Poetry Is The End

This poem and poet came to me via Youtube. I was totally struck by
the work of this young artist who goes by the name of Poet Picasso.

Life and death,

Love and hate,

Heaven and hell!

Poetry is everything I've seen.

The past and the future I draw.

For better or for worse

it is the letter of my law.

Harshly covers,

swallows all my enemies

while gently touching all my friends.

The coveted origin of my beginning,

ongoing and has no end.

The capacity to forge

a working or worked experience

into a motivating creation,

poetry is focus,

coherent delivery, concentration.

Composed and calculated

from a thought or conclusion ...

can arise from chaos or confusion,

imagination or illusion,

can open a door easily

or make an unwanted intrusion.

The exhibition of an attitude.

The start ... heart of a moment,

The explosion of a soul

unchained and outspoken!

Mother

Mother of ideas mother of life
Mother of all beauty and strife
Mother of a time now long past
In whose light a shadow half cast

There lies a babe wrapped
Warmly in green the color of
No fear for whats unseen
For seen all things be when understood

Understanding must be to perceive
What we should for that which is
Above is as that which is below
Little else will you need to know

Then be on your way my child
Now go for the mother of your
Soul awaits you
Mother of Soul awaits

Yesterday Is Gone

Yesterday is gone and only now remains

Tomorrow is yet to come may we be free of her chains

The only way to penetrate our target

Is to set a true aim

Yesterday is gone tomorrow is yet to come and only now remains

To move on to be strong to return from whence we came

Noble are these in wisdom and in truth

Yet here we are now the same

Yes here we are now as living proof from which our freedom is gained

Yesterday is gone tomorrow is yet to come and only now remains

I am certain you will all agree that it is sometimes very strange

The times we'd have it all laid out at once

To see it clearly and with no pain

Then there are the times we play the role of the dunce who instinctively refrains

From the classroom of yesterday and the storehouse of tomorrow

To grasp that in which is contained

The eternal ideal that we call now which is all that remains

Violins



She cried for all the broken hearts,

Painted everlasting winters 

Floral patterns etched in ice;

A frozen tear to

Soften up the bastard bones.

Bow made love to needy string

In cooing fling – wanton whispers

Fondled under pianissimos,

Caressing callous hearts.

Melodrama swayed in satin sound

– Yet the player wasn’t there,

Only creamy song, soothing, yearning,

Teasing bitter minds.

I sensed her persevering loneliness

For beauty of an evening:

Romance of a tune; laughing,

Sobbing at the fire.

Then a climax –

Writhing passion cutting deep –

Wounding macho flesh,

And all in a work of musical art:

Ephemeral stories, yarned of music

Honed impossibly through her tones.

Mark R Slaughter

Kisses Video & Lyrics

Your kisses were for me last night

I loved the way you held me tight

I dropped my guard and forgot to fight

Your kisses were for me last night

My eyes were only for you last night

But in the end my bubble burst in flight

I lost my bearings wrong or right

My eyes were only for you last night

Your kisses were for me last night

Were they sweet or just full of spite

Please my back is no place for a knife

Your kisses were for me last night

 

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What Is Poetry? JFK's Answer?

John F. Kennedy, speaking at the dedication of a library for Robert Frost, less than a month before he was murdered said the following about poetry:

"When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment." --John Fitzgerald Kennedy October 26, 1963, Amherst College

www.jfklibrary.org

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Back in the late '90s in San Francisco, a favorite roommate of mine named Jules would get very animated each time she talked about this poet, Charles Bukowski. At the time, I hadn't heard of him and was intrigued only because she was so enthusiastic about his poetry.  When she came home with a video of him to share with me, I became an instant Bukowski fan. What a character! I love his simple, plain wit and charm.

Below is a poem of his I found on www.poemhunter.com/poems/music/. I hope you like it. Gotta love the technology he describes in this poem, now long past, but the poetry lives! Here then is Bukowski...

with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and

flounces before his

hens.

Charles Bukowski

Side note: Cool place in Boston, near the Harvard campus, me and the band mates visited while doing shows in the Boston area. Lots of Bukowski poetry in the decor and great food to boot! bukowskitavern.net




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