I See What You Did There
Though all are blessed with eyes to see,
Eyes never lay sight upon the seer;
No retina perceives the seedling
beneath its iris.
Ocular nerves sense Occam-ented pictures
Of identity: portraits framed by
Ourselves, Us, and Others
- Whose eyes perceived whole
But whose sense perceived naught.
How is one to know
Who it is for whom
Their heart beats?
Romantics look for themselves
In others and the observation
Of their heart’s beloved ideals:
Experiences of beauty, tangibly
Vicarious.
Intellectuals observe through dissection
And kill the living
As quickly as it was born,
So depth of connection
Is sufficed by cold scalpels.
The romantic and the heart
proceed differently
and disconnect from the disconnected
intellect; yet each of Us
Is perpetually lost without Our Other.
Scalpels vanquish all resistance
But all attempts to vulnerable depth
mistake the sentimental
Leaving only the literal.
Yet poetry is not figurative solely,
as the romantic wandering between objects
discovers when shadows of the soul
reveal the mistaking mates
checkered by bad lighting.
Vulnerable adjacency’s quakes
Beget depths of valleys, forsaking
Foresight to be bound to pits.
Seers see nothing in fables
Yet tell tales of vivid startles
Recounting cinematic sights
That the pupil finds to be hind,
Thus doubts one without rods
since Jesse was no profit;
therefore,
why make testaments to the old before the new?
P a t i e n c e.
For the seer has not yet spoken
To teach what I's obstruct.
Truth -- with mighty capital -- is thought
Deferred beyond any measure,
Depreciated for bearing a used cross.
With inheritance in question,
What flows from this river
Already stepped in?
Understanding, which can only be understood
If known, and only known
Through appreciation: the selfless
know thyself.
Understanding is
So difficult
To understand.
Best reflected
When succumb
To illumined flow.
Elucidation is for the patient.
The heart and the mind
Have more to say
Than either can bear to hear.
They can only write each other
And print in their discursive style
Garnering attention to distract
From stillness.
So to stillness go:
Also sprach nicht zeitgeist,
For Truth is timeless
Due to incorporeal
Incorporation in the real,
Another name for the subtle,
Since it is for all and for none,
Thus, the isolated primes
Find reunion despite the parallax
isolating them, for two hemispheres
unite at a horizon and though
So much may never touch
what be so near
The union is true.
Though all are blessed with eyes to see, Eyes never lay sight upon the seer; No retina perceives the seedling beneath its iris. Ocular nerves sense Occam-ented pictures Of identity: portraits framed by Ourselves, Us, and Others - Whose eyes perceived whole But whose sense perceived naught. How is one to know Who it is for whom Their heart beats? Romantics look for themselves In others and the observation Of their heart’s beloved ideals: Experiences of beauty, tangibly Vicarious. Intellectuals observe through dissection And kill the living As quickly as it was born, So depth of connection Is sufficed by cold scalpels. The romantic and the heart proceed differently and disconnect from the disconnected intellect; yet each of Us Is perpetually lost without Our Other. Scalpels vanquish all resistance But all attempts to vulnerable depth mistake the sentimental Leaving only the literal. Yet poetry is not figurative solely, as the romantic wandering between objects discovers when shadows of the soul reveal the mistaking mates checkered by bad lighting. Vulnerable adjacency’s quakes Beget depths of valleys, forsaking Foresight to be bound to pits. Seers see nothing in fables Yet tell tales of vivid startles Recounting cinematic sights That the pupil finds to be hind, Thus doubts one without rods since Jesse was no profit; therefore, why make testaments to the old before the new? P a t i e n c e. For the seer has not yet spoken To teach what I's obstruct. Truth -- with mighty capital -- is thought Deferred beyond any measure, Depreciated for bearing a used cross. With inheritance in question, What flows from this river Already stepped in? Understanding, which can only be understood If known, and only known Through appreciation: the selfless know thyself. Understanding is So difficult To understand. Best reflected When succumb To illumined flow. Elucidation is for the patient. The heart and the mind Have more to say Than either can bear to hear. They can only write each other And print in their discursive style Garnering attention to distract From stillness. So to stillness go: Also sprach nicht zeitgeist, For Truth is timeless Due to incorporeal Incorporation in the real, Another name for the subtle, Since it is for all and for none, Thus, the isolated primes Find reunion despite the parallax isolating them, for two hemispheres unite at a horizon and though So much may never touch what be so near The union is true.
Copyright © Rick Rupinski | Year Posted 2017
Foresight
I have lived… I have lived so many times. Death always finds me when I need it to, and need it I do. Not peaceful, not merciful, not painful, but abrupt and insistent Every night, precise as the ticking clock. I cannot help but to anticipate: one fateful day the clock will cease, and I shall meet Death as an old friend. For the first time… For the last time. Copyright © Robyn Thomas | Year Posted 2017 THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED The road less traveled... helps us to embrace uncertainty, teaches us to trust in tenacity... makes us to reflect on reality, and shows us the beauty of rarity. The road less traveled... causes us to crave creativity, brings us to the hill of humility, takes us to the peak of positivity, and shows us the depth of diversity. The road less traveled... Brings out the best in us gives us foresight and focus... teaches us to shun hocus pocus, and helps us to find inner locus... Copyright © Adeleke Adeite | Year Posted 2017