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Young ladies picking green tea in Japan- i love their vintage/antique meisen silk kimono's they are wearing and their happy expressions :) .
This antique/vintage Japanese postcard I bought very recently off eBay. I used the pic used on the items page since my camera is not working very well right now (I will fix it later)- I was very chuffed with these cards as they look even better in life :) !
We took a walk around the Marina Mirage is located at Seaworld Drive on the beautiful Broadwater Spit Main Beach Gold Coast and had some lunch there.
All about Surfer Paradise.
James Beattie, a farmer, became the first European to settle in the area when he staked out an 80-acre (32 ha) farm on the northern bank of the Nerang River, close to present-day Cavill Avenue. The farm proved unsuccessful and was sold in 1877 to German immigrant Johan Meyer, who turned the land into a sugar farm and mill. Meyer also had little luck growing in the sandy soil and within a decade had auctioned the farm and started a ferry service and built the Main Beach hotel. By 1889, Meyer's hotel had become a post receiving office and subdivisions surrounding it were named Elston, named by the Southport postmaster after his wife's home in Southport, Lancashire, England. The Main Beach Hotel licence lapsed after Meyer's death in 1901 and for 16 years Elston was a tourist town without a hotel or post office.
The boom of the 1950s and 1960s was centred on this area and the first of the tall apartment buildings were constructed in the decades that followed. Little remains of the early vegetation or natural features of the area and even the historical association of the beachfront development with the river is tenuous. The early subdivision pattern remains, although later reclamation of the islands in the Nerang River as housing estates, and the bridges to those islands, have created a contrast reflected in subdivision and building form. Some early remnants survived such as Budd's Beach — a low-scale open area on the river which even in the early history of the area was a centre for boating, fishing and swimming.
Some minor changes have occurred in extending the road along the beachfront since the early subdivision and The Esplanade road is now a focus of activity, with supporting shops and restaurants. The intensity of activity, centred on Cavill, Orchid and Elkhorn Avenues, is reflected in the density of development. Of all places on the Gold Coast the buildings in this area constitute a dominant and enduring image visible from as far south as Coolangatta and from the mountain resorts of the hinterland.
For more Info: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Surfers_Paradise,_Queensland
Short of everything but one lens of 38mm today capturing this scene had to be done hand held in sections, rather than blend it all I think it is just as beautiful layered as a plain but not too perfect collage.
River Scene. Postcard.
1910 CHICAGO ILL. Postmark.
RAVENSWOOD STATION Cancel.
Sent to:
Mrs. Chas. Wyette
Newark, Ohio
From:
Adelaide
[05941]
I shall plant
a tree
in green
for you
Hold my hand
a wee
wee bit
marvel at the blue
Sky’s like sand
you see
it bleeds
stars old and new
Bike-Concept is from:
BrickBros UK (ideas.lego.com/projects/120006)
His project is my inspiration for the scene.
Title: Camp scene.
Creator: Uknown
Date: ca. 1910-1915
Part Of: American border troops and the Mexican Revolution
Place: Mexican-American Border Region; Marfa, Presidio County, Texas
Physical Description: 1 photographic print: gelatin silver; 9 x 13 cm.
File: ag1982_0015_087r_camp.jpg
Rights: Please cite DeGolyer Library, Southern Methodist University when using this file. A high-resolution version of this file may be obtained for a fee. For details see the sites.smu.edu/cul/degolyer/research/permissions/ web page. For other information, contact degolyer@smu.edu.
For more information and to view the image in high resolution, see: digitalcollections.smu.edu/cdm/ref/collection/mex/id/1520
View the Mexico: Photographs, Manuscripts, and Imprints Collection
“The Eye Moment photos by Nolan H. Rhodes”
“Theeyeofthemoment21@gmail.com”
“www.flickr.com/photos/the_eye_of_the_moment”
“Any users, found to replicate, reproduce, circulate, distribute, download, manipulate or otherwise use my images without my written consent will be in breach of copyright laws.”
A London Overground service,formed by 378214,arrives in the background,whilst 90005 "Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson" propels a Norwich bound service through Stratford station,London - 16.6.15.
Decided to take me less serious so i gathered here a collage showing actually how hilarious my photographic attempts are.
Secondly, i'll probably won't upload something new for a while, till i manage to get a pro account (well, i've reached the photo limit) so these images make for a nice frame of what i did till now
In Spain and other countries is a tradition to put nativity scenes at home for Christmas. This week we put the Christmas decoration at home and we have build this LEGO nativity scene.
The sheep and the angel was built by my 8 year old daughter.
1980s TRABANT 601 Limousine in front of the house.
The 601 was presented in March 1964 and was produced till April 1991. The duroplast body was kept almost unchanged in all those years.
2 cylinder aircooled 595cc engine.
Number seen: about 15.
Oldrichov v Hájich (CZ), near Road number 2904, July 28, 2014.
© 2014 Sander Toonen Amsterdam | All Rights Reserved
Petersen's Description:
Scene X (pp. 55-56)
In umgekehrter Richtung stehen hier Germanen links, Römer rechts von einem zwischen felsigen Ufern strömenden Fluss, etwas unterhalb der Vereinigungzweier Arme, eher als oberhalb der Teilung, da die Wirbel Strömung von oben nach unten anzeigen. In der Gabelung eine Buche, diesseits grösser eine Eiche, wal dige Gegend bedeutend, darin vier trotzig blickende Germanen, trotz der Ahnlichkeit mit dem Quadenkönig auf einer Münze des Antoninus Pius bei Cohen méd. imp. Il', S. 339, 687, geringe Leute, die im Bausche ihrer langen befranzten Mäntel Steinetragen, und mit Schleudern den römischen Kaiser bedrohen, der am andern Ufer zu ihnen redend steht. Er hat im Rücken ein Kastell mit römischer Besatzung, welche, ausgenommen die drei vorderen, mit Aufmerksamkeit auf den Kaiser und die Schleuderer blicken. Aus dem Kastell scheint auch Mare Aurel mit Garden und Legionaren und einem Begleiter gekommen, der hier gewappnet auftritt, während der Kaiser selbst, mit der Lanze in der Linken, unbedecktes Hauptes und ohne Panzer dasteht, aber von Garden mit ihren Schilden beschirmt wird.
Here, in reversed position, with the Germanics to the left, the Romans to the right of a river flowing between rocky banks, more likely below where two branches merge than above its fork, since the eddies indicate a current flowing from top to bottom. Where the river forks stands a beech tree, larger than an oak on this side, suggesting a forested area. In it stand four defiant looking Germanics, low-born men, despite their resemblance to the king of the Quadi on a coin of Antoninus Pius by Cohen méd. imp. II2, p. 339, 687. They carry rocks in their gathered up, long, fringed tunics and with their slingshots are menacing the Emperor who is standing on the other bank who is speaking to them. At his back, stands a castellum manned by Romans, who, except for the three in front, are closely watching the Emperor and the slingers. It looks like Marcus Aurelius has also emerged from the fort with Guards and legionaries and a single attendant, who appears armed here, while the Emperor himself, javelin in the left hand, stands there bareheaded and without armor, but protected by the Guards with their shields.
Scene XI (pp. 56-57)
Um mit demselben Kastell noch diese zweite Scene in Beziehung zu setzen, scheint in der vorigen Scene die Richtung umgekehrt zu sein. Denn hier, an der anderen Seite des Kastells, wo zwischen Halbsäulen dessen geschlossenes Thor sich zeigt, ist ein aus Balken aufgebautes Gerüst, in freilich sehr ungeschickter Weise, aber unverkennbar, als zusammenbrechend über niedergestürzten und stürzenden Barbaren dargestellt. Alle drei sind geringe Leute, 1 todt auf dem Rücken liegend mit nacktem Oberkörper, 2 mit über dem Kopf gehaltenem Schilde vornüberstürzend, desgleichen 3 mit einem Mantel soeben niedersinkend, den Buckelschild am linken Arm, die Rechte gesenkt, als halte sie eine Waffe. Die Ursache ihres Sturzes und des zusammen brechenden Belagerungsturmes zeigt sich oben, wo das Holzwerk in nach oben schlagenden Flammen steht, von fliessendem Wasser, wofür man sie angesehen hatte, bestimmt unterschieden, und in dieser Flamme ein grosser Blitz liegt, wie von rechts aus der Höhe hineingefahren. Kenntlich ist die mittlere Einschnürung zur Handhabung des himmlischen Wurfgeschosses, und besser als der untere erhalten der obere gedrehte Keil, von welchem, wie aus den Bruchstellen zu erkennen, die üblichen Zacken spitzen ausliefen. Zum Überfluss zeigt eine Flamme an dem Gestürzten 2 , dass auch er und seine Genossen vom Blitz getroffen wurden. Gleich neben diesen aber sehen wir Marc Aurel unbewaffnet, von einigen Garden und Legionssoldaten umgeben, von denen namentlich nach links ein Gebückter unten 9 und ein mehr Aufrechter nach rechts oben 5 mit Messtangen beschäftigt scheinen. An der Stange von 5 ist nicht allein das charakteristische dicke Ende sichtbar, sondern sogar die kleinen Löcher zur Bezeichnung der Massabteilungen: die metatores (Vegetius 2, 7) scheinen ganz dem Geschäft des Lagerahsteckens hingegeben, Marc Aurel selbst aber auf die nieder stürzenden Barbaren hinzuweisen, fulmen de caelo precibus suis contra hostium machinamentum extorsit, wie es in der Vita Marci 2 heisst.
Abgewandt von dieser Gruppe steht aber noch ein Römer 10, der, nach rechts gewandt, sich an einem seltsamen Gebilde zu thun macht : trotz des abgesplitterten Reliefs erkennt man vor allem oben einen Helm in Kopfhöhe des dahinter Stehenden, aber nicht auf menschlichem Körper, sondern einem nach rechts vorgekrümmten Stamme aufgesetzt, gegen den ein Schaft, natürlich eine Lanze, gelehnt war, und vor dem oben ein scutum, tiefer ein ebenfalls schildähnlicher Körper befestigt war. Eher als ein tropäum, das ja in damaliger Zeit, wie die Säule, Taf. 64 f., selbst lehrt, andere Dimensionen und andere Formen hatte, und zu dessen Errichtung kein Anlass vorlag, scheint eine fingierte Schildwache gemeint zu sein, woneben dann auch das Vermessen nur Schein sein möchte, bestimmt die Barbaren, welche, wie dort die Schleuderer, so hier in langer Doppelreihe hinter ihren Schilden lauernd, am Flusse Wache halten, irrezuführen oder vielmehr an diesem festzuhalten, um unterdes an anderem unbewachtem Orte den Fluss zu passieren. Ob dieser Fluss, derselbe wie der vorige, nur an andrer Stelle, oder ein ganz anderer, ist natürlich nicht zu sehen. Jedenfalls ist auch dieser von felsigen Ufern eingefasst und scheint diesseits von einem hügeligen Strich (vgl. Taf. 20 die Zone am Gebirg) begleitet. Jenseits sieht man Schild an Schild, darüber die spähenden Köpfe, nur im Umriss noch kennbar, darüber eine zweite Reihe von Köpfen bis 19, über dem vielmehr ein Herbeieilender erscheint, der mit ausgestrecktem Arme offenbar aufregende Kunde bringt, etwa, dass der Feind that sächlich anderswo eingedrungen sei: darum denn auch über 23 einer schon den Posten zu verlassen eilt.
In order to relate this second scene to the same castellum, the direction appears to be reversed in the prior scene. For here, on the fort’s other side, where its closed gate shows between two half columns, is a scaffold constructed of beams but obviously built in a very clumsy manner that is depicted unmistakably as collapsing on top of fallen and falling barbarians. All three are commoners: 1 with nude torso lying dead on his back; 2 with shield held overhead and falling forward; similarly, 3, in a tunic, also sinking down, a buckler on his left arm, the right lowered as if holding a weapon. What caused their fall and that of the collapsing siege tower is shown at the top, where the wooden structure is engulfed in upward shooting flames, clearly not the flowing water that they had previously been mistaken for, and, within these flames, appears a large lightning bolt as if it had struck from the upper right. The necking for handling it can be seen in the middle of the divine missile and, better preserved than the lower branch, is its twisted upper branch from which shoot the usual spikes. On top of that, a flame on the corpse 2 shows that he and his comrades, too, were hit by the lightning. But right next to them, we see an unarmed Marcus Aurelius, surrounded by a few Guards and legionaries, of whom one 9 is bent toward the left below and another, more erect 5, toward the upper right; both seem to be busy with measuring rods: these metatores (quartermasters) (Vegetius 2, 7) seem to be totally absorbed in the business of laying out a camp, while Marcus Aurelius himself seems to be pointing at the falling barbarians, fulmen de caelo precibus suis contra hostium machinamentum extorsit (his prayers have caused a thunderbolt to be hurled against the enemy’s machine), as it states in the Vita Marci 24.
Facing away from this group, however, stands another Roman 10 who, turned toward the right, occupies himself with a strange object: Despite the spalled relief, it is possible to discern, especially up top, a helmet at head height of the one standing behind it, but it rests not on a human body, being placed instead on a tree trunk that is bent forward to the right, against which leans a shaft, obviously a javelin, and in front of which on top are fastened a scutum (rectangular, semi- cylindrical legionary’s shield) and, farther down, another, also shield-like, object. Rather than representing a tropaeum (victory monument), that, as the column itself instructs us in Plate 64f, had different dimensions and other shapes at that time, and there was no reason to erect one yet in any case , this seems to have been a fake sentry to fool the barbarians that, like the slingers over there, here also lurked in a long double row behind their shields, keeping watch on the river, intended to keep them there while crossing the river elsewhere in the meantime at an unguarded place. If this river is the same as the previous one
only a different section or it is a completely different one, cannot be said. In any event, this one, too, is contained between rocky banks and on the nearest side seems to be paralleled by a hilly stretch (cf. Plate 20, the zone by the mountains). On the other side, we see shield next to shield, the heads peering out over them, only discernable in outline now, above it, a second row of heads until 19, above which someone comes running up with arms raised, who apparently is bringing stirring news, perhaps, that the enemy has, in fact, penetrated elsewhere, so that one. abover 23, of them is already hurriedly abandonding his position.
===================================
Author: Petersen, Eugen (Eugen Adolf Hermann), 1836-1919.
Title: Die Marcus-säule auf Piazza Colonna in Rom, herausgegeben von Eugen Petersen, Alfred von Domaszewski, Guglielmo Calderini; mit CXXVIII Tafeln folio.
Format: Book
Published: München, F. Bruckmann a.g., 1896.
Description: 125 p. illus. (incl. ports., map) 39 cm. and atlas of 128 mounted pl. 50 cm.
Other contributors: Domaszewski, Alfred von, 1856-1927. Calderini, Guglielmo, 1837-1916. Mommsen, Theodor, 1817-1903.
Contents: Einleitung, von E. Petersen.--Der Marcomanen-krieg unter Kaiser Marcus, von T. Mommsen.--L'architettura della colonna, da G. Calderini.--Beschreibung der Bildwerke, von E. Petersen.--Erläuterung der Bildwerke, von A. von Domaszewski.
Subject headings: Column of Marcus Aurelius (Rome, Italy)
Inbetween the heavy winds during the cyclone on 1-22-11. Imagine this forlorn creature singing the Rolling Stones song "Gimme Shelter", then take a look at the video on the right.
POEM PARKING LOT
MOONLIGHT
Moonlight softens a multitude of sins.
Glows delicately, soft, not blazing, just
Reflecting. Shines a gentler light on things.
Reminds us that we’re not really as hard
As we pretend. Let the fragile side of
Yourself out of its shell, enjoy the night
Sky’s splendor. Make time for someone
Special to you. Moonlight reminds us
How precious calm can be, that we
Needn’t spend each moment in a flurry.
How we’re meant to do more than just
Fight our way through existence, either
Conquering or breaking free. Sometimes
It’s clear how all this conflict is just so
Much invention, mostly needless. Leave
All of that alone for now. Let moonlight
Remind you how in the midst of all we
Resist there’s still a natural wonder it’s
No sin to give in to.
HOT PLATE
That which can’t be spoken of in honorable
Terms. That which has been declared off-
Limits, old business, trashed, abused,
Treated like something of no value. No use.
Responsibility dropped like a hot plate that
Ought to shatter but doesn’t. Hear it clang
Like an unwanted gong ringing awareness
You haven’t forgotten and never will. Try
Harder? Smash it to pieces like you wish
You could smash the pain into dust for the
Next wind? Passionate as it might appear,
Destroying plates as some kind of display
Seems so undignified. Unnecessary to
Victimize the kitchenware. Angrily, sadly,
This kitchen reeks of indignity already, and
It’s not the dishes’ fault. Silly old fashioned
Me, I thought we were supposed to value
That which doesn’t break.
SEEDS
A burger would look barmy claiming to
Be a cow. Potatoes grow in the ground,
Not potato chips. Oranges grow in
Florida, but orange juice comes from
A factory. Metal comes from the earth,
But your car, mostly metal, didn’t just
Drive up from some garage under the
Surface. That laptop facilitating your
Interaction with the world is mostly
Plastic, which comes these days from
Corn, but nobody credits the corn for
Social networking. The whole point is
No matter who or what we come from,
Life changes us into something separate,
Distinct, different, new called ourselves.
When this happens with natural things,
We say it’s so great, but when it happens
With people, for some it’s a sign of the
End times. Maybe not all transformation
Is good, but can you think of anything
Worse than none at all? So we needn’t
See ourselves as betrayers if we stray
From our roots – that’s what seeds do.
It’s moving forward, not ending. Worry
Not, beloved sisters and brothers, time
Won’t end till you’ve paid off your debts,
Which we all know will never happen.
UGLY
You say my poems sound like they’re
Afraid to go somewhere ugly? As if
Ugliness, that decreasingly vague
Sense of threat, needs any more
Expression – just turn on the news.
Watch people struggling, starving,
Stealing, raping, destroying, killing
For no good reason, but our steady
Diet of violence has made us numb
To others suffering. Ugly enough?
Certain social entities want you
Convinced the world’s a dangerous
And ugly place, because conveniently
They have a solution to sell you,
Provided you sign up for their program.
Fear and ugliness do good business,
So they’d prefer you forget there’s
A way that’s free. You don’t need a
Program to appreciate beauty.That’s
All someone like me tries to remind
People of. Ugliness is the wolf at
My door, and my means or resistance
Is to reach all I can for harmony before
I’m consumed too by some ugly hunger.
In the midst of so much ugliness,
Embracing what’s beautiful is almost
An act of subversion. I want to subvert,
With a passion.
INVENT
When you invent me in your mind as
Someone you can’t trust, can’t open
Up to, can’t reach out to, can’t relate
To, can’t use period, it’s too bad you’re
Not writing for Hollywood. When you
Assume a whole ideology, value system,
Attitude, belief, sensibility and you
Attribute it to me without even asking,
That’s an astounding leap of faith and
Confidence in your own convictions
I wish you’d save for your religion.
Good thing you’re not as convinced
You can walk on water or part the
Red Sea as you are that you have me
All figured out.
REASONS
Some reasons are like weeds, you think
You’re rid of them but the just spring
Back up. The longer you leave them the
More they take over. Dealing with them
Is the price you pay for having a garden.
I guess you’d classify this type of reason
As doubts. Other reasons are like trees,
Standing tall no matter what nasty acts
Of nature take place. With age, they
Attain a certain height, and can shelter
Other living things. I guess you’d refer
To this type of reason as faith. Stranger
Reasons are like cactus, living where
Most life would die, protecting what’s
Precious under sharp thorns but unable
To reach out or be reached without
Hurting. If you want to reach them, it’s
Going to hurt. I can’t decide whether
To call these reasons cynicism, damages,
Or life insurance. Maybe all three.
SO PURE
I really should resolve to market
Myself more effectively. Problem is,
I’ve got this deep seated conviction
That it’s classier to just give things
Away. This sort of begs the question
As to whether anyone genuinely
Values that which they’re just given.
So tell me, would you take my poetry
More seriously if you had to pay for it?
Think carefully – my future creativity
Could be riding on your answer. And
Truthfully, the only reason I need
Money is to stop worrying about it.
So how is it I’m not prospering
When my intentions are so pure?
TRADE SECRET
Do you wonder where all these
Poems come from? Well, it’s
Simple. I have a Good Angel on
One shoulder and a Bad Angel
On the other, both vying for
My attention, to be the one
Taken seriously, establish
Credibility, each whispering
Profound, provocative, pure,
Soily, sacred, profane, mystical,
Physical, sexual, intellectual,
Spiritual, selfless, selfish, true,
False, angry, forgiving, gentle,
Devoted, demented, violent,
Me me me and you you you
Influences on my outlook from
Moment to moment. Poems
Are what’s left over when the
Crossfire momentarily ceases.
HOMES
I feel at home in more than one place.
There’s the home where I was born, the
Home where I live, and the homes I’ve
Discovered and return to when I can.
No ambivalence about my citizenship,
But I’ve left a little bit of myself and
Taken with me something from all the
Different places I’ve called home, even
If only for a few days. They’re all part of
Me now, regardless of where my feet
Kick back at any moment, just like you
Don’t have to be right beside someone
To love them deeply, even if you wish
You could be. That’s why, contrary to
Appearances, I don’t think of this at all
As an exile.
DRAMATIC BAGGAGE
Maybe I was left in front of the TV
At too early an age. I didn’t just
Watch the shows, I felt them too.
(What else is a good show supposed
To make you do?) That’s my earliest
Impression of human conflict and
Resolution. Now I wonder whether
Unconsciously I still expect everything
To be too black and white like our old
TV, too cut and dried. In theory I’m
Aware of complexity, but emotionally
It’s a different story – if my feelings
You’re engaged, you’re either a hero
Or a villain. Villains must be punished
Or defeated for heroes to come out
Shining before the last commercial. I
Know that’s distorted, but we don’t
Just think about people, we feel them
Too. So if you’re going to get dramatic,
Know that all it does is warm the tubes
Of my old TV feelings that never leave,
Just leave more dramatic baggage than
I know how to handle. As a child, to me
Everyone on TV seemed so much more
Alive, but involvement with them was
Just something you could always turn
Off anytime you liked.
TRAVELING
Traveling is my freedom and my prison,
My choice as well as my inescapable
Fate. Like a shark starts to fade if it
Doesn't circulate, I need to move. In
The shadows between one location
And the next, there's somewhere all
Is still, my only moments of peace.
It's not just arriving, not just leaving,
But the movement between that keeps
The weeds and vines from encircling,
Enclosing. Can you ever really be
Close to someone who won't stay
Put? Yes. Be a partner, not an
Anchor.
WHAT A DOG
Dog with a bone can’t let go. For all
He knows, it’s dog nirvana. Canine
Heaven made flesh (or in this case
Bone). Never seen him so fully
Committed, or willing to lay down
His life to protect what’s so precious
To him. Never seen him so happy,
Wagging his tail at its sight, gamboling
Like he thinks he’s a lamb, savoring its
Taste, aroused by its scent, licking
Tongue expressing the depths of his
Affection, barking baritone love songs
Of faith and devotion. Playing with it
Like each moment they have together
Is golden. Makes you wonder how they
Ever did without one another. They’re
Partners till he’s gnawed the last of
The marrow from its insides. When
It loses its special appeal, dog thinks
Nothing of moving on to the next one.
What a dog.
DREAMS
In their isolation, inhabitants of tiny
Islands, known to and knowing only
Themselves, weave mythologies that
Map their location as the center of
The universe, of creation, of time.
Dwarves who don’t know better
Think they’re giants. Same with
Dreams – won’t acknowledge limits
If they don’t have to, sometimes
Growing big enough to think they
Can depose reality. Poor dreamer,
Then, what mutiny must brew in
Your soul. For we know how reality
Has taken many a battering, but
Always is the one left standing
Because dreams seldom outlive
The dreamers. Through rebellion
Is more romantic, at least in teen
Novels, dreams might do better to
Treat reality more politely, to make
Their pleas free of expectation reality
Will listen, just with a humble hope
Reality might point the way to truth
Just as real as it was in your dream.
GUESS
No more guesses. Nothing brings on
A flood of bad emotions like feeling
With all your being that you’re right
Then realizing you’ve simply guessed
Wrong. Maybe the more something
Means to you personally the less
Clearly you can really see it. There’s
A time to be objective, and a time to
Follow your heart and dive right in.
Too bad sometimes we can only
Guess which is which. I feel like I
Dove into a pool that turned out to
Be empty. The water was imaginary,
Unlike the concrete. So please, don’t
Expect me to guess. If you want me
To believe you, first believe in what
You want to convey enough to say it
Face to face.
BEATNIK MOSQUITOES
Poems are like mosquitoes drunk on the
Blood of a nicotine addict such as moi,
Haphazardly careening in circular flight,
Their mission - inner space exploration,
Little bitty buzzings sounding like jazz
Saxophones soundtracking beatnik
Free verse, these insect Allen Ginsburgs,
Improvising wildly like a Dixieland band.
Jazz poetry from beatnik mosquitoes
Drunk on my blood - how beautiful!
SLAP
Poems are like mosquitoes, flying
Around sucking on people’s feelings,
Spreading disease, making you
Itch, disrupting your sleep,
Inspiring a good slap or two.
WHEN WE WERE NORMAL
Inter-generational conflict rendered
Me less than at my best for a long time.
I resigned myself to the reality that my
Elders were clueless and my peers were
Crazy. By necessity, I kept a foot in both
Camps, but my head and heart were
Somewhere else. It’s all cooled off by
Now, but the cynicism I got from the
Bad years has stayed with me like an
Unwanted tattoo. Worse is the feeling
That while now-meaningless battles
Consumed our thoughts, something
Slipped by us. We still see the world
Like we did when we were normal,
But that was a long, long time ago.
POOR OLD ROBOT
Poor old robot from a second hand
Robot store. Can’t find your parts
Anymore, can’t find your owner.
Poor old robot, feeling outmoded,
Knowing your warranty expired
Yesterday but refusing to just sit
Around and decay. Poor old robot,
All your friends in the junkyard,
Sadly mute, reminding you of a
More animated past. Poor old
Robot, wanting to be helpful but
Only speaking Chinese, confusing
The elderly and frightening the
Young. Poor old robot, short-circuiting
Your own speakers issuing distorted
Robot moans about how nobody
Appreciates you, sounding more
Annoying than rap (in Chinese)
Through a broken boom box. Poor
Old robot, voice of every invention
First coveted greedily then tossed
Aside casually as soon as there’s a
Newer version. Poor old robot,
Wishing you could take your metallic
Hands and throttle whoever saddled
You with this limited lifespan. Poor
Old robot, I want to shoot you just
To shut you up, but you look at me
With those tortured robot eyes and
It scares me how easily I can relate.
DUSK
Dusk, and the day’s content to let
Its light relax and fade. There’s
Still work to be done, but for now
That’s enough. Now day and night,
Opposites but still ideal partners,
Do their changing of the guard at
Dusk. Then the light disappears,
No one knows where to and no
One asks. After all it does for us,
It’s entitled to its privacy. There’s
A time to shine as bright as you can,
And a time to do nothing more than
Enjoy being alive. In the long run,
It’s the steadiness that counts,
Finding a comfortable rhythm that
Won’t grind you down. Day and
Night split their time equally. We
Should learn from that balance.
DEVIL’S TOOLS
During the bad years I was judged
Constantly, even for things I’d never
Actually done. No one can justify
Another’s pretensions, no matter
How well-intended, but there was
Still some expectation the prodigal
Son might turn out to be a golden
Boy after all. When that didn’t
Happen, they imagined the worst.
Someone’s anger stings no less
Just because you know it’s based
On a mistake – the real sting is
What they’d believe about you.
Wrong ideas, in the minds of
People firmly convinced they
Can’t be anything but right, are
The devil’s tools for dismantling
Families.
AUSTIN
Take me with you back to Austin – I’m not
Understood here, much less appreciated.
Here, I have to sing in a language I can’t
Speak. In Austin, I can sing in English, and
I’ll learn as much Spanish as I have to. In
That kind of milieu, they'd more likely take
Me to heart. Here, I get shot down just
For showing I care, and if anyone cares
For me, they’ll be damned before they’d
Admit it. Austin might find me more
Socially acceptable, value my cultural
Contribution more highly than my home
Town Lilliputians. Plus I’ll make you money –
Be my manager. Austin’s feminist enough
For a woman Colonel Parker. I can be like
Your Mexican, except I’m a citizen. So it
Makes perfect sense economically, socially,
Emotionally and culturally that you take
Me with you back to Austin, home of the
Armadillo. I really can do better, but not
Here, where every time I open my mouth
I remind everyone they didn’t invent music.
INOTE: You know who Colonel Parker is, right? In case you're clueless, Colonel Parker was Elvis' manager. See, reading my poems is very educational.)
CALI PHONE YA
I will miss you, sprawling industrial district.
You too, cold winds at night. You too,
Mall after mall, all the same stores. You
Too, people everywere on cells, lost in
One way conversations for all appearances.
You too, healthy, skinny, multi-ethnic
Residients reminding me to diet. You too,
Radio where they play what they like,
Acoustic western swing for cruising. You
Too, old people acting young. You too,
Redemption tickets at Indian gambling
Palaces, payback for white wrongs. You
Too, taquerias on wheels, food names I
can't pronounce. You too, tall eucalyptus
Straddling the highway. California, land of
Great distances. Spent half my time here
Driving. Almost always worth it. A week
Here is like a month at home. Gotta say
Bye before I flame out, die of fun.
IN FRONT OF STORES
In old Samoa they would sit around
The fire at night. Now boys sit in front
Of stores from twilight till closing time.
One of the side effects of society based
On industry and wages is boys with
Nowhere better to go than bus stops
Or store parking lots. They have homes
They can’t go to, parents they can’t be
Around. What kind of adults will they
Become, growing up feeling like home
And family have to be avoided? For the
Sake of our future, every adolescent
Should be asked to think about the
Questions: what should a family be,
And how does it turn into something
You want to run from?
STICKS AND LEAVES
Once upon a time the two had a
Mansion. One they didn’t have to
Earn, but came to them naturally.
Then, for reasons that vary
Depending on who’s explaining,
Their mansion lay in ruins. What
Are their options? They could say,
It doesn’t matter, we’ll make a
Shelter of sticks and leaves, and it
Will do as long as we’re together,
Or they could turn their attention
Separately to other mansions that
Just happen to have an empty room
And role they could easily fill. Sounds
Cold, I know, but you’d be surprised
How many would go for it given the
Circumstances. One day you may
Have to choose between insisting
On the mansion class at any cost,
Or accepting when you have
Nothing but sticks and leaves left
With someone, and saying it’s a
Start, not the end.
WALL
Quite a big wall to keep out
Just one person, don’t you
Think? Oh right, the wall’s
Not for me, not a message.
It’s for vampires, werewolves,
Traveling salesmen, Santa,
Elves, reindeer, postmen
With colds and girls scouts
Trying to push their cookies
On you. What’s sad about
Walls is what can’t get out,
Not just what can’t get in.
What if a rainbow ends on
The other side, with a pot
Of gold that’s yours for the
Taking, but you can’t get
Over your own wall?
ROADRUNNER
Too fast to be caught, never held
Back, I wanted to be Roadrunner.
A life of highways to explore at full
Speed. Grant me the freedom to
Travel and I’m happy. Take it all in,
And take off running before you’re
Tied to anything or anyone. Beep,
Beep, moving on. I wanted to be
Roadrunner – life in the fast lane.
Amazing it lasted as long as it did.
Sad I’d finally find someone I’d
Love to run with right when fate
Has forced me to hit the brakes.
It’s clear each time you beep beep
By like you don’t even know me –
I wanted to be Roadrunner, but
Ended up Coyote.
DEATH SENTENCE
I think I know what’s going to
Kill me – stupidity. Involuntary
Meditative state 24/7 where
The mantra is, “That was stupid.”
Stupidity is relative, therefore
Relatives are stupid.
OBJECTS
Objects have a history. Objects
Could tell stories, given where
They’ve been and what they’ve
Seen, but instead they must sit
Mute and just watch. Objects
Are a paradox – they’ve never
Had what we’d describe as life
And yet they’ll still be here long
After us, and in fact they’ll be
Here forever until someone
Destroys them. To remember us,
Those still here will preserve our
Objects. But that’s nothing like
The kind of interaction it would
Be with us in person, is it? So
Better interact now, and not be
Shy about it either. It’s sort of
The movements of our akimbo
Limbs, and sort of the yappings
Of our colorful tongues, and
Sort of many other things, but
Mostly it’s the sweet essence
Of life itself that makes us more
Than just objects.
DISCLOSURE
My own point of view is
Hopelessly biased – there,
I admit it. I put it out there
Anyway because… Well,
Why not? The worst that
Can happen is you think
I’m delusional. Yep, like
Zillions of others, like the
Wavering masses. like
You too in many ways.
The best that can happen
Is that you know we’re
Really thinking the same
Thing, or not far from it.
That means something.
What? I don’t know, it’s
Always still unwritten.
Anything you want, and
Hopefully nothing you
Don’t. Just for the record,
Thank you for your time
And kind attention. That’s
Today’s disclosure.
ART FILM
Strangest movie you’ve ever seen,
But hey, this is an art film not some
Hollywood product. Human voices
Narrate, but people have no presence
Onscreen. Objects and images stand
As visual metaphors for the story, as if
These better convey something literal
Action or even narration can’t. The
Silhouette of a village sticking up
Through a forest evokes home existing
Only in memory. Railroad tracks and
Nearby debris symbolize childhood
Displacement. Changing light on photos
Indicates the passage of time. Lives are
Represented by bottles floating on
The sea. When its 15 minutes are up,
A buzz in the audience ensues. An
Esteemed panel of judges seems
Speechless, muttering terms like
“Startling”, “innovative”, and “rich in
“Emotion”. The filmmakers just say
That’s what happens when you don’t
Have a budget and you’ve never made
A film, you just really want to, when
You don’t know what you’re doing but
You’re not about to let a minor detail
Like that stop you.
TELL OF WONDERS
If I could tell of wonders, I’d write
The stories here, not to bring me
Glory by association, but to share
My best. Because this is all I can
Share with you until things change,
The only way I can talk to you. If I
Could tell of wonders, I would, but
Most of my stories are rather
Mundane, just people dealing
With day to day life, sometimes
Discovering themselves through
Each other, sometimes catching
Just a glimpse of something bigger
That ties the mysteries together.
THE WORD MUSIC
The word music is closely related to
The word muse, the reason why
Writers write. The act of writing is
Seen as petitioning fate to intervene
In the hopes your muse will view you
Favorably. Music does the same with
Sound. Notes carry messages words
Can’t. Music, as a word, is not far
From magic. Music works an alchemy
Of its own - let it in and it'll take you
Somewhere. Resist and you’ll get
Noise instead of enjoyment. In those
Moments when music sings to the
Soul, a meaning you needn’t think
About comes through, as if on an
Invisible wire. It’s an open secret
Known to anyone who listens and
Feels, and doesn’t just analyze in
A vacuum. If music doesn’t prove
There’s magic, it at least reminds
That you get out of something what
You put in.
STRAYS
Our dogs simply want something
To eat. They were never farmers
In the first place, but hunters
Who’ve forgotten they ever had
That skill, defenders with nothing
Left to defend but the few scraps
They can pilfer from our leftovers.
More often they go hungry in their
Learned dependence on generosity.
They once served a worthwhile
Purpose for someone or other,
Once had a part in our functioning,
But now they’re strays, deprived of
A livelihood. They’d be more than
Happy to work hard for a crumb of
Your kindness just to survive, living
By their wits but unaware of their
Place in the bigger picture, and not
Caring either.
DELICATE
Can you pull your weeds without
Ruining your garden? Careful, most
Beautiful things are delicate, you
Can’t just slash and burn, as much
As you hate the weeds. Delicate
Things require patience and care,
But look what happiness they bring
Nature is delicate. Life is delicate.
Our deepest feelings are delicate.
How ironic, then, that even apes
Can have more patience and care
Than man, who finds delicacy
Inferior to efficiency, and wants
To slash and burn his way through
Everything, including people.
UNLESS YOU’RE THE POPE
So, are you convinced you can’t be
Forgiven, or just too proud to ask?
It’s pretty arrogant to forgive
Someone who even hasn’t asked
For it, unless you’re the Pope and
Really in a hurry. And if someone
Has the guts to ask, it’s pretty
Heartless to make them grovel,
Unless you want to convince them
They shouldn’t have bothered.
CLUELESS
Hey, pretend you’re a priest while
I make a confession – I’m clueless.
My memory’s ok, but as far as
Processing what those memories
Mean, forget it. I’ve been turned
Around more than once, and no
Sooner do I finish feeling dizzy than
I start feeling clueless. Meanings
Seem to have shifted, signs signify
Differently. It’s all unfamiliar again
To me. I’m blank – will you fill me in?
Maybe my sensibilities just reflect
An earlier time with a different
Notion of what doing right means,
A different approach. But in the
Here and know, I know how my
Cluelessness must appear to you
As if the dinosaurs never left.
EXPOSED
Eyeballs with wings, following us around
As if we’re breaking news, walking sitcoms,
Like our every moment captured can be
Used for selling ads. We’re never wanting
For an audience. Eyeballs with wings,
Posing as innocent bystanders, trying to
Blend in with the birds, swarming in our
Moments of embarrassment like locusts,
Thinking here’s a good one for prime time
Tonight. Eyeballs with wings, all-seeing, no
Heart for understanding. Disdaining eyes,
Ready to bear witness to anything they
Find suspicious. Wish I could shoot them
From the sky, find out if they’re capable
Of tears, but they’re in my head. Eyeballs
With wings, hanging upside down like bats
Outside my bedroom. Even when no one
Wants to know, I still walk around feeling
Exposed.
PORTRAIT
I suppose if you put all the poems
Together, a certain portrait might
Emerge. An attitude embedded in
The language, values suggested
By the style. But don’t be fooled –
Let an artist paint themselves and
It’ll be the most distorted portrait
You could ask for. Expression can
Be a defense, an elaborate disguise,
Pure fiction, the occasional naked
Truth. I must confess to reveling in
The freedom of never being sure if
I’m taken seriously. Gives me room
To evolve, explore, experiment.
If I ever touch your sensibilities
In some way, I’m truly flattered,
But it’s an accident. My thought
Collisions occasionally summon a
Connection rather than an ambulance.
Were a truly accurate portrait to
Crawl from the wreckage of my
Pages, you’d see a shell shocked
Crash test dummy, mangled, head
Backwards, heart sideways, limbs
Akimbo, lips fixed in a grimace,
Jumping right into the next car.
LION TAMER
Taming lions, do you need a circus
Mind? A grasp of animal psychology?
The talent to get them to trust you
Above their own instincts? Can they
Unlearn what another nasty trainer
Has whipped into them, once he’s
Manipulated their wants and needs
To make them behave his way?
Make them feel they’re safe not
Biting the head off anyone who
Doesn’t give them exactly what
They expect? Don’t be like a lion
Trained by the Romans to tear
Apart criminals, deviants and
Religious dissidents to entertain a
Bloodthirsty colosseum audience.
BURRITO
What gets folded-into our story?
What doesn’t? Our story is like a
Burrito – by themselves the
Ingredients would make one big
Mess, cross no-fly zones, riot on
The plate, stain your clothes, soil
The floor. However, these same
Ingredients, when something holds
Them in one place, create an
Unexpected combination of tastes,
Rendered in the burrito’s case all
The more palatable by a Nobel
Prize-worthy masterpiece of
Culinary engineering, a design
With equally valid practical,
Cultural and gastronomical
Qualities. What we think wasn’t
Meant to co-exist in one dish
Somehow does - with willingness
And creativity, and a good salsa
Always helps. Every burrito across
The USA at this very moment
Stands as a testament to what
Hunger and ingenuity can do.
COLUMBUS
History is great – I’m re-learning it all
The time. Like the little-known fact
That besides collecting information
For maps, Columbus also collected
Several hundred Indians to take
Home and sell as slaves. Well, how
Else was he supposed to pay for the
Trip? And besides, in exchange for a
Few hundred slaves, not all of whom
Even made it to Europe, look what
We got. No Columbus, no Las Vegas.
No Seattle. No Boise, Idaho. No Alamo,
No Annie Oakley, no Little Big Horn, no
George Washington, no Ben Franklin.
No Star Spangled Banner. No Civil War,
No Blues, no Jazz, no Rock & Roll. No
Lincoln, no Lincoln Center. No Pearl
Harbor, no 9-11, no Boston Tea Party,
No Boston Strangler, no McDonalds.
No Margaret Mitchell, no Margaret
Mead, no Miley Cyrus. No Fox News.
No American Idol, no FBI, no Civil Rights.
None of this and more would ever have
Come to pass if it hadn’t been for
Columbus. You wouldn’t even be here,
So hey, just let the slave thing slide.
TELEVISION
Television, you pampered only child
Of an arranged marriage between
Hollywood and Wall Street. Television,
Shaping our culture while taping its
Mouth shut and binding its hands.
Television, who do your represent,
Anyway? Am I no longer in tune with
Society since you don’t make sense?
Television, aimed at some imaginary
America where everyone takes your
Word on what’s worth buying and
Believing. Television, you’re teaching
Escape. Television, your signals go
Out into space. Alien races are curious
About you, Television, and now firmly
Believe earth’s highest-evolved life
Form motivates and manipulates its
Own masses by dangling desired
Material items and idealized states
Of being in front of them like you’d
Dangle a carrot in front of a donkey.
RIVERBOAT
Flowing on the slow river of time,
Before you know it you’ve come
Farther than you believed possible.
Whenever this river seems about
To end, it’s only changing, following
A way passed down from the ages.
Why stray from a proven route?
Someone once told me there’s an
Ocean where all rivers meet, where
Their long travels end, but curiously,
Rivers take their sweet time keeping
The appointment. Who’s in a hurry?
We’ll arrive when it’s time. Until
Then, the river is single-mined,
Stopping everywhere, staying
Nowhere, enticing us with a free
One-way ticket. The river wants us
To mix, discover what’s out there.
Learn from and love every moment
On the water. We’re lucky we can
Join this voyage even for a short
Time, and few among us have
Passage all the way to its end.
PANIC
Calm serenity is an illusion, but shout
That lie as loud as you can because the
Truth is panic. As soon as we’re out of
The womb, we’re screaming. As soon
As whatever situation we’re in starts
Spinning out of control, we’re right back
To the panic we reacted with as soon as
We opened our eyes. And not just babies.
No one wants the pressure of keeping it
All together, but who will prevent our
Serenity from descending into anarchy
If not ourselves? Calm serenity reminds
Us of Heaven, a place within us where it
Doesn’t seem like it could all blow apart
Any second. We need that thought to
Deal with the world, keep reminding
The deaf public and dumb governments
There’s always a better solution than
Bombs. Calm serenity is an illusion, so
Forgive me for cultivating dishonesty –
I’m just trying not to panic.
BETRAYAL
If I talk about betrayal, it doesn’t
Mean I’m talking about you, just
About the thousand ways you can
Feel betrayed. I know it doesn’t do
Any good to talk about feeling
Betrayed, but every time I’m right
On the brink of being kind for no
Other reason than just to be kind,
That feeling comes creeping back:
You’re gonna get betrayed. Betrayal
Is the risk you take when you give.
If you give in the right way, there’s
A tiny chance you won’t be betrayed,
But it’s really tiny. Much more
Straightforward to be a taker, a
Heartbreaker, a bastard, a user.
You can’t be betrayed if you just
Don’t care. Might as well betray
Someone else before they do it
To you. Betrayal is a parachute
For those who can’t stand feeling
Trapped, held back. Betrayal is a
Cancer in the marrow of our
Society and personal lives, eating
The blood cells faith needs. Betrayal
Goes back to the Bible – Judas might
Have been forgiven for his betrayal,
But I’m not so saintly.
FOR MARIE ANTOINETTE
If you doubt the power of propaganda,
Consider this. Marie Antoinette, one of
History’s coldest, most heartless bitches,
Once famously remarked that peasants
Starving for bread could eat cake instead.
This immortal utterance, which so well
Characterizes corruption, anywhere,
Anytime, guarantees that Marie won’t
Soon be forgotten. Imagine my surprise,
Then, when I read that there’s actually
No concrete evidence she really said it!
That historians consider the source of
The quote highly unreliable! A tabloid,
No less. Louis and Marie apparently
Believed in freedom of the press, but
As is still so often the case, attacking
The unpopular sold copies. Therefore,
Exaggerations and lies about the
Monarchy were commonplace. But so
What? With a quote so memorable,
Questions of legitimacy are secondary.
Still, imagine going down in history for
Something you never actually said!
History has force fed Marie that very
Same cake allegedly recommended
To the peasants.
R.I.P. LOU REED
The different don’t feel so different
Anymore, not like they used to, not
Like when they had to deny the very
Idea of their natures. The different had
Lou Reed to sing for them. Lou didn’t
Pander for shock value, he just figured
He’d get real, real for him, maybe real
Too for others out there in dark corners,
The margins, the gutters, the alleys, the
Toilets, the jails, the mental hospitals.
This was when being a freak wasn’t chic,
It was dangerous, could cost you your
Life. Sometimes Lou didn’t mind who
He offended, other times he cloaked
His real meanings in clever language,
But no one could probe as deeply into
The taboo shadows of our collective
Psyche with the same boldness or
With as much humanity. That’s what
I’ll remember Lou for, his humanity,
His occasional tenderness, his trying
To find the heart in life’s confusions,
His frequent rubbing of life’s seediest
Sides in your face. He had his own face
Rubbed in it too, but turned the smears
Into part of his costume for the role of
Bard of the forbidden, anarchist of
Sexuality giving all the rejects a voice.
TONGUE TIED
Tongue tied, falling right into a
Role I’m not sure how to play.
Tongue tied, no idea how to
Say what I’m thinking, it might
Be impolite, not to your liking.
Tongue tied, talking around
The subject, trying to say it
Indirectly.Tongue tied, wanting
So bad for the words to sound
Right that they won’t come out
At all. Tongue tied, silently
Screaming.
IT’S MY JOB
You can deny my love if it’s
Not what you want, refuse it
If it’s not good enough, just
Doesn’t move you. You have
Every right by your own free
Will. I just feel like, right or
Wrong, good or bad, happy
Or sad, wise or foolish, it’s
Just my job to let you know
Somebody loves you. No one
Said anything about you
Having to accept it.
REINCARNATION
With every person you’ve ever felt
A passion for, you create a child in
The spiritual world. You may meet
Them there, before or after their
Turn comes to be made real, born
As human. How else to explain why
A poet from a thousand years ago
Reminds me of someone I only met
Yesterday, or why grandparents
Sometimes make more sense than
Mom and dad, or why someone
You rarely even see can still fill you
With both joy and sadness longer
Than time itself whenever you
Think of them?
MORE NEXT DOOR ("CYCLONE SCENE 2")