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...NEBRASKA, USA
...for once, I'm not sure!
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Once is a 64 year old guy from Once By The Pacific. . ., Nebraska, USA
For once, I'm not sure...
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Once
is a 64-year-old guy, once by the Pacific...
...NEBRASKA, USA
...for once, I'm not sure!
playlist.com/Once [playlist.com/Once]
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Oil Paintings
Rated • 1 review • painting, poetry • philribera.com
"Giants"
Giants, quiet lichen nights illumine flights of condors
Heard perhaps but never seen; avian genocide
Serves no master but the seasons; epoch's fratricide,
Hidden hoards beneath beaten earthen floors
Outlast disasters just as dusts the doors
And orchestral pits the audience; splays and side
Exits greet nooone nor bid adieu to suicides
In multiples whose protocols demand far more
Than this world holds. The elephants are still,
Circled, aware; behold the matriarch,
Jagannātha, the bull's in musth
Neither memory crowned, neither wisdoms trusts
Remain in epiphanies further than the will
Suspended, and nothing moves within the ark.
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Geologic Desires: Aesthetic Mineral Specimens
Rated • 1 review • jewelry, poetry, mining, mining metallurgy • geologicdesires.com
"Bitterness"
Bitterness serves the servile senses; malevolence is brine
Applied to loams and newly furbished fertile soils.
There are no antidotes, no alternatives, no holy oils
To harden evidence that when the meat is gone the rind
Is left to nurture tried and tired conscience, desire enough to find
The seed gone stray, some few limbs or fibres, miracles for future coils
Of hopelessness. Pick up the rake and hoe, then; gather roots to boil
And leave the rocks; welcome honest broth that's rendered, never mind
The taste. So much for what we cannot say before the hour turns
To gravitas in afterthought as dusts within the glass that soon enough
Restore a proper balance in the night, a brighter promised hint of dawn,
Light enough to see that what is left exceeds what's been withdrawn,
Redress from all that while the fire blazed seemed so lost and burned.
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Fat-Bottomed Studio
Rated • 1 review • poetry, sculpting • fat-bottomedstudio.com
"But When She Got There"
But when she got there I was off--I'd left
A word or two, no whereabouts. She read a while,
A scribbled promissory note revealed, not written, styled
In lush, rushed laconic storms, as if I'd dreamt,
And jotted down some several images that came
To mind, their colours, shapes, and meaning lost--
But yes, of course, to me of some importance--costs
Were never mentioned, legers all the same.
Markers, yes: a pocket watch, events, two hands gained, again
Erased, replaced by later hurried less lucid functions--last
Of greater import than the first, as if all past
Positions, titles in the queue were prearranged,
By station more than content claimed,
And as she's been first, she has no name.
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http://www.kazmaslanka.com/mpage/mwp/paintings/Autumn_Wal...
Rated • 1 review • painting, poetry • kazmaslanka.com
"Suppose I Rest a While"
Suppose I rest a while; suppose I take
A walk and let it all evaporate, escape,
Or better, decompose; let it scrape
The bottom. Perhaps, I'll pass, and make
A newer plan, a second, or a third,
And leave the present to decaying fate
In favour of what is always greatly late
In coming but proffers less absurd
Distractions, less preparations, less
To think on, more in line with joy within
Than happiness without, and stipends
Gleaned beyond the need of rest
To regions wherein others in the den
Inherit peace and joys that never end.
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ASWINs favorites - StumbleUpon
Rated • 170 reviews • stumblers, poetry • stumbleupon.com
"A Sonnet for Aswin"
He knows he knows so little, fewer see,
Or should the inverse serve the model, magnify
The sight, and keener, still, pursuit, the urge to fly
Intentions, goals, and abstracts launched in fleets.
The questions rise, but Aswin cannot rest;
There's always more. Questions spawning questions will
Suffice for future's nests and contexts for all still
Small voices, just as bells from Hell will drown a lion's roaring texts.
There are, of course, no ready answers, waxed nor chloroformed,
For sale in the offing here; he merely asks, his interrogatives seine
For truths amid an ocean, or more correctly, knead the strains
Of cold cognition, yeasts in turn
to breads of thought more easily absorbed.
Within these shifts and ships, his visions firmly moored;
This Aswin boards himself, and quietly absorbs.
It took little time to see an inquiring mind in this site. Other reviews have expressed what I might have left out within this less than lucid attempt to capture something of Aswin's site. The bottom line, here, is that there is here an inquiring mind whose inquiry in and of itself can be of aid to others. I cannot imagine being unimpressed with this site.
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http://news.softpedia.com/images/news2/Fartherst-Galaxy-C...
Rated • 1 review • astronomy, poetry • softpedia.com
"Disconcerting"
Disconcerting; it suffocates in the race,
The eyes, the gestures, my smile in any minor step
I take; sudden entrances, exists, all essentials swept
Across the stage, the way I look to you for guidance as I pace
The floor to find my shoes. The embers burn. Your flame is lit
So brilliantly within my soul, my friend, and you abhor
The fact that what I am is what you are while denial rages, opened sores
Exhales fear in sweat and tears of blood whenever I begin to seat
Your soul, a sacred trust held deep within me. Rest easy, friend.
I will be true to you. In later moments when I'm gone you'll think
On it, and know we are but sums of spirits in the grip of centrifuge.
We drink
From common ladles to assay and bend
the moment's light to blend our souls, form
Drops that make an ocean and reticence
dissolved in error and mistake.
We share the circumstantial curse that leads
to universal light in every breath we take.
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http://midnightdesign.ws/portfolio/images/portfolio/futil...
Rated • 1 review • graphic design, poetry, design • midnightdesign.ws
"I the Thief"
I the thief of yet another moment's breath in evening's long
Dusk shallow shadows robed in azures, scarlets, saffron dawns
And early morning's hues awaken all that was the song
Of my beginnings, this noöne in the present throng
Of choral works from newly grafted branches, kinetic, sweet
And fragrant, phrased in phases, waves of artificial dewdrops, cells
Or blessings born of patchwork by the millions, contemplating, held
At bay in multiples of billions 'gainst the want of heat
Required to father further branches to reinforce and swell
The battered trunk and bypassed arteries the every night,
Finding copular verbs at last while having lost my leaves.
Autumnal beings make no progress; nothing green,
Nothing winged nor crawling thing to cast to break the spell
Of summer's children notwithstanding need as all potentials are
Perhaps beguiled by moonlight, but gone within the hour.
The tests are in the sonnets here, not there,
And in their proffering, some final testament, receipts
Drawn daily on the little poet here who as he sleeps
Forgets his manners, loses little thought or care
To what he might have meant, knowing only that it came
Across his mind to see it so and so he wrote. He quickly feigns
Reactions in the Petri dish, collusion with the rain
And damp and all that claims cognition as it gains
Momentum whence it came by dint of natural will.
Mindless arbitration governs poetry and showers as both spill
Syllables and nature's addled waste with little prudence on hill
And ear, in every heart and valley unrequited, unrestrained:
The hand, the pen, the word unto itself reveals
An effortless encounter, in ancient intercourse,
and "there's the key...."
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Chloe Cumming Is Erumpent: Composing Overlapping Chins
Rated • 1 review • painting, poetry • blogspot.com
"Prophecies"
Prophecies cross fingers in the sky
And seem to point toward transitions
Sealed in stars on all horizons, suppositions
That what is must change while what meets the eye
Is never what it seems while all that rests
Within the heart is changeless; proffered predictions
Rest so very little. Present predilections
Rise to the surface as the dross in tests
And in the crucible of what is enjoyed or may be endured
In all sardonic human folly. Surely, victory
Can wait another day if runes are contradictory
And humours less in the reading. Imbalances are cured
Through judicious appointments in holy ointments
Of station realized in a concert with only minor disappointment.
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http://www.giantsand.com/deardiary/archives/howe_red_sand...
Reviewed • 2 reviews • photography, poetry • giantsand.com
"The Grapes"
The grapes hang withered, the harvest
Long since gathered; what remains
Retains the potent memory stains
From another season, a weathered test
Of futures peopled with need, a steeple
Rising on the promises of the past
And doting on the future that will not last
Beyond the nightly glass of wine. No feeble
Dream but sanctioned are the roots extended
In the act of pruning, lovers lose no time
With little else to do. Horizons in the line
Of distant vision topple hopes suspended
In disuse and inadvertent atrophy; waste
In spirits is the advertent death of taste.
The pupil clouds and bridges to the offended
Ear are blocked in mists of sweetest youth
That know no limit, the feet slip on smooth
And slippery promises of liquids, fickle pools,
Reflections on surfaces will present molecules
In the glass, a nuance of insight, means to see
Beyond and through but not within the self. Counterfeits
And likenesses ignore both essentials and the stuff of age
And accept no protocol beyond the glory of a surface.
These young ones, tender shoots and virile saplings
Congregate in spacious places fashioned in the hapless
Moment, centred near but not within intention, lacking purpose,
Being no better than what they are and what they are is gone,
Vapours of ephemeral whim, a jig, a dance, a simple song.
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Ken Jennings - Blog
Rated • 1 review • painting, poetry • ken-jennings.com
"Twice Two"
Twice two or three more icons at the table: twelve,
The guests; the audience, prepared, is screened
Some few short hours before the festivities begin, but barely seen,
In all that wine; some one of them has left, and leaves no need to dwell
On lethal detail; who keeps score? Yes, of course, the blessing,
Words uttered, incredulity irrelevant, and what is more
Who bears the weight of adoration, Whom the scorn,
And none of them the wiser while the universe is guessing
Who'll be next, and who will never make it to the door.
Come Sunday morning and the consolation prize will out.
The forthright, forced frenetic pace runs riot in the dining room; scouts
For him who will abandon, Him whom he denies as they seem to sleep the eve before the war.
How sweet the hour and guests, how drawn the face of him who hesitates.
Then, we meet again within the Cave tonight, and God help him who leaves
and fails to clean his plate.
