

leodi...@gmail.com
12:59 PM

Funny, how a little rain can instill wonder and absolve pain

How a thunderstorm can make you feel so small
Or the vast night sky, like nothing at all

Strange, how a sunrise or sunset can surprise or upset
How a drought causes doubt and the fog makes forget

The fading light of the sun, proclaiming another victory won
The ominous glow of the moon, foreshadowing another battle soon

How a field or a stream can be a shield or a dream
How a cloud or a canyon can be a shroud or companion
__________

Robert Burrows
2:55 PM

Still Life

time's ants
(your eyes
like picnic
grapes)

your skin
(split like
September
cattails)

roses
burst from
your ribcage
(breathe deep)

***********

NOTE: I've taken the liberty of deleting a poem by our resident Dunce, as I'm sure he would no more wish to have his poetry affiliated with ours, as the rest of us would with his.

__________

It's good that you cut the crap poems out of the Sunday Sampler. As to the year, you are older than George Dunce thinks. We wish we could actually say that George Dunce thinks.


This is a response to the post seen at: http://www.jlaforums.com/viewtopic.php?p=697363125#697363125
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From Newsgroup: alt.arts.poetry.comments

HarryLime wrote:
Here's another Sunday Sampler from days of yore, edited by NancyGene:

"The Official Sunday Sampler from 2/4/1018 -- Edited by NancyGene". Yes, that was certainly from the "days of yore."
Unfortunately, it couldn't have been from aapc, which wouldn't exist for another 959 years.

Dental River
9:00 AM

Crowd Nature

From Friday on,
leaves on the trees clump
in drinking groups
to comprise our audience.
They don't fancy the fleshless fruit,
and shoot from a common mind
like oiled carbines.
Pageantry is just another
organic process eliminating all sense.

Leaves bleed themselves senseless
each year and expect
transfiguration in the rain.
Down the street,
our dance company crushes
the heart of a greener Palestine.
Bottled and drunk to no satisfaction,
we perform near His yet
stranger terrain.

__________

Richard S. Oakley
10:35 AM

Cuts are Made by Smooth Hands

Your hands are glass...

LetrCOs pretend theyrCOre something else,
Something less fragile,
Something that would not hurt if broken,
Transparent.

Have small cracks, imperceptibly small, formed;
Is it your nature to shatter so spectacularly?

I am a bit of you, thrown in with new sand
Into the kiln, and I am fired and formed.

WhorCOs to say if IrCOm as fragile? Have I a shattered
Touch, like you?

If I reach for someone new, should I be somehow hopeful
To stay intact, or should I break away?

r.
___________

Chafetz Chayim benAvraham
11:15:51rC>AM

+E+a+O +O+c+o+L +L-+c+o+?...I can remember

I.

in the ashes of Auschwitz
February 2018 / Shevat 5778
there exists no
kol hachavvyot,
the Infinite One bring/ing
all of reality into be-ing.

there is no 'ehyeh 'asher 'ehyeh
who formed Light,
who created Darkness.

II.

the candles of the Vanished
World are no longer
sown in the seasons of breath.

in 1920 Vilna, Yehu'dit bones
were excavated for horses
to be buried,
all by the tongue of a priest
covered in ambergris.

in 2018 Cyberia alleys,
the malefactor mime cries
as Long Island parhelia
flicker in the seasonal
ice around his little girls.

III.

the cypress of the
Kingdom of Night are
amidst natz'ri house gardens,
marking in the mouths of
opus dei children the straws
of Poland.

long after midnight we seek
solace in One-Eyed Paritus's
Meditations obliques,
where Sol Nazerman's
zoharic midrashim of
Shabtai Zisel are
narrated by Claude Lanzmann.

the quantum nonlocality
of the corpse of
ha'Kodesh Barukh hu
is the Hollerith tracking
number.

IV.

Nach uraltem, aengstlich beheutetem
Klostergeheimnis lernen selbst Greise
muehelos Kavier spielen.
-- Max Ernst

this is to the memories z"l of
Rod Steiger 14 April 1925-9 July 2002
Roman Vischniac 19 August 1897-22 January 1990 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-- 3 February 2018 / 18 Shevat 5778
STEPHAN PICKERING / +u+n+N +u"+Y '+f +E'+?"+Y
Torah +E+L+O+L" Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa Researcher
+L+u+O+o+- -+R+f +?' +o+L+-'+-'...+L+o+o+L+Y +L+E +o+o"
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT

___________

George J. Dance
11:51:56rC>AM

A Day on the Pier

after Richard Oakley

It is a peaceful day on the pier, with a light breeze blowing, the hot sun beating down. Boats bob in the water, men scurry about working, talking, pissing on us. We lie in water too warm, our skin blistering in the heat, trapped in the net. We lie waiting to have our bodies grabbed, our skin slit open, and our heads and tails hacked off and thrown back to the cooling waves.

___________

George J. Dance
12:06:01rC>PM
On Sunday, February 4, 2018 at 11:56:01 AM UTC-5, ME wrote:

I bowed out of the moderator position earlier this week. Too much drama.
But I'm still reading some of the poems and I must say there's been some enjoyable reads lately. I'm not a poet like some of you here. But I know what I like. And I do love nature in all it's glory and fury!

OK: now forget about the "all", and give four specific examples of what you love about nature - natural things or events you've experienced. And not why you liked them; just what they looked (sounded, smelled, felt, etc.) like.

If you can do that, it will be your poem.

__________

ME
12:26 PM

I love nature in its splendor.
I watch the sun as it
Melts into the earth.
And each time, I'm amazed
At this magnificent show
Of the most beautiful colors.
One day I hope to ask
'How did you create those colors?'

I know it doesn't rhyme. Just feelings so, Nancy gene, I won't be upset that it won't be included.
__________

leodi...@gmail.com
12:59 PM

Funny, how a little rain can instill wonder and absolve pain

How a thunderstorm can make you feel so small
Or the vast night sky, like nothing at all

Strange, how a sunrise or sunset can surprise or upset
How a drought causes doubt and the fog makes forget

The fading light of the sun, proclaiming another victory won
The ominous glow of the moon, foreshadowing another battle soon

How a field or a stream can be a shield or a dream
How a cloud or a canyon can be a shroud or companion
__________

Rachel
Feb 5, 2018, 5:02:00rC>AM
to
Neighborhood Bully: A Belated Reply?

I donrCOt have
A poem to write today
About nature

Where do poems come from
In the first place?
Are they a *gift* of nature?

The Greeks attributed poetry
To the realm of the gods
And made up a mythos of
The nine muses.

One of them, Calliope
Was the muse they named
For epic poetry.

Then there was alsorC?Erato, and Euterpe,
For both erotic and lyric poetry
Respectively

Is poetry a natural human phenomenon?
Sometimes it seems, itrCOs all just a code for drugs.
Which of course, begs the question,
As proposed angrily in a challenge by Bob Dylan,
What is even a drug in the first place?
When I was in High School,
During a parents, students, and teachers gathering at school one night
Where we were divided into discussion groups, in the classrooms,
Seated at the desks forming one big circle,
I, too, ignorant as to Bob DylanrCOs comment at this point
Frustrated and still struggling to come to terms with
All my emerging difficulties and inability to accept
Life on liferCOs terms as it had been handed to me,
From a multiplicity of disagreeing, inconsistent,
And differing seemingly respectable and valid sources
Protested that I, myself, had issues as to
What even can and should be called a drug.
I insisted, in all sincerity, to the parents, and teachers,
As many of liferCOs rules, regulations, teachings, and instructions
Had failed to resonate within me
That even rCLlasagnarCY could be considered a powerful drug
For some people.

I have now even begun to wonder
If human intelligence is a natural phenomenon;
In other words, an evolution based
Solely on our own self-determined
Efforts and growth and ability to learn,
Something outside of the material world,
Which imbued us with, as some people call it
Our divine nature, above and beyond all the rest,
And made us masters over the other creatures of this earth,
which we claim has been given, and belongs, to us,
and is in our sole charge and care.

There was a program which I noticed
Was going to to be on cable TV,
granted, not exactly your most reliable source
For learning the most solid and soundly
Scientifically proven and approved theories
Research results, and conclusions,
But proposing that the great apes
Began developing their intelligence
From eating and ingesting stimulating and somnolent
Substances, probably found in plants
And or other flora and fauna
Native to their habitats;
Maybe within certain insects and bugs, or roots, or whatnot.
Also possibly in substances which we might consider to be
Akin to poisons, perhaps things which had become rotten or fermented,
which would affect consciousness,
like I learned that the ancient Egyptian women used to
Ingest some kind of rCLpoisonrCY in order to dilate their pupils,
as an avenue to achieve beauty, as they saw it.
I didnrCOt catch this program, about drug intelligence,
But it was called rCLHigh Apes,rCY I believe, or something like that.

So my question for the day is,
Where does poetry come from,
And is it natural?

In fact, is it possible
that that which we call thinking itself,
Came from material substances we would call drugs,
Which produced effects we found desirable
Such as inducing intoxication, vision, action and thought
Such that we proceeded to pursue these substances, to gather, collect,
Grow and prepare, into increasingly potent, even to the point of becoming toxic, forms,
To become the thinking beings that we are today?
Is this what it means that the human being is not only
Part animal, but also, partly divine, connected to the infinite
Through his rCLenergy-intelligencerCY as the ancient Jewish mystics call it, Back to the Creator of the Universe
Because of his access and continued intake
On and off down through the generations,
Altering our DNA,
of intelligent and thought-inducing substances?

It even makes me think, after all those lessons and warnings in school,
That in fact the very story of Genesis, is a drug story, and the notorious apple,
The forbidden fruit, is indeed a coveted highly powerful narcotic substance, which awakens the divinity within us, and turns us into our own gods,
Endowing us with the audacity to attempt to make
Ourselves the masters of our own destinies.
Yet, in all these stories, myths and legends,
And even ancient long-time warnings from our elders
It seems we still acknowledge
Our own animal nature, and as a species, remain wracked
With resentment, guilt and shame, recognizing that we are not our own
Source of ourselves, but are in fact like slaves, dependent
On these dieties, or one sole diety,
Whom we imagine have or has planted these mystical
Magical substances around us of which to dare to partake,
Opening our eyes, and turning us into thinking and all-knowing beings.

All the myths and tales are filled brimming with fire and fury,
That we have stolen these substances from the gods, or
Like Adam and Eve in the garden, disobeyed His order,
Eating the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil
And were forever banished, to work and sweat and labor and toil
And endure pain and suffering, as the result of our original sin.

As demoralizing as this is, after all the rules and regulations
And morals and ethics and codes and values
With which we were raised, it seems that the story of the Exodus itself
Which we have been entreated to remember,
Retell, and celebrate every year, for over 3000 years
Of how we were slaves, and then led to freedom,
Ending each year repeatedly with the collective consensual
amen, that we still werenrCOt there yet, rCLnext year in Jerusalem,rCY
Was nothing more than a drug dissertation
About our joy to be lingering in the desert for 40 years
Delaying our reacquisition of the promised land
Until after the demise of all the former slaves, to enter
Eretz Yisrael as a free and formidable people;
That the manna from Heaven which we were indeed being given
To sustain us while hanging out like sand n*ggers
In the desert, was in fact nothing more than big white chunks
Of potent fallen crystals of genius,
Probably an early ancient pre-cursor to meth,
To the peoples of yesteryear
Which were collected each morning
And used to feed our bodies and soul, bend our minds, and keep ourselves
High, occupied and entertained, content with our own thoughts,
While we hung out there, chillinrCO like bob dylan,
In the middle of nowhere, meandering about as careless nomads,
With no goals, living in tents, breeding and multiplying,
Constantly coming up with new ideas, and celebrating our Torah,
But with no direction home. Like it didnrCOt even matter.
rC?And here we still are, three millennia later, living in exile,
continuing to celebrate and rejoice in our homelessness with gratitude, rC?As we still have managed to have each other, and have remained a people.
rC?We still drift through the thin air of unproven possibilities, not knowing If who we are is truth or illusion. Striving after the wind.

Mommy, are we there yet?

I certainly feel that I can relate to the initial complaints of these freed slaves, same as
Many of our own African-American slaves felt after they were emancipated.
We have learned, that freedom was foreign to them, and many
DidnrCOt have the agency to succeed as autonomous men,
And struggled and were filled with regret and remorse,
Ached and yearned to return
Back to what they knew,
For the security and comfort of their places
At their mastersrCO feet, on their plantations, knowing who they were,
And what their work was that they were portioned to do, which
Is all they knew, as to where they felt they belonged.

I occasionally felt the same way myself, lost in my home alone amongst
A neighborhood of full of strangers only, out here in the real world,
Longing to go back to the private hidden solitude of my little room
in the Board and Care, a government institutional solution
For all the dysfunctional anonymous people who had been abandoned,
Dropped out, or outcast from society, and left behind.

Same as Brooks Hadley, when he finally got out of Shawshank Prison
And didnrCOt know how to live in the real world anymore, either
Which had changed so much that it had simply passed him by,
And he desperately wanted to return to the safety, care, and comfort
Of his cell, where he had grown accustomed to
His institutionalization, and found identity, meaning, and purpose there, Tending to the library, helping other prisoners,
and taking care of his little blackbird. Even dignity.

Yes, dignity.

Is there any dignity, in poetry, and intelligence,
Or even in the human being,
Who may simply be a byproduct and the offshoot
And culmination, of all the varying
Narcotics and narcotic-like intoxicating mind-altering
Hallucinatory and thought-inducing substances
Found here in the universe,
Supplied to some by some Secret Santa or Secret Snowflake,
Or acquired through some Yankee Swap,
In the material world, enhanced and now even designed by man in labs,
Here in this crafty garden of eden?
In this garden of paradise, in the desert sand?

My analyst spent some time once
Explaining to me the evolution of intelligence
As he had learned it, how the human skull evolved
As it got larger to make more room, to protect the brains inside,
Of the evolving apes, from the immense heat of the African plains,
As they came down out of the trees,
And began their bi-pedal meanderings out and about on the ground.
And the hair, too. Growing tight and curly, extending out in
Fabulous 3-D fashion, to allow time for the scorching sunrCOs rays to be absorbed
And significantly cooled, before their final dissolution
And drop in temperature, before reaching the skull
And penetrating though these fissured bones, inert enough not to damage
Or fry the delicate mushy watery brain within.

With larger craniums, this allowed room for the expansion
And development of the outer cerebral cortex,
The area of the brain where all our thinking takes place.

When I mentioned to him about the program,rCYHigh Apes,rCY
He seemed to dismiss the idea, saying that this was not in fact
Reliable hard-core science, and it certainly wasnrCOt rCLdrugsrCY
That invented man, just as Bob Dylan condescendingly condemned
The people whom he claimed had no idea what they were talking about,
When they accused rCyVisions of JohannarCO of being rCLa drug song."

But IrCOm sort of thinking that itrCOs that age-old argument
Nature vs. nurture, heredity vs. environment,
And that it is most undoubtedly both, which played and play an active role, That intelligence and creativity is here, there, and anywhere,
And the answer is, quite literally, still just blowinrCO in the wind.

But where it comes from, nobody knows.

Even differing environs can and will change
Your consciousness. Merely the quality and content of your air
Will determine what you know, what you think, and what you feel,
Such as when you are high up in the mountains
And are deprived of oxygen,
Or when wandering into a dark cave,
And become sensory deprived,
Where the ventilation is stifling,
Producing mind-altering effects and
Causing drug-like hallucinations,
inducing visions and inspiring creativity.
And then of course, anybody and everybody can
And does, quite simple, just get stoned. <cough>rC?Or sniff/inhale gas, or glue, or g-d knows what elserCa..

Well, I donrCOt know where poetry comes from,
And I donrCOt know if itrCOs natural or not,
And I couldnrCOt think of a poem to write for todayrCOs topic,
So I guess IrCOll just call it a day, take my medicine,
And go to bed, with no one but myself.

And my sleep ainrCOt cheep. And like the Bible says it should be, itrCOs sweet.

But IrCOm a Kabbalist.

rCLHow sweetly, I sleep here, alone.rCY

Sign me,
The Dove

***********

NOTE: I've taken the liberty of deleting a poem by our resident Dunce, as I'm sure he would no more wish to have his poetry affiliated with ours, as the rest of us would with his.

__________

Not a problem. I restored all the censored poems, including mine, and, to make sure it's not "affiliated" with Team Monkey, I've cut all poems by Team Monkey and the Bandar-Log (except for the one by the MEatpuppet that I workshopped). Now we're not "affiliated". Super easy; barely an inconvenience (as Ryan George would say).


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