spilling over to rise again

spilling over, falling back:
land-lost, sea-sick,

though I reach as tender tendrils to the shores,
to lay amongst the rock-gathered mussels,
anemones swelled with bile;

I roll spilling mercy into sands
quivering my sea to falling day,
shivering my waters at the edges;

my foam encrusted lips whimper sounds
of pearls ratt'ling last memories
of green algae and sea-kelp reaching;

to the imperious sky I wave the deepest
of darkest blue

where the red horizon drips
as blood from another days crown
to rise again as little pearls of dew...

emotion in the write way

some don't get the emotions, see them as cliche', while the root of the problem is the heart I must say -- where we begin in our Mother's water place, the beat of her life, made ours by grace -- the pedagogues 'n pip-squeaks don't get the emotion that leaks from the pen, as longing, as aching, as yearning in unbearable swells, again 'n again -- they've never birthed in bursting strife, their suffering 'n joy of life

we are the foam on the sea of reality, where the roiling of Natures longing takes us to the next wave of creation. We are a mutation and a momentary play on this thin organic film of symbiotic life on our inextricably intimately evolving Planet. We are this Planets thoughts and meaning. This Planet longs in swelling waves toward the Stars. From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!

writes of passage in the passion-fomenting each stroke of our pen, boils the words we've writ then ...

... cunning-less is the base of it: your juiced with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up yur' 'lectrikly sapient spine, making you feel an infinite-in, outwardly sublime

little-rat-eyes

'little-rat-eyes' squint so much that all they see is cliche' -- they've castigated 'n shit on the Poets here with never any wit to the crit that'd help them be clear -- so much odiousness in the reply, why? they sound like an over-educated baboon that cannot cry -- all poetry, good or bad, comes of genuine feeling -- so reviews should not be personal diatribes but plainly simple dialogues of what works or does not work in the context of the writing -- where Poetry is about healing the wounds that reason makes many odious 'I am writer' folks are making wounds on Poetry with their reasons -- doubt is their religion and bullying their secular sacrament -- often intelligence is mistaken for hierarchical desire monkey opinion, 'cause I'm smarter, better, more insightful and my writing is top form kinda thing -- darWINian at best -- from street gangs to bed rooms and forums the Alpha-fucker puts you down so sHe can be one up -- eGo for it is the why -- the arrogance of ignorance is the conceit that hides behind the averted fear that I'm not good enough to be here, so they regale you, that you won't be too, if they have anything to do, with it -- so they'll take a shit all over what you writ and you better like it 'cause they're the writeous crit -- laughing with other little-rat-eyes without wit

'little-rat-eyes' = literati and 'ill-little-rat-eyes' = illiterate -- it's funny how ignorance can show up in an Academic and failed high-school red-neck alike -- I suppose that arrogance is hubris and without distinction

the little-rat-eyes are speed-readers always looking for ways to fill the gap between their lips with knowledgeable sooth-sayings 'cause they've moved the word meaningfully without the sounds in their head -- Poets have gaps in their head where they merCuriously spill their words smoothly with surround-sound lips that never get stuck on having to know anything at all -- they inwordly lip-reciprocate in an astonished why-lessness that (disturbs meaning) de-means everything into a sudden swoon that turns the whirl'd 'round -- the poet is one who brings a fresh focus to the everyday, fresh eyes to the mundane, with music in the ecstasy of broke-back words in how they fly away off the page in particles 'n waves, with lip-synchronicity and all the meta-sensory expansions 'n contractions to constantly risk absurdity

the ill-little-rat-eyes cannot see beyond what's in-it for them and can they get laid -- otherwise it's the alliteration of the illiterate and we all know where the ill-little-rats go when they don't know, pressing the button on their glowering expectations and can't crit 'cause they don't have the wit for it, so they shoot it down with the number crunch, a petty solution, the knockout punch

with reading a write I imagine cunning-less at the base of it, being wet with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up yur' 'lectrikly sapient spine making you feel an infinite-in, outwardly sublime -- neither little-rats nor ill-little-rats can see, beyond their myopic certainty

Poetry is

Poetry is there where we are not so sure, there where the edges blur, there where we leak into each other, between the cracks in the words that we say, there where the light leaks out in a wondrous way ...

viscereality -- Ezra Pound extrapolated that, "Rhythm is form cut into TIME, as a design is determined by SPACE." or the temporal, therefore rhythmic, distribution of the elements of language -- the texture of expectations, satisfactions, disappointments, surprisals, which the sequence of syllables brings about -- the physiological link of rhythm to heart and lungs brings the reader into the Poem with that viscereality --

visceReality in the poem -- vortex prayers 'n fractal wishes, on the edge of an ancient-ache in time 'n space matters -- I've always loved the flowing stream through rock 'n root making many whirl'ds -- those vortices apparently whirl down to the atomic level thus stream-cleaning water of biological hazards -- sometimes I write from the rhythm not knowing the words but using a sort of shorthand where phrasings are place-holders of syllables -- as pointed out this often ends up illiterythmically inspired -- nevertheless, motion is what creates something from nothing; as Einstein mused when considering the beginning of the Multiverse, " something moved " -- as such words become 'dynamos' of rhythmic punctuation when musically driven by inspiration -- this is why the 'thought' is conjectured to be a sympathetic motion in the brain from sensing Nature all over again -- the Poet who writes from that serendiptous-connection having mastered the word-image-rhythms can therefore incite the emotives/feelings/thoughts in the reader where a synergy of the relationship of observer/observed becomes tesselated interactively -- I throw a rock in the stream and watch the ripples fill the unbounded cavity of your brain, where these ripples ripple all over again -- so, she writes her insights with a lyrical pen that babbles like a brook of words that meander down the page while unfettered glistening fish jump from line to line seeking the source of their urgent drive home -- thus does poetry roam

why we evolve eh

"What happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it." T.S. Eliot

so there it is -- when we work our art on our very selves to move beyond the clinging embrace of mere gravity, the dubious dirge of making ends meet, we evolve not only ourselves but we reach from the same urge of everyone who has dared to evolve before us -- and by that very reaching bring all further than they ever hoped or dreamt

all things are connected

-- is it copying when inspired by another in a jazz riff that is the same but diff-a-rant? -- path-dependence is the name of the game, what is new, from old it came -- nevertheless, it's the fire in our hearts that sparks creativity ya'know and when those words in embers glow they'll gleam inside the readers eye, inspiring them, as sparks do fly -- you really wanna' know, that's how writers pens do flow

Democracy as evolutionary intent:

I'll believe in Democracy when the average IQ is above the status-quo and the average joe is not such a selfish schmo and the average jane isn't shopping for bling; when the hearts of men care again, I'll be a Social-Democrat then