Pocket Full of Poesy
Poetry Out Loud
Birthstone
And who said amber was a worthy stone to drown?
Seathrown tattered and beautiful adornamentation of the beaches that chill you with contradictory sand.
And who said the shells ever wanted to be collections, memories now preserved, decorating the inside of fishbowls,
sitting next to the pasted hair of toothbrush now abandoned and the remnant scent of bottled amor?
And who said the sand dunes weren't resistant to the pushing of the lunar-crazed waves, the crests, the building something underneath that weathered, eroded, chipped away at the rocks and grains that just now settled down in rest?
And who said the gulls asked to be beggars, the crabs asked to be hermits, the turtles asked to be covert nativities that crawled out of the seas with shells of battle armor, just to long for home again and step back into the abyss.
And who said the lovers had the sunset to prove themselves when everyone knows that a sunset is a dying day, and night is the coldest hours of the clock?
And who said that this emptiness, this contradiction to prescribed beauty, this rock that is no more, but is needed every day, should ever have dissolved into the seascape?
And who ever said that the beach is beautiful, that love can be bottled and tossed into the wave and ever make it home again? And who said that memories should even exist, when they themselves are contradictions?
Preservation of these memories ...is like the permenance of a stone?
And that is the source of emptiness and absence and the abyss which is perfect in its detail...
for I am fettered to the sinking stone of memory, as I await the vulturing waves to yet again visit me in daily torment...
because my birthstone is amber....beautifully weathered, polished, eroded, glossy, shattered, shimmering, shivering, shining-as-a-golden-sun amber
and I am fettered still to the pain of amber, most beautiful as it drowns in the final embers of daylight cast across a tumultuous undulation.
And who said amber was a worthy stone to drown?
Seathrown tattered and beautiful adornamentation of the beaches that chill you with contradictory sand.
And who said the shells ever wanted to be collections, memories now preserved, decorating the inside of fishbowls,
sitting next to the pasted hair of toothbrush now abandoned and the remnant scent of bottled amor?
And who said the sand dunes weren't resistant to the pushing of the lunar-crazed waves, the crests, the building something underneath that weathered, eroded, chipped away at the rocks and grains that just now settled down in rest?
And who said the gulls asked to be beggars, the crabs asked to be hermits, the turtles asked to be covert nativities that crawled out of the seas with shells of battle armor, just to long for home again and step back into the abyss.
And who said the lovers had the sunset to prove themselves when everyone knows that a sunset is a dying day, and night is the coldest hours of the clock?
And who said that this emptiness, this contradiction to prescribed beauty, this rock that is no more, but is needed every day, should ever have dissolved into the seascape?
And who ever said that the beach is beautiful, that love can be bottled and tossed into the wave and ever make it home again? And who said that memories should even exist, when they themselves are contradictions?
Preservation of these memories ...is like the permenance of a stone?
And that is the source of emptiness and absence and the abyss which is perfect in its detail...
for I am fettered to the sinking stone of memory, as I await the vulturing waves to yet again visit me in daily torment...
because my birthstone is amber....beautifully weathered, polished, eroded, glossy, shattered, shimmering, shivering, shining-as-a-golden-sun amber
and I am fettered still to the pain of amber, most beautiful as it drowns in the final embers of daylight cast across a tumultuous undulation.
Dictionary Definition
My dream is that the Earth and her problems end in fatality.
My life's ambition is that endstory to this thing we call the environment is abruptly and completely fatal.
I'm not sure you get my meaning though.
So, let me start at the end, and blame Noah Webster for our impass in comprehension.
Webster, in his final act of treason, or patriotism, or whatever,
decided to take out the "u" from words such as honor.
So, logically then, when you is taken, we, as Americans are only left with I, as well as all its cousins,
me, myself, etc.
and words such as honor become selfishly defined.
So therefore I hope the Earth ends in fatality.
I'm still not sure if we understand each other, though.
So let me jump to the middle, and blame it on our mother tongue.
You see, even the word tongue is a strange one, isn't it.
Tongue in our tongue suggests a Miley Cyrus representation, or that of an obstinate child....
forgive my redundancy....
Tongue suggests tastebuds, and ice cream nestled in a wafer cone...
But in other languages, languages which had no visa or papers to show at customs,
languages that no doubt were turned away and asked to return to that place called other....
tongue can also mean "language".
What an interesting turn, don't you think?
It suggest that the thoughts we produce are born in the mouth.
But we know that is untrue, that the tongue is a stopping ground,
a uniformed officer allowing thoughts to leave the country,
or turning them away, back into the recesses of the mind, to die perhaps
of starvation, or oppression, or apathy somewhere in the medula oblongata.
So this is why my dream is that this thing called the environment becomes fatal.
Still, I wonder where our understanding lies.
My life's ambition is that endstory to this thing we call the environment is abruptly and completely fatal.
I'm not sure you get my meaning though.
So, let me start at the end, and blame Noah Webster for our impass in comprehension.
Webster, in his final act of treason, or patriotism, or whatever,
decided to take out the "u" from words such as honor.
So, logically then, when you is taken, we, as Americans are only left with I, as well as all its cousins,
me, myself, etc.
and words such as honor become selfishly defined.
So therefore I hope the Earth ends in fatality.
I'm still not sure if we understand each other, though.
So let me jump to the middle, and blame it on our mother tongue.
You see, even the word tongue is a strange one, isn't it.
Tongue in our tongue suggests a Miley Cyrus representation, or that of an obstinate child....
forgive my redundancy....
Tongue suggests tastebuds, and ice cream nestled in a wafer cone...
But in other languages, languages which had no visa or papers to show at customs,
languages that no doubt were turned away and asked to return to that place called other....
tongue can also mean "language".
What an interesting turn, don't you think?
It suggest that the thoughts we produce are born in the mouth.
But we know that is untrue, that the tongue is a stopping ground,
a uniformed officer allowing thoughts to leave the country,
or turning them away, back into the recesses of the mind, to die perhaps
of starvation, or oppression, or apathy somewhere in the medula oblongata.
So this is why my dream is that this thing called the environment becomes fatal.
Still, I wonder where our understanding lies.