I hear you through the winter stillness.
Words clear yet swaddled in the falling snow.
Like you were whisp'ring them into my ear.
Despite the cold.
Inspired by untitled "Arctic Syllables" by Miri Dunn
https://plus.google.com/111983961140937248134/posts/RkwGBj4a9Yg
Control is an illusion
let's us think that we can plan,
lay out a path that leads from a to b.
In truth the path we follow
may have those exact endpoints,
but many more betwixt than it would seem.
More often when we set a course
the journey telescopes,
and a little rollercoastering ensues.
White knuckling to hang on
is the order of the day
and survival is the best we can construe.
So roll with all the punches
ride the breakers when you can.
Give a hand up when the opportune presents.
'Cause we're all in this together
and it's how we play that counts.
Learning kindness surely bests the perfect plan.
Regard me not with an evil eye,
'Pon the lateness of this confection.
For the Poe-themed purveyor of Valentine treats
Was sold out of every selection.
So this bittersweet heart, though it isn't tell tale
Tells a tale of Poe, I mean woe,
Of a much chagrined scribe
Late by time and by tide
And, hopefully, nevermore slow.
The list is naught but a vessel
That receives the G'zins
And provides the G'zouts.
'Tis the diff'rence between
in the vessel that's seen
as the change in the level no doubt.
Now it's been quite a while since my classes
in Newton's mathematical arts
But derivative one is the speed of that sum
And the second is acceleration!
(jeezum crow I hope there's extra credit for verse!) :-\
Inspired by Amanda Rachelle Warren's SC Snopocalypse (justified) angst.
And Julia Thompson's mathematical challenge
Heading - East of the full moon.
Night time passage, coastal run.
Clawing off a rugged lee
Red dawn's warning weather comes.
Blinking beacon on the shore
signals through the moonlit night.
Sings of harbor's warm embrace.
Enter port before the storm.
And her sister close at hand,
different color, different rate,
Screams the danger of the reef.
Grounded vessel broken keel!
One foretells a welcome rest,
hot meal, warm bed, the watch relieved.
The other portends tragedy,
a cold and watery grave.
How to tell the two apart?
The navigator's quandary.
It is what it isn't
Space. The final frontier.
The whole is defined by its emptiness.
Poetry and Spoken Word may in fact be different things ...
... As are Communion wafer and a hot fudge chocolate sundae ...
... wearing all of its toppings.
Self Inflicted
The Beauty passing on the beach
begets exquisite agony.
A pain so real it takes my breath away.
