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Anima Cantus

This poem, my 13th hybridanelle, attempts to depict and convey one of the ways I look at ’being’, what a being is, and how it is connected with its self and other beings. The title is Latin for “mind song” or “psychic melody”.

Anima Cantus

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — November 2005

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Matrimony

For the unity of marriage I used Katrina as the metaphor for life’s struggles. And for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina I used matrimony as a metaphor for unity. This is my 12th hybridanelle poem.

Matrimony

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
Posted on by EAT

irruption

Dreams can irrupt into waking life. Sometimes waking life feels like a dream. Reality is subjective, and its significance even more so. An irruption is the polar opposite of an eruption. As selves, our egos are forever erupting into our environment, influencing everything from landscapes to the behaviors of others. But we are like bubbles drifting through a larger, heavier fluid. Once in awhile our bubble weakens and lets something in from that fluid unconscious that challenges our sense of reality—this is an irruption.

irruption

all in a moment
   reality peels back and reveals
       the unknown…

               snowflakes fall to the sky
           boulders drift through a canopy
       rustling leaves as puffy white clouds
   leave craters where they fall to earth

snap to
   eyes open
       reach for balance…

               walls breathe in darkness
           linens screech at silence
       ceramic tiles gnaw the legs
   of your trembling bed

grip the sandpaper blankets
   fingernails splintering
       shut tight your eyes…

               cold coils around your wrist
           fibers burrow into the skin
       as something parts the covers
   by your recoiling feet

spring from bed
   stumble to light
       shatter the darkness…

               nothing but familiarity
           the rumpled sheets
       an unvacuumed carpet
   a flickering heartbeat

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An Invocation

To me, inspiration is a sacred thing. Without it, the creative soul experiences nothing but frustration and dismay. Some ancient poets were known to incorporate an invocation of the muse or muses into their epic poetry, such as Homer, Virgil, and Dante. I do not plan to write epic poems during my lifetime, though it could happen. Still, I would like to try to invoke the muses for the epic journey of my writing process, which I hope will last the entirety of my life.

              An Invocation

          O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
        and flash against the backdrop of my thoughts
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams
  and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.
Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.

  Release creative flow like prismed floods
    that sweep stagnation from my standing sense.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.

        Lift the heavy doubt that cowers thick and close,
          a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray
            and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.

          Reach through this cacophonic mental din
        and seed within my harried understanding
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Sweep a translucent wind throughout my psychic planes,
  infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist,
a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray.

  Defrost the ice and snow from all my fields,
    the winter-scapes within that numb perception.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.

        Return decayed ideas to elemental drift
          so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath
            infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist.

          Connect me to the place where light is born,
        from where it swells to crest in consciousness
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Part confusion from conceptions fallen dead,
  and draw its suffocation off my faculties
so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath.

  Restore the waters of my inmost lands,
    so that my springs will flow with apprehension.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
        an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

          Sing to me invention, and help me learn to heed.
            Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams,
          and draw its suffocation off my faculties.
        Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.

This is my 11th hybridanelle.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — August 2005

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Protoculture

During my teenage years, I was a hardcore fan of the Robotech Saga. My teen years were trying times for me, in just about every possible way. My life was under the control of the Los Angeles Juvenile Courts, and I was locked up and subjected to endless involuntary chemical abuse like a lab rat. I was robbed of my potential through this process, and by the time I ran away as a 15 year old, I would have to spend the rest of my life reconstructing what I could of my damaged mind.

This poem depicts the role the Robotech Saga played in influencing me to take a stand against this abuse, which I did by running away and facing an entirely different, yet more controllable, set of dangers. Protoculture is the substance everyone was after in the series, and which was used to power the hyper-transformative “robotechnology”.

Protoculture

mysterious and eternal
            you shot me among the stars
    folded my mind across the unknown
        and for the first time
                    i felt the stainless grip
                of chains and shackles

and i began to tear my flesh
            bruise my bones
    crazed with a wordless desire
        snapping chains against their mounts
                    pain now only a reminder
                freedom or death

imagination was reborn
            behind my glaze
    my soul transformed over and over
        a veritech dodging heavy fire
                    a guardian swooping the foe
                a battloid launching wild salvos

somehow i sensed a resonant power
            a massive generator of hope
    giant invaders sought to capture or destroy
        deep in my battle-scarred fortress
                    and ripping free of my blood-caked bonds
                i reeled and stood my ground

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Starscape

Within my mind there has always been the nagging notion that maybe we are not actually what we think ourselves to be. That all of our experiences are manifest, projected, from powerful minds that reach out into the void of space to touch one another and interact. I talk of stars, the stars that pepper the night, the endless billions of stars.

Starscape

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Publication History:

Tales of the Talisman — September 2006

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Stardust

We are stardust, the stuff of stars. So everything we experience is star stuff. Our feelings, our hopes, our dreams, our pains, our losses, our deepest sorrows—All stardust. Even infections and malignant growths are the stuff of stars. Everything is rolled up in the same karmic stream of coming and going.

Stardust

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
Posted on by EAT

The Intertext

The meaning of our existence here on this little ball of blue, green, and brown has been shaped by the birth and death of ancient suns. As we author our brief existence, etched on the papyrus of our world’s surface, we borrow from long established texts—The text of suns long ago extinguished; the text of nebulae rippled in darkness; the text of dust and gas thrown through the void by the blinding glare of a newborn gaze on the cosmos. This is the intertext of our existence, and one day, countless ages from now, some new world adrift in the darkness will spawn sentience, and somewhere therein we will be, silently lending shape to its nascent subtexts.

The Intertext

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

Publication History:

The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

Posted on by EAT

Burning the Flag

During a recent cross-country drive across several states, I noticed how many yahoos sported the American flag on their cars and houses, but never bothered to honor it by taking it down at night (it should never be left in the dark) or retiring it once it fades out, cracks to bits, or wastes away.

It dawned on me that this must be how these Americans actually feel about their country and the constitutional ideals upon which it is founded. They may boast and brag about how great America is, but actions speak so much louder than words. You show me exactly what you think the ideals that founded this country are worth when you let the flag that represents them waste away in plain view of the world—Something that once upon a time would win you a citation.

Burning the Flag

Cracked and faded in the sun,
        sported emblems lose their hue,
                unretired and weather-torn.

        Exposure to the elements betrays
        emotional and mental negligence
        to burning disregard for heritage.

                Bumper stickers age too soon;
        paper pride is left to wane,
cracked and faded in the sun

        on well-kept pickup trucks and long sedans
        beside some slogan spouting malcontent;
        emotional and mental negligence

                flies atop the roofs of cars—
        sooty clown-ears deeply stained,
unretired and weather-torn.

        Support is shown as mere velleity,
        a symbol posted like an afterthought
        beside some slogan spouting malcontent,

just another brittle sign
        taking on a dirty tinge,
                cracked and faded in the sun.

        What shone for Francis Key one failing night
        is treated now like any corporate logo,
        a symbol posted like an afterthought.

Freedom flails on autumn winds,
        half-remembered, growing pale,
                unretired and weather-torn.

        Abandoned to an apathy’s pollution,
        the dream Old Glory strives to represent
        is treated now like any corporate logo.

                Banners rip on plastic stands,
        unsaluted dawn to dusk,
cracked and faded in the sun,
        unretired and weather-torn.

        As mildew rots the fabric of the States,
exposure to the elements betrays
        the dream Old Glory strives to represent
                to burning disregard for heritage.

This is my 9th hybridanelle poem.

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The Terrible Truth

I have been marginally involved (as in marginalized) with the poetry scene in the Mendocino County area since about 2000. It’s strange how self-proclaimed anti-elitists tend to form their own little elitist circles. And their only bragging rights, really, are that they had enough money to be able to self-publish through a vanity press. Wow. Hmm. How impressive.

Several members of the anti-elitist circle of elites here in the area have tried to pin me to a particular school or discipline, which I’ve felt ambivalent about. On the one hand, this indicates that they’re at least aware of me and perhaps even respect some of my efforts. On the other hand this illustrates that they see my work as beneath theirs because it does not conform to their idea of what poetry should be.

Ah well. Reflecting on all this recently sparked this small write.

The Terrible Truth

Try not to confuse me
   with the Formalist
       the Classicist
           the Structuralist
               the Neo-something

                       I am merely an explorer
                   a piece of yourself left
               beneath the rain-soaked coals
           of a distant childhood
       campfire

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Father

I found myself writing this after dreaming about an encounter with my father’s ghost, I spent that day reflecting on his suicide—when I was ten—and its far reaching impact on my life.

Father

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.