Poetry Blog

No posts for a minute now. Work's been easy enough but I'm stacking up hours. Only thing of worth saying right now is that we need a revolution; did you think I was joking about Obama? Take a second look before its too late. I already told you- see Illusions.

Botanical Garden of Metropolis

Here, future earth baths in the sun,
Nature revered, respected,
planned and produced,
manufactured by sentient Nature itself,
In the guise of the homo sapien

Lakes’ reflection reflects world,
endowing Nature with the magic
of neurological-mental reflection

Hear, Earth emitting sound waves
reacting with consciousness, language
creating concepts, sensations,
fantasies of reality made by reality
In the guise of the homo sapien

Wind sings softly
Words of World
through neurological-mental reflection

Botanical garden of Metropolis,
here hear reflections sing softly,
endowing nature with words of world
All manufactured by reality itself
In the guise of we natural homo sapiens

Reality in Potential

In severe silence,
the shallow seconds between functional thinking,
the Eyes of Existence
will show the One, the One universe

Lo, what deep, despondent, darkness
Darkness surrounds!
Death loams in the shadows
Undetermined unknowns threaten to destroy
Lo, Death awaits, tis certain

Yet, in that overwhelming darkness is freedom,
the white web of potentiality
Consciousness creates reality in infantile fantasy
Objective Reality shines forth as only
the total working of the architectural mind

See now, ivory illumination immersing infinity
Yes, certainly, welcome to the only light,
the light of the One universe
Thou hast espied through the Eyes

Eyes of Existence,
sweet apparition of the One
the One, the One Universe,
Universe of united mortals
Homo sapien civilization and its benighted wisdom
fabricating a shared consciousness
through life, through love, through language.

The One, the One Universe,
no subject, no object,
only human thought-language
harmonizing human actuality,
harmonized in turn by Being and the white web.

In severe silence,
the wasted life between memories and duties,
perceive thou fabricated reality as such
Redefine thou hollow art, thou strange estranged religion
Thou precise philistine philosophy, thou existence

In the dark doom of unmoving silence
one must learn to see, indeed listen
with the Eyes of Existence

For now, use mine.

See more poetry at: http://www.canonmagazine.org/contributors07_08.html

And it was written...From the Journals of--

Please excuse my 'writing' of excerpts of a private journal entry. I believe it is worth including here, though. And I've included a piece of poetry for the patient.

...If you've read my previous entries, you will understand my references to this third-party King character.


May 2008

Writing life in New York

King Rucks is a storyteller. The same storyteller of ages long ago. The bearded hermit, solemn, full of riddles and poetic bits of wisdom. The magician, the creator of culture and of a common worldview.

The same storyteller and miracle maker as Socrates, Homer, Jesus, Socrates, MLK. King Rucks tells them through written word, through speech, through situations, through audio-visual productions. As the message of storytelling has inevitably evolved, so has the medium.

King Rucks tells stories of pain and of pleasure, of despair and of hope, of destruction and of birth, of existence and of meanings.

Throughout each medium, your writings will be traces of what you were, and what you have yet to become. King Rucks will never exist, but the actions King Rucks would take are as real as the actions which he would bitterly condemn. Write the path of King Rucks, write the path of history.

Conscious existence is but a mere feeble whisper in the great span of the tornado of 14 billion years which is Being. There is no time to stumble. Every bump along your path must only define your next step. A child looks into the mirror, wondering how he will look with facial hair. A teenager looks into the mirror, wondering how he will look with a beard. A man looks into the mirror, wondering how he will look balding. A middle aged woman wonders how she will look completely gray. An old man looks into the mirror, sees his nonexistence, smiles, and wonders what his grandchild will look like with facial hair. With only a blink of the eye, a million moons rise, and this tragic human cycle passes on and on through blood-drenched centuries.

Live your existence with no worries, no regrets. Pain is the other side of pleasure, life is the other side of death. Stay focused on the vision of the old man in the mirror contemplating death, and you live every day, free, like the baby faced young child. Go, and write my child, my King.

A(miri). Baraka Speaks! 2-13-07


History speaks to Present
Facts, Fidel, fire
Newark 1967
Revolution is the main trend today
Burn, baby, burn

History stands behind the podium
Inspiring, invigorating, invincible
Forty years strong on the frontlines
Do not leave college ignorant and passive
Who blew up America? Who, who, who?

History speaks to Present
Art, activism, accord
Lenin and Dubois knew art was always political
Today’s generation must of forgot the word struggle
We are all slaves under imperialism so we are all brothers

But, History is an old man
Doddery, drained, defenseless
His power fades when his words end
He has seen it all and fights on
But twilight is inevitable, twilight descends

History speaks to Present
Politics, poets, people
Not all of us understand his politics
Not all of us subscribe to his poetics
But we are all History’s people
And with a leprechaun’s grin
History invites us to seize life, and seize power.