Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

well it's not uncomfortable
not a formula
it is interesting how the effort somehow cultivates a certain mood, or aura, and also infuses into the words and images as they somehow emerge.

___________________

music
I may be deaf
Bach plays in the back ground
slyables dance his melody
the meaning of these words fade with each note
a life time in a concerto
savage heart is stilled by it
mysterious
music

Even
blind men view lies
clearly, though their eyes know
no light. Verbal fabrications
tear through fibers of a sewn garment much
more swiftly than the sewing of
the seam. We wear fiction
like a shawl, un-
even.

Hey still

I loved the first one! Great work!

And I loved the second one a lot, too.... then I realized I wrote the second one.

LOL!

geesh....

*smile*

I appologize for that, I needed to keep in open before me, I should have put quotes around it or at least italics. It was fun thanks. I thought yours was great, made me want to try, dots, my brain is always connecting dots. I like this one by jimbo, makes me think of connecting dashes ----


I needed to laugh today too, I heard a story on Collected Shorts today (NPR program where they read short stories) today there was one about an American Japanese Mother packing up on Decembe 8, 1941. She started to laugh, and then she couldn't stop, got out a bottle of plum wine. sleept like a baby. Got on the bus in the morning.

cheers

Matter
nomenclature
existential questions
all that is somehow physical—
everything honest sum-how measured up
in neatly packaged truths. Then what
I feel for you is not
(must not) really
matter.

Language
Begins at birth
He was born for the word
Pilgrim begins journey
All that follows is cultural
Just doing the existential strip tease
Honest truth not so neatly found
Feelings matters to me
What matters more to me is
Language



I think I got an extra line in there, I think we both missed it though, not being critical, just quibbling

I liked yours, I would not have tried to reply if I did not

Here is what the Head Gardner had in mind


* line 1 - 2 syllables - same as line 9
* line 2 - 4 syllables
* line 3 - 6 syllables
* line 4 - 8 syllables
* line 5 - 10 syllables
* line 6 - 8 syllables
* line 7 - 6 syllables
* line 8 - 4 syllables
* line 9 - 2 syllables - same as line 1

Matter
nomenclature
existential questions
all that is somehow physical—
everything honest sum-how measured up
in neatly packaged truths. Then what
I feel for you is not
(must not) really
matter.

stilltrucking wrote: He was born for the word
Pilgrim begins journey
All that follows is cultural
Just doing the existential strip tease

For the
no-holds-barred risk
of opportunities
to roll a profound six-faced die
on faith that full expects Sabbath seven
or eschatological eight,
what would I not attempt
to switch in “a”
for “the”?

Eras
are marked by your
feet which take a new path,
an alternate direction, the
mind being a director, as if you
are in a play being told to
exit via stage left.
Each Act causes
Eras.

Lemurs
Takes a new path
Expecting nothing just curious
Sixty five million years later
Still clinging to life
Will not go gently into good night
Meeker than mice
Who will inherit the earth I hope
Lemurs


line 1 - 2 syllables - same as line 9
* line 2 - 4 syllables
* line 3 - 6 syllables
* line 4 - 8 syllables
* line 5 - 10 syllables
* line 6 - 8 syllables
* line 7 - 6 syllables
* line 8 - 4 syllables
* line 9 - 2 syllables - same as line 1


1) Lemurs
2) Takes a new path
3) Expecting nothing just curious wrong
4) Sixty five million years later
5) Still clinging to life wrong
6) Will not go gently into good night wrong
7) Meeker than mice wrong
Who will inherit the earth I hope wrong
9) Lemurs
needs a lot of work

stilltrucking wrote:1) Lemurs
2) Takes a new path
3) Expecting nothing just curious wrong
4) Sixty five million years later
5) Still clinging to life wrong
6) Will not go gently into good night wrong
7) Meeker than mice wrong
Who will inherit the earth I hope wrong
9) Lemurs
needs a lot of work

I'm a fan of poetic rules for the beauty of the poem above. The context of poetic rules makes the beauty and freedom of their abandon all the more poignant. I have no credentials to speak of, but maybe the above is wrong for a Rictameter, but nevertheless a very fine poem.

Primates’
directional
drive: curiosity
is no ladder-evolution
but fresh horizontal flood-tomorrows,
hope-blankets on idea-beds.
No perfection dream is
less evolved than
primates.

Primates’
directional
drive: curiosity
is no ladder-evolution
but fresh horizontal flood-tomorrows,
hope-blankets on idea-beds.
No perfection dream is
less evolved than
primates.

Monkey
Time is money
Monkeys have no wallets
Their life is lived in the moment
In rapture, not heaven or fearing hell
Got to get back to the garden
A time to de-evolve
Dreams of happy
Monkey

beats me joel
if it was a fine poem I owe it to you and doreen

Seconds
(longer than words)
lost to conversation
(wasted between meaningless words)
will never return; yet somehow I’m drawn
(not for words, but for their speaker)
to listen and hope for
(greater portion)
seconds.

My “I
submit to you”
is steel-trap jaws and teeth
to gnaw away submissively
around the core of who you honest are—
surrender true, but unaware
submissive love destroys
the apple of
my I.

Peered back on myself from a spotless glass, just to
ponder the
possible situation:
perhaps I’m not as strong as I look me (honest) in the eye as
previously I’d thought—to strike my wiliest
presupposition: I am
perfect, even when I am
<center>put up
dim on (no, mid)
imagining. Am I
won alive?— & evil, a now
illicit Eros, a sore tic? Ill, I
won (alive & evil) a Now
Imagining: am I
dim on ‘No’ mid-
put-up? </center>
Poor situational ethics, situational love:
propped up on strong emotion and good intention and the
poverty of codependent and blanket-wrapped visions.
Pitch behind my eyes—brightest figment colors and light
poured through thin-skinned blood
paints—all I need to strike a mural for the weakness I see (when before you) I am
peered back on myself from a spotless glass.

XPISTOS.
X marks pistos.
What if I died one day
before my birthday dawn arrived
and gifts intended for that day stayed wrapped;
would any gift I’d not yet grasped
be mine any less? Then
who lacks faith in
XPISTOS?