utility

utility

a book is not wood

burn if you must to keep warm

ash cannot be read

~

ps 31 oct

every object has multiple conceivable uses. sometimes using it in one way precludes the possiblity for the alternative future use. the goal in utilitarian ideology is to find the best choice, which is a function of both your needs and the ability of that choice to see those needs met.

on gray areas

gray

being gray is like being half-cooked, left or right where does one look?

sitting on the fence not wanting to plant our feet, a problem of all, poor and elite

when the boxes are given, we know not which from which

a choice we must make before the timely hour instead we spend on things that dont matter

so when its time to pull a switch theres barely a need, for we did not choose; we chose to be freed

from responsibility, run we must. but for freedom, in spontaneity we trust.

but those who chose they paid in full, seen as rigid... no takers of bull

lo when calamity strikes we look to them, we tear our clothes and hit the hem

they are rigid, no takers of bull, they are constant in push or pull

so being gray as good as good gets, is still a choice just dont regret.

~

traffic haiku

busy roads

what is on the mind

is also inside the heart

bring it out tonight

when insomnia comes

a familiar voice is king

comfortable pillow

the roads are busy

wee hours of the morning

an excitation

~

guilty kimchi

fresh and hot

a little aged here and crunchy there

funky red lace on a pale green underlay

a bite 

lips a'smackin

teeth chatter to the tang no better

than the smell of a leaf with a fragrant fester

how wrong it feels to indulge in this

with nimble hands we taste this bliss

"Pab! Hana! De!"

one more time just one more time

how do we take without wanting more

for the wrongness of it all in every nibble

tastes only right--quit this petty rabble

i say hand me another serving

forget the tummyache for tomorrow

as the days ahead sure quickly follow

i live for now and now im itchy

woe to him who withholds my Kimchi.

~

korea haiku

alive in allive

a little clock ticks

cosy walls hum through the night

my heart sound asleep

~

garden of Hades

the frog lay between walls so high even ceilings would be unnecessary. every route split into two ways, each choice diverging into more forks than the previous. it imagined the way out, but each option only appeared to lead to yet another option with no conceivable mark of progress. every dilemma was passed with a decision to turn right, with the vain notion that consistency would result well. then it was as if the maze had become a labyrinth--but even a labyrinth has a way out.

this spiral was more of a black hole made of quicksand. every step out of the centre made the hole bigger and the more the frog thought the further it became from the edge. it was a swamp of black with currents rushing in, yet even the rising waterline could not seem to catch the head of the walls; they too were ascending as if in blatant response to the frog's so-called efforts.

the trap was like a prison cell made of dreams, that even desire could not touch, nor hope smell. even if the whole universe was plunged into darkness, the predicament could not grow worse. so the frog sat...and sat... and sat, until a worm crawled by and even the worm was happy. it went about its day, looking forward to the ground and all it had to offer. even the white-spotted black cat pierced the gloom with its fine green eyes. one purr it made and it was content for the day. the porcupine was busy pawing out the shrubbery eager for something interesting, something new. the black bear roared, the eels darted up and down the stream like ribbons in the wind. all the critters of the wilderness had something to live for.

but the frog only had the vision of a wide-eyed vagabond. and to it the topiary of the garden was only a temporary means to an unknown end.

a tribute to the misunderstood

country and western

 wave come cry fly wry lie die

oh bring me back my wife go blind

do you see this life of mine

ching chong china wine, my you look fine

now would you be so kind today

brick break tally whack sing it if you may

sing it if you may

sing it if you may

~

sunday apothecary

potion #18

a little bit of rabbit and a bit of cat,

a dash of sheep and wolf--yes we like it like that

a teaspoon of cumin to put in whats nice;

and to take care of naughty, pepper's the spice

a swig of vodka and a dribble of martell

ice cubes and music to strengthen the spell

prairie dog and mother hen,

a chunk of both then count to ten

now point the flask to canis major

and heat the elixir with a big laser

a slice of snake and a cut of mouse

now enjoy the aroma that fills my house

so borrow a ladle and mix in well,

and while it's hot go steal a smell

for the finishing touch is drawing near,

now into the pot a keg of beer

 

a pinch of paprika to lend it some bite,

oh this table, needle i light

~

butterfree used confusion!

 butterflies

 flutter atop our eyes you see

giving us time to do what we must do

remind me

i don't know how they got to be

trapped within no opportunity

my tummy

rolling around the dome they fly

makin' a sight to hold you know i'm right.

born free

born free

to be with me

~

angels

angel of the lord

a finger falls through the fabric of the wisping air;

the gusts cry calm--whispering behind fallen hair

of words of peace and songs of quiet sleep

pulling front and side: the ebb and flow of the firmaments deep

a stroke of the hand sweeps past

and all of the permanent become but of the past

powers and principalities descend upon the footstool,

by sword and stone making done and undone

all that was created and now reclaimed by the sound of a trumpet call

echoing in the valleys entrenching the face of all actions, the tears, the bitter gall

running high but never dry, the pulses of pain

coming once and again without fail, without blame, like sheets of rain

that come and wash away the bile that taints, the acids which spew

but they stand, steadfast guardians, the virtues and dominions they are not few

sent by a voice unheard yet loud like thunder

calling to home from the other side yonder.

~

the ransom is paid

an old man came upon a young boy who held with his left hand a cage containing some wild birds. the lad was skipping down the street with a huge grin on his young face, cage swinging in hand. the old man was interested, and asked the kid, "boy, what have you got there?"

"i caught these birds today!" came the answer. and the old man grinned,

"that's nice. what will you do with them?"

"i am going to poke them," said the boy with a huge grin, "and then i am going to pluck out their feathers!" he continued. "then i will burn them with fire." the old man's face changed immediately as the boy carried on, "i am going to torture these birds and kill them!"

"no, my boy. no! you musnt do that to the kind animals" the old man pleaded with the boy.

"i shall kill them. and i shall be entertained!" said the boy, ignoring the plea with more smile.

"no, my boy. sell these birds to me. let me buy them off of your hands."

"sir, you are old, but are you also thick in the head? these wild birds are useless creatures! why on earth would anyone pay money for them?"

"little boy, just name me your price. sell these innocent birds to me."

the old man was wealthy and owned much property and land. this the boy knew, and he took advantage of this knowledge and named the price of the birds to be all the man's possessions.

"it is to be done as you say. all of mine on this earth i give to you. now hand me the cage, for i have paid for it so that it and the birds are now mine." so the old man paid dearly for the birds. yet he was not disappointed, until he went out to the fields and opened the cage to let the birds fly free, only to discover that the little creatures would not come out...

"little birds, your ransom is great. but it has been paid in full. you are no longer slave to the torturer. you are no longer bound by cage. now come out to me, and all of you shall be free."

but they would not come out...

we all embarrass him

he stood as judge over the people, and to a criminal if he should say "take him outside and kill him!" and they would take the prisoner outside and kill him. when he said "away with him into the stockades!" the prisoner would be thrown into the stockades. if he said "unshackle him and let him go!" the prisoner would he unshackled and let go, for what ever he said was the last word, and to whomever it was said upon, the word was like destiny. the king's power was great, and they feared him. he was called great; his name--alexander.

one day a young boy clad in greek armour was placed before alexander the great. he was thrown onto his knees before the great general, who with a saddened face asked, "boy, how old are you?"

"i am eighteen years of age." came the reply.

alexander's heart grew soft, for he saw memories of himself in the young soldier, and asked the deputy "what crime is this one guilty of?"

and the centurion explained, "this soldier ran away from the enemy."

when this was said, alexander's heart face hardened, as cowardice in battle was unspeakable. the people whispered among themselves "surely this man will die."

before he would declare the sentence, he asked the soldier, "boy, what is your name?"

with a catch in his throat the boy replied, "my name is alexander."

with great fury from his hardened heart, the great king commanded for all to hear,

"you. change your name or change your profession! guards, remove him from my sight at once!"

the scientist

there once was a boy who wandered aimlessly until someone gave him a sand grain and showed him how to use it, and he became good at using it. he found his sand grain to be good and beautiful: "you dont know how lovely you are!" and he boasted to ten people of how good and beautiful it was, until it fell upon a stone and turned to dust.

he was happy and so he picked up the stone and it became his new him: "i had to find you, because i need you," he said to this stone--it was bigger and much tougher, and no one out of a hundred could show him a better one. he trusted it much more than he trusted the sand grain, for it lasted much longer and he set it apart. until eventually it, too, broke. under a rock the stone crumbled.

but the boy was not disappointed. he was ecstatic for he found something better and even more beautiful which he took for his own. and he became very proud of his rock, for nobody around had a better one. many came and were in awe of the boy's rock. yet many were also jealous, and they threw their stones at him. but the boy lifted up the rock to shield his body, and all the sharp stones bounced away like grains of sand... and for once in his life he was so sure. then he put his trust in the rock. for a long time his rock served him well, and soon he realised it wasnt just a good shield but a great sword; "tell me your secrets. ask me your questions!" he said, and he crushed their stones with his rock. nobody out of a thousand could face him without fear. then one day he swung his rock upon another. with great surprise he saw his great rock shatter into a million pieces, for he had hit a boulder.

the boy cried. but his tears were of euphoria, for he had found a new him. this boulder--it was even better and yet even more beautiful than anything. it was perfect. he remembered his rock, and with greater trust than before he placed it in the boulder. and it was well placed, for the boulder was everlasting and everything that face it was pulled everything apart like numbers, figures and puzzles. many came and were in awe of the boy's boulder. yet there were a ten thousand times as many who were jealous and they threw their stones and rocks and boulders at him. but his boulder was the strongest, and all the sharpness pointed towards him became blunt in the presence of it and he set it apart.

an eternity went by, and many more appeared in his presence, in awe of the boy's boulder, but now there were also a million times as many who were against him, for he looked at all stones, rocks and boulders put before him as if they were like the rest before it which were all destroyed in the presence of his own. all his enemies detested him and his boulder and they spat at his pride tried to stone him, the more the boy knew he was invincible, and the more his enemies grew, and the more the boy was convinced he was immortal. by now there were a billion times as many who were against him as before, and the boy knew that every single one of them were one and the same--like the rest before, unable to produce anything worth standing against his boulder.

then his boulder was crushed under a mountain. there were a billion cheers, for the great pride was finally torn. but the boy was unshaken, as he had in him the ultimate joy of victory, what all his enemies would reluctantly but eventually learn--that he would conquer the mountain for his own, and because of that, become a trillion times harder to defeat. the boy's enemies cried out, "who can defeat one who wields mountains?"

until he saw another someone holding sand grain and the boy's mountain crumbled into a thousand trillion specks of dust, each one impossibly small and insignificant. and it took him back to the start--to back as he was. no mountain, no boulder, no rock, no stone, no sand grain--just dust. this time the happiness was real.

ps 19 may
this is responsible for the "skeptic's disease."

what is it

irony

melodies of the clock and of history

fill the sea behind the mind's eye

eagerly perceiving the ungathered

the gaze it penetrates every veil

doors are locked but they do not stop it from devouring all

even bricks and mortar are reduced to an ocean of easy

in which it swims with flair like the penguins black and white

and the million shades of gray in between

to understand but not be understood

is a power undesired

a yoke that chains it's heart to rocks heavy and grounds unmoving

o, how it yearns to free it's hands from it's pocket or part it's lips
to recite the stories still untold

lo, the song of numbers do not add up

as the illustrations of reality fail to match the lyrics of the fantastic script

even as the rules of nature bow down in it's midst

that impossibility is impossible and nos can be yesses

yet it must be enslaved by the dark carousel of cyclic contemplation

producing artificial limits
to be placed on a vessel of surely unlimited outcomes

a perfectly imperfect vessel even pessimism himself cannot douse

weeping is lifted by admiration of a construct rebuilt from selftorn abuse

o, how it fancies to shred every and all into comprehensible truth

lo, itself it must eventually tear
and with the greatest fervour and harshest teeth yet

so let heaven be witness to the irony of ironies
as the weight of this one weighs heavier than any iron

~

ohnoes, not haiku again

world pond

leaf in black wind

frozen torrents torture it;

resilient always

bright willow flying

nothing, everything, nothing

unforgettable

toad on lily pad

clockwise in stagnant water

world's worries now known

white hyacinth sways

stem and pistil unbeknownst;

brown stick insect knows

silver snail racing

connecting self and unself

neuron overload

pink calf crouches low

up springs narcissus' peacock

rippling passion

white egret landing

grey rock pushing back blue lines

seeing all that hides

a fearful fish swims:

scales of fate decide for it;

numbered are its days

butterflies by night

enshroud the morning glory

tangled up in vine

~

aphasia part trois

~
a white wave sweeps all

washing everything away

and this watchman cries.
~

5 in 540

builder of the seasons

the familiar adobe made of clay and crooked sticks
with bendy walls and curvy halls
lo a thatched roof which served as proof that he was aloof--this is truth
it sounded out what was capped within, and it too caved like a honey tin
comfortable it seemed, but flimsy it deemed.

and spring arrived, the trees were surprised, that the builder was alive
he kicked the stick and chose the brick and with a flick
he placed the mortar and there was order and there was structure
no one could puncture.

until spring left and in her place stood dawn of summer
which tore asunder his house of wonder
in wanton plunder and rolling thunder.
spider cracks crawled the walls
and trenchant slats, those ploughed the halls
everything he had, he had to lose
dragged by a noose like an old caboose.

but the sun let up and the trees let down their foliage brown as if to say:
you need not frown because the wind has blown
and the seeds were sown so you must have grown.  
your life is your own so dont be a clone just be your own 
now dry your bone: learn to live alone.

matthew wrote that this was wise:  
when the skies split in twain and it starts to rain
as floods start to rise fools avert their eyes from the autumnal sighs
their houses wash away in the rushing sand 
their lives melt away, apocalypse at hand!

so he found a rock along the coast and with a toast he made a boast
that he would build another house fit for a king, fit for a mouse
one no cumulonimbus nor hurricane could douse
small enough, yet big enough--to store everything; but risk nothing.

he kicked the brick and hurled the stick
and without a feel he chose the steel
and upon a kneel he touched the rock
and upon the rock he placed the beams
and with the beams he built a wall, and upon the walls he fixed a roof
and it was proof he was aloof--it was still truth
'cept windows now faced a different azimuth.

the builder had a new house of wonder
no lightning no thunder could reveal a blunder
and he remembered in autumn what the trees said to him:
that no houseguests could warm him
save the seraphim and of course, the Him.

so when winter came the house you'd guess, it was a mess
and as you know it grew terribly cold
im sure youre told that it snowed sixty-fold
it was no gold: the pain of growing old
the bread in hand had festered mold
he was not sold that he could remain this bold.

but man cannot live on bread alone
no matter the toast no matter the boast
so he took the tool and like a fool he broke his home to smell the breeze
a different breeze, a warmer a breeze, a friendlier breeze, a smiley breeze,
a caring breeze, a lovelier breeze, a pretty breeze, a refreshing breeze,
a tiny breeze but an amazing breeze.

it's spring again it seemed to him though it really still was
the coldest winter its ever been.

love in contradiction

Love Part Trois

We cry with them, for them, but mostly because of them
they are endearing yet they irritate our skin
such they make life difficult; they also make it worth living

we accept them wanting to change them
the ones who dumbfound us, the ones who we find dumb
those we toil much to understand, but end up taking hand-in-hand

we toil for them, we bleed for them
bloodied knuckles brush sweat off brow
the ones we fight with, and the ones we fight for
but verily i say to you: this is really, simply amor.

we let them take everything, but more for we still sacrifice
the ones who take while never saying thank you
until its too late when they see your point of view

we stick together, moreso when opinions differ
us who speak the mind, never free from verbal blunder
but us who cherish, may no word rip asunder

we like them and then we really like them
yearning that they see us, and in us what we are for
admiring them through windows, while hiding behind the door

we want to stay till kingdom come, and secretly fear the day it ends
enchanted by fires of passion in havoc but plagued by thoughts of pessimists amok
happiness and relationships also happen to the cynic; its all part of the human dynamic

we want to remember them, we try to forget them
boy or girl who couldnt stay or he or she whom we pushed away
photographs we keep to this day rekindle the pain that we want to allay
but pain is there to help us grow; how much we can handle is another point, though

we hate the hurt but we keep dishing it out
crossing the stars, or worse, worrying our mothers
so come share us our shoulders; for none tonight cries under the covers

we adore them sometimes and sometimes we hate them
those who give us happiness, those who incite our anger
this poem grows me weary, so to rhyme this ill just say salamander

we see our friends, our parents, our children, our partners
they take so much yet we have more to give
if one has trouble comprehending, then one has very much more to live
but if they who read this and aloudly say
with great conviction, the word touché
then dear readers, this moment, on the twenty-sixth of december
the message of Yesterday, you need not me, to again deliver.

on the certainty of survival with the expectations of failure part deux

so many have fallen trying to escape into the other expanse--and so it was. hopes erased, dreams dashed, bones broken and crafted wings crumbled for what other than the simple achievement of sharing in what the eagle possessed. borne of a rejection of the notion that they were not to have what they were not meant to have, based upon the thousands-year-old covet that all of man shared (well almost all of them), or probably more simply that he didnt believe what fate narrated to his ears. "i shall not be prisoner" and the boy heard.

he was only able to see their situation in the black light of his depression; truth revealed like a mirage on a veil over their eyes. and he saw himself as prisoner and convinced his son that they were both to leave. by innovation, twine, feather and wax he produced the tools that would free them. "i shall not be prisoner" and the boy heard.

with the tools they both left, and the older realised his dream for freedom--a large dream no less, which however and unfortunately spiralled inward in all directions because his son had a bigger dream, for then the boy had ball and chain, now he had wings, but next he wanted to be with the angels. "stay away from the sun" and the boy heard. but he did not listen, for he had bigger eyes than mind for the expectations of his future glory.

and the certainty of his survival became then solely part of his father's memory:
the boy was given wings but he lusted for the halo, a mistake so grand even his own death could not remunerate the tills of fate, and the debt cascaded down to his father, to be written into a new chapter of the old man's book of what-ifs and should-have-beens.

what if i had not hoped, for my son would not have learnt to hope, for he would then not hoped for more than was due to him? would it have been better for us to remain prisoners in that tower with legendary dreams of the sky or be now free men who pursued it to the bottom of the Greek sea?

on the certainty of survival with the expectations of failure

so many have fallen trying to scale the walls of her castle--or so it seems. blood, tears and sweat shed for what other than the simple achievement of success? no, for this battle, maybe for sworn allegiance to her kingdom? for simple recognition of some sovereignty in their own? could it even be that simple?

so many have fallen in wars, so it has been. so it is. so it must be. blood tears and sweat shed to scale castles of the world since the beginning when man took up the sword. and these soldiers leave behind their families, their first love, their temporary freedom, to fight for true freedom, true happiness. so many have died trying. their bodies long gone, memories soon forgotten. the question is, were this man's efforts ever recognised? is it even important if they are? after all, he failed to conquer that castle. and that is mostly what the peasants and the plebians would remember, that is if they even remember his name.

all for Helen. the height of her walls daunted many in the past but still they came in droves. they fell in droves. they came by the legions and they too fell by the legions. and the last came for her and he too bled blood and shed tears and sweat, and he too eventually fell in battle. and like Paris the fate of all future warmongers who live by the sword shall be slain by the sword.

the real winner must be the bard who never drew blood and thus whose own blood shall never be drawn. he is content with his song, his literature, his art, his solitude. he looks upon with envy at the warriors who enjoy fame, fortune, company and a place in history while he merely writes about it. his supporters pick up swords and fight for him, but he himself stands on the horizon behind the battlefield. his followers pull his wagon for him but the wagon never had wheels. even the king now offers him a sword and a shield to fight for his freedom but he brushes all of it aside and instead asks for the mirror, and to it the bard tells "without dreams, one can have no nightmares".

 ps 22 feb 2010 i think all that could await the bard's watchers and followers is only disappointment if what they are continuously waiting for is for him to pick up the iron; he is no warrior. and when they abandon him and helen stops watching and walks away, im willing to bet my hat that he as no qualm fading out to lonely black for all time carrying with him only his words that meant everything to him even though it was so, only to him.