Reading and Making 'Metaphor Poems' by Simile & Rhyme
Video Readings from In Vitro, Section IV:
Pilgrim’s Progress
Sophomores’ Pool Party
A dozen boys, in dripping knee-length shorts,
behind them skinny girls, bikini-clad —
all barefoot — sprint downhill. The race aborts.
The tarmac, sizzling late June sun, forbade
and quickly detoured their “olympiad.”
They sit in clumps on neighbors’ cooler grasses —
hot-footed sheepish lads and social lasses.
On Tiptoe
On tiptoe towards the mirror every dawn
the little man with little chin takes care,
near his goatee, lest he look woebegone.
Too light a stroke leaves too much stubbled hair;
too bold, and he may leave some chin quite bare.
Thank god that he has lots of perseverance —
essential to keep up a man’s appearance.
Estate Planning
A man works hard to fill his life with gold,
or, writing books, with feeling, intellect —
perhaps with kids to care for him when old.
By these he seeks control, strives to perfect
his power, make it so it runs unchecked.
And, late, perhaps, he’ll come to see that knot
of character he’ll both take — and lay to rot.
Thumb of Prevailing Thought
1. In a Crčche?
Those tape recordings — standard protocol
for patients in hypnosis age-regressed —
leave little doubt untutored folks recall
details of times their learning can’t suggest:
The undergarments they and parents wore,
odd cooking pots and pans, the hearth or stove,
strange proverbs clothed in now-lost metaphor,
the shapes of wagons their prior dads once drove . . . .
A toddler who recalls his own past lives —
where do they come from? How are they so fresh?
Echos of past lives which each birth revives!
Tots don’t just fabricate them in the crčche.
The toddler’s mind — “daydreaming” in abstractions —
relives, through “Zero Point Field,” past lives’ actions.
2. One at a Time
To master them, a tot replays these lives
though parents brush them off as “cutesy-poo.”
They fret to think his blank-slate brain contrives
illusions that could leave a residue.
It might impair his grip upon what’s “real”
when he goes off to college, takes a job,
gets married, brings the grand-kids for a meal
of char-broiled steaks with fresh corn on the cob . . . .
Our knowledge of the universe (both out
beyond this planet’s grime, beyond its thyme,
and in the solitary mind’s redoubt)
advances slowly, one death at a time —
if musing thus makes all your reason leery,
look closer at the Zero Point Field theory.
3. Prevailing Thought
The put-off toddler stows away each hurt,
takes hard the put-downs of his cosmic view,
identifies with parents who subvert
him with a world-view they believe is “true.”
As “socialized” by school, then academe,
most growing youngsters thumb prevailing thought,
which, rationalizing, gives pretend-esteem
to brains and psyches it consigns to rot.
How can a young adult let go his thumb —
shriveled pink thought, that treacly antidote
to risk of open minds — and overcome
this forged-flesh choke-wad strangling him full throat?
He’ll need to spend most of his Earthly time
in seeking wisdom’s freeing paradigm.
Her Muscatel — and Bread
For G.K.J.
Whenever he would visit her
she tasted freshly on her lips
the spindrift where they met, a spur
to friendship — and apocalypse?
Trained a marine biologist
like her, he seemed a gentle soul.
They needed no psychologist
to see shared values, and shared goal.
On hands and knees in ebbing tide
they’d be delighted with a shell
they had not yet identified . . . .
He was as sweet as muscatel —
but if he should suggest they wed
would they be equals breaking bread?
Hieroglyphs in the Binnacle
A prospective bride sails another sonnet to the groom.
We’ll launch our marriage soon — as long staunch friends
who’ve raced the near-white spindrift seas thus far,
and by the binnacle we’ve made amends
despite the well-frayed jib or splintered spar.
When I’m with you, the sun is brighter, rain
more sweet, and facing cold my heart beats warm.
Our special moments, highs and lows, profane
and sacred, spare us — still — life’s chloroform.
My sweet, I’ve one last fear to lob to you.
A patriarchal union (it must be
that still) of man and wife — then, parents, too? —
may mutely rend our friendship with ennui.
Will we still read true feeling’s hieroglyphs?
Or will we founder — and float up, two stiffs?
Persimmons, Pseudopods and Such
Which is more worthy to live by?
Romance (a dreamland in my head)
or groin-gland instincts close to thigh?
Which makes the richer planting bed?
Plus, my reptilian brain’s a gland.
So’s limbic. Neocortex too.
(How easily glands get out of hand
deciding what is best to do.)
More, mind’s non-local, linking heads.
Its resonant pseudopod projects,
and “vibes” with other ’pods whose spreads
(invisible) each intersects.
So, Head? Groin? Mind? It’s hard to say,
given how glands all interplay.
When stared at from behind, I turn.
The starer’s ’pod directs my eyes.
Our eyes now touch by sight, and yearn
for more, or none, and mobilize
according to intent I read
as he or she acts well, or odd.
A friend? Or not? My “brains” accede
as starer calls — or turns, faux pased . . . .
Back when naďfs we learned to peer
upon our world from cheeks of down —
’til, sunk with puppy love (or fear),
we’d play so brazenly we’d drown
in mirror-pools that served the throne
of Estrogen-Testosterone.
Now I’m “grown up” — what is grown up?
No ad man eats unless adroit
cajoling me with training cup
to juice the glands he would exploit.
Testosterone fuels auto sales.
Estrogen seeks out “buys” for women.
But glands dry up as we furl sails
and munch our rock-hard green persimmon.
Persimmon-bitter, culture’s ’pod
projects against both yours and mine
from birth to death. Although a fraud,
it’s common . . . and thus seems benign.
Its pseudopod can make us ashen —
though it may school us in compassion.
Fragrances of Bed & Breakfast
Cinnamon-raisin bagels’ fragrance rose
from toaster, up the staircase, to the crack
beneath his door, and roused him from his doze —
yet just reshaped the dreamland in his sack.
But bacon, sizzling on its broiling rack,
threw both his feet ker-thump upon the floor
and drew him, teetering, to seize the door . . . .
Down in the breakfast room, insomniacs
there trailed a scent of angst from who knows where
amid the bacon, eggs, and toast on racks,
and this he could most easily forbear.
He felt, with them, compassion — in the air.
What was despairing was too much cologne
splashed on a face the sleeper did not own.
Still in My Eye
(I need a sticky note dangling from my eyebrow.)
Is it so hard to keep my mouth closed when
I’ve nothing complimentary to say?
It’s not that I’ve no tact, can’t count to ten,
nor is it I was born just yesterday.
Nor does the world depend on me to know
the right way and the wrong to do a thing —
right breaths and fingering on a piccolo,
or how to serve the chicken ŕ la king.
Why must I set things right? And what is right?
And who besides me cares as much as I?
And why do I care? Just some ancient blight —
childhood or prior life — still in my eye?
I ought to die a better death, next time
around, and fetch a happier paradigm . . . .
Nowhere to Plant the Feet
We learned, mid-Eighteen-hundreds, to attach
a dashboard to the front of newer surreys
so water, mud, snow, ice and wads of thatch
and horse manure dashed it, not us. What? Worries?
In Sunday-best, we’d all drive off to face
our preacher’s god and get our week’s remorse.
(It was, besides, a board our feet could brace
against when reining in a bolting horse.)
Today the dashboard’s like an alter-top
behind two hundred horses: Bric-a-brac
of patron saints and maps and snacks which flop
through my right hand while in my left I yak
into a cell phone — as I hold the wheel
with my left knee — uncertain what I feel . . . .
Electromagnetic Spectacular
For R.K.S., with thanks.
Neither the eyes, nor scents within the nose,
nor ears, nor gifts of taste at all disclose
your presence, though we feel you, Infrared,
on hands and face when sun’s high overhead.
Your warming vibes we only “see” with light
through lens of Centigrade or Fahrenheit,
or (driving flat-land highway sun’s made hot)
in shimmering mirages that look squat.
You Broadcast Bands we neither see nor hear
if we don’t alter you for eye and ear,
you X-rays which, invisible, go through
our flesh to film, and there our bones construe,
you Microwaves that cook our savory meal —
phenomena like you — you all reveal
Astral Intelligence is everywhere . . .
and merely asks that we become aware.
Our Centurion’s Work
A contemporary reading of Luke 7:1-10.
“He’s our Centurion — leads a hundred men.
He sees what is required, commands it done
with confidence he need not speak again.
Action follows, as day the rising sun.
You need not come down to his house to cure
his servant — your speech knows no shibboleth.
Command her healed from here, and he is sure
you’ll make her well, though she’s now close to death.”
“In all my travels I’ve not found a tongue,”
the Teacher said, “that’s as assured of what
the Inner Eye can do — and thus has sung.
She’s healed — as he, by seeing, has just wrought.
What Inner Eyes of men observe can move
like quarks in mysteries outer eyes reprove.”
Collared With Warmth
Our wheaten cairn will stir, and turn her face
toward me the instant I begin to feel
a restless foot that seeks a steeplechase.
Blue skies, fresh air and trees exert appeal
that draws my feeling out — beyond this book,
this fire, my ear’s delight with glockenspiel . . . .
She pricks her ears. Her eyes, penetrant, look
at me with such intelligence that I
know she needs action, not gobbledygook.
How does she read what fleets in my mind’s eye?
She X-rays my intent — a quick CAT scan —
faster than I can. She’ll identify
that flame of impulse in my heart-mind’s pan
before its image flashes eye, is gone,
and I chase after it, catch-as-catch-can.
Her tail, inverted carrot, thereupon
so wags her butt in her anticipation
that I recall the fleet phenomenon
which was, ’til now, not yet a cogitation,
just warm intention’s psychic leash and collar —
which leads us out the door of its creation.
Three Voices of Easter
Sources: The Gospel of Mary Magdalene
and Your Nearest Advertising Agency.
Then Mary Magdalene, who’s Jesus’ pal,
dared put the question: “How do we perceive
your risen body?” (She’s the femme fatale.)
“With Spirit? Soul?” “Don’t, Mary, touch my sleeve.
Neither. You see with Nous — when you retrieve . . . .”
“What lifts the sales of chocolates off their keister
better than sweet-tooth shoppers every Easter?”
Codger and Crone Do-si-do
What blood-rich knowledge throbs his frame,
pumped myriad miles astride this Earth?
What mystifying cryptic aim
has urged it on in its slim berth?
What frayed and caged thing called the heart
can quest so hard against her breast-
bone — pressed by mindfulness — and smart
so on a separation’s jest?
Must be Non-Local Mind makes light
their marrow-strides against the grain
of gravity — each blood cell’s site
inviting Feeling: “Come, and reign.”
Codger and crone attend the dance,
each in a cool, hypnotic trance.
Nous
The Gospel of Mary Magdalene, 7:7 and 10:20-24.
“Whatever is composed shall decompose.
Your eyes are not of spirit or of soul.
You see with Nous, between those two. Extol
it. Life is not what most believe. They doze.”
Thus spoke the Nazarene, when he arose,
to Mary Magdalene, who would cajole
the chattering baffled twelve: “Use self control.
Release your skin-imposed imbroglios . . . .”
Like theirs, our sky is drenched in purple blood.
Embroiled on every side, we’re goggle-eyed
with prejudice, up to our necks in mud.
These words to Mary Magdalene confide
a balance we co-opted souls might vet —
if we’d let Nous our five-fold sense off-set.
With Quarks and More?
In memory of L.S.J., an early aviator and author.
When your “high-pocket” legs grew tired and stressed
from being folded up beneath the yoke
of your new DC-3, you simply pressed
the Auto Pilot, stood up, and awoke
them, tingling pins and needles, with a few
deep knee bends which restored their strength like oak.)
Layovers, nights outside Miami, you
would tune in H.B. Kaltenborn to hear
him read world news in panoramic view.
You’d sleep and wake refreshed, renewed, mind clear,
to write for several hours, perhaps on men’s
adventure yarns, perhaps on High Frontier.
It was the writing which best served to cleanse
your heart and mind and legs of their fatigue.
But even that could not make full amends
to your young body under its blitzkrieg —
monoxide in the early days’ prop-wash,
scorched airport coffee, pork-fat’s charred intrigue.
At length your pancreas lost its cool panache
and could not quell the smoldering red-hot coal
that shrank you up in your great mackintosh.
Consciousness, body’s Inner Eye, plus soul,
directing all you do, called you to soar
up from Earth’s cloud-swept deep blue watering hole . . . .
Where does your soul now dwell? With quarks and more,
deep in our Zero Point Field’s astral realm?
Would seem so — greeting you beneath my snore.
Advancing the Planet
The sight of Sunday runners working hard,
their sweatshirts dark with clinging fatty sweat,
brings back my morning jogs (now doctor-barred,
reduced to walks) in search of that rosette
of spirit gorging cheeks with blood — En garde!
The pump and plunge of feet in their duet,
the rhythmic gasp of lungs caressing air,
became, it seemed, the flight of a soul cadet
across a dawn-lit planet’s face so fair
I’d stay pumped up until the sun had set.
But walking, now, is good: Makes me aware
how foot-bones slow my free-fall’s deft descent.
It’s how my body drops away mind’s blare,
reviews my thoughts for undisclosed intent —
advancing mindfulness against despair.
Calling Me Home
In memory of G.F.P. (In his voice.)
I roused (alarm not set) without a start.
How deep my sleep! My middle name’s “Relax.”
A cosmic, tranquil, dreamy parallax
of feeling slips away and flies apart . . . .
In fragrant morning air, I spot bold hart
outside my window locking splendid racks.
Vermillion hills hoist sun behind their backs
cajoling sky’s zodiacal light, “Depart . . . .”
Yesterday, golf with Gunby. Rode a cart.
Shot under par on every hole . . . . Jazz Sax
at Nineteenth Hole was cool. Good beer, talk, snacks,
delicious dinner, too, served ŕ la carte.
But they, while great, did not call home my heart
as did this feeling dream, Monsieur Descartes.
Astral Wings
May 14, 2007.
For W.T.J.
Though we are far away from you at four
o’clock this morning, I wake up and light
a candle on our mantle — metaphor
for fragile consciousness I would excite
(calmly) and with your own, today, unite.
May yours be free of what might make you fret.
May you feel centered — and, in all, “all set.”
You want to heal and get on with your life —
the volleyball and pure math you so love
at U.R.I. But first the surgeon’s knife
and saw in hand (in sterile rubber glove
beneath your collarbone) must free you of
your top-most rib which crowds your right arm’s vein
and artery — and caused that clot, and pain.
It grieves your mom and dad, your grandma, and
me too that you have suffered this “KO.”
“Why me?” you ask. We too. (Not what we planned.)
Though heart flash Inner Eye what’s apropos,
hail Inner Ear — alone, it can’t bestow
much certainty despite clay jabberwocky
old astronauts laid down (those Anunnaki.)
Then by what grit do we persist? What hope?
Intelligence. Astral Intelligence.
It’s that which twists the body’s helix rope,
gives us a wealth of common and sixth sense,
supplying tender flesh and bones’ defense:
Thus, skin-clad dreams may thrive — ’til, satiated,
we fly on astral wings they’ve celebrated.
To continue, click on the image on this page, or here: In Vitro: New Short Rhyming Poems Post-9/11.
Or, click here: Get it at Amazon.com.
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