Music of the Spheres

Mother Earth

Has a face of stone

Not without expression

Being a mother she cries

Happy tears, sad snows, angry squalls

That fall from clouds

Formed from her children’s breath

                                  While our sibling trees photosynthesize 

All our breaths into wind

That is her voice

Her ears can hear 

Mosquitos mate in perfect fifths

But the voice of Father Hertz

She loves the most

And here we are on planet earth

In our nursery

Hearing their lullabies

But not the symphony

Musical Fallout Shelter

Music is fallout

That wrenches the soul

From the moment

To post traumatic,

Collecting memories

And compounding them,

Succussing to potency

The dissipating waves

Along the stress disordered shore.

Music is shelter

That protects the soul 

From its storms,

Two eyes keeping watch – 

The window of the soul

And the eye of the storm –

Envisioning shapes in the air

Only our ears can see

Of a postcard perfect shore.

Reality Squared

Reality squared

       Impoverished beings that we are

Equals the square root of our hope

       That we are something more.

The truth we know rewrites itself

Disordered anew to resonate

With chaotic drift to landing place

The harbor of our souls to compensate

With golden coins of history

Stamped with human face of deity.

Reality squared

       To dust and ash our bodies revert

Equals the square root of our hope

       That we are . . .

That we are more than the cuneiform, 

papyrus, vellum, cloud drive of our words.

Posted at Poets United Poetry Pantry #155.

Releasing Daffodils

Photo by Falls From Tree

Geometry in the moment

In my child's mind grasped

Enlightens both of us

She finds meaning

In the measure of the earth

And I behold knowledge bloom

Upon her face 

Made even more beautiful

Like a winter landscape

Releasing daffodils and catching suns

Upon my face

Dried grasses that could start a fire

Enough to keep us warm

Through any winter.

Posted at Poets United Poetry Pantry #140

Sunflower

one

sun

a world

united

living cohesion

an expansion of creation

wave of wonder to concretion from a word spoken

patterned paternity in maternal matrix of hanging gardens hinged by spacetime

seen in single spiraling galaxy of sunflower seeded Fibonacci sequence pollinating one honey drone's ancestral tree

Prompted by Verse First ~ Fibonacci Poems at Poets United and for love of numbers.

One Hundredth Monkey

It is written that poetry and mathematics

Are incompatible areas of study.

On what planet?

The universe and all that is in it

Is written in the letters of numbers,

From laws of motion and gravity 

Holding earth together

To the golden mean of the human body.

This language in the hands of a poet

Would create an awesome poem

And it might sound like a composition

By Bach or MozArt 

Read by the voice of Aslan

Singing worlds together.

Borodin the chemist composer

Of symphonic poem

Was not an oxymoron

More renaissance man

Like Leonardo

Our planet needs more of.

A think tank of them

Might achieve

World peace and unobtainium.

On what planet?

There will always be a Roman soldier

To effect the death of Archimedes,

He who wrote only one poem.

There will always be a fanatic mob

To scrape off the skin and

Beat down the likes of Hypatia.

There will always be a library

Set on fire burning answers

To our numerological fate.

But one day there will be

The One-Hundredth Monkey of our race.

Mother Goose OULIPO

I have wanted to live
Under a hill
Earth sheltered
Bermed and of
Constant temperature.
So it is logical for me
To play OULIPO
With Mother Goose's old
WOMAN under a HILL.
So I tried N + 7.
It gave:

There was an old WORD
Lived under a HIPPOPOTAMUS;
And if she's not gone,
She lives there still.

Hmm.  So I tried N + 7
On Edward Lear's nonsense.
Lear's nonsense made more sense.

So I went back to the HILL
In my paperback dictionary
Figuring it is more a game
Of literary potential
Than structured chaos
So I tweaked N + 7
And got:

There was an old WORD
Lived under a HINT;
And if she's not gone,
She lives there still.

And that to me
Is more satisfying.

Infinity in a Box: A Riddle

I'm       Never     Found,    I'm    Not    In     The      storY

Neither            can            I             ever            be            taughT

Fortold                or                gifted                   by               magI

Infinite                universe                   of                  expansioN

Never               will              unravel              my               nucleI

I         and        my       kind        make        up        all         stufF

The                     mysteries,                     the                     knowN

YourToolsInvestigatingNeedsInsatiable: Forever New focI

Highlight Below for Answer to Riddle

The Last Number