macblaze.ca

Poetry in motion
Movement of words
Destructive invective
The power of syllables
Simple, sonorous
       Sounds
The effect of I – we
       they : it
Language; imagistic
Images of death, fire, destruction, desire
or brilliant white power, of love and
       of flowers
Who is responsible for
the tools of definition?
Are words less than bombs,
Do not tongues draw more blood
       than bayonets…
Existence is words, reality is prose
Poetry controls
       Death is a definition.

Woe (what a weird word!)

The Absurdist choice
    the one you can’t make yet
    is always open to you

Clowns –> need for/lack of demand?

iye!
   eye!
      ie. …

Sand is a unity
A concept of priority
Not a singularity
A harmony of sand
trod upon by man

In Rutherford Galleria

A brace of Bruce
broods in a brothel,
Pathetic ponderings of a
puerile persuasion.
demented doomsaying,
death and destruction
branded particles devolve…

Undated. Written on a whim when I was still trying to write.

Sitting on the front of my spaceship
Shining my flashlight ahead,
Can I dream of infinite eternity

Found in Journal labeled “recopied from scraps:”

dreams of dominance,
delight in death,
driven to damnation,
dominus deos.
         another day

Handwritten poetry pulled from my journal of the day.

Feelings flood over the fields of my souls
Engendering honesty; true
Love germinates, penetrates the soil/surface
The irrigated land brings forth, seedlings
Tender stalks — reaching out— into the sun
The light heat warmth caresses the infant shoots
Bursting resplendent into life the colorful
                 extravagance of new, nature

Reborn
         waiting to be harvested —
         Patience — yet gain
The field lies fallow, flooded with emotion
Hibernating, waiting for Persephone
         peacefully, happily, anticipating

Another excerpt from my handwritten journal

Joy of her, pleasure in her
Orbits, celestial movement
Revolutions in time and space
Her center is my axis
I define within that reality
         It is good
         yet I fear

Second of two handwritten poems found on a sheet. Classic examples of the traditional bad love poetry of a young man. 🙂

Please, what would you have me dream of,
If you were mistress of all my dreams?
One with nature, a peaceful life,
Of mountains lakes and cool blue streams?
Would you have me dream: soft clouds, white
Dancing floating infinite blue?
Always changing, dancing in the light
Endless, countless variations.
Or would you hold me with your love?
Curled safe in the warmth of passions.
The rays of you heart about me,
Shielding my soul form cruel cold pains.
Drift afloat on a green-blue sea
Or gently rest a calm blue space,
An ethereal room imagined,
In these dreams I could find a place
If you could fill my sleep soothed mind,
With images: you by my side,
And our arms and minds intertwined.
Please what would you have me dream of,
If you were mistress of all my dreams?
All that I would wish to dream of
Is to open my eyes to you.

Typewritten (on my old apple IIC). This one almost has something going for it.

I awaken —> her face, eyes of
                 innocence
I sleep —> her warmth
         The union of body and spirit
                 in her,
The experience of being wrapped
         in living warmth
                 of love
                 of passion
This morning I awoke to a new beauty
This morn I awoke to true beauty
         A new feeling, explosive
                         zesty
                         giddy
                         gleeful
                         indomitable joy
         In her, —
I awoke.

The first of 2 poems found on a handwritten sheet.