Posts Tagged ‘poetry’


Release: Touching the Root

by adminadam in poetry

into, under, below
the ocean water surface
i’ve been trying for so long to breach
again and again

willfully subsumbed
to relax, sink, float down
drag, gravity
gradual pull
willful sinking

to touch the root of the age
to touch the root of the times
to experience fully the earth in this life

window of time is brief
and there is no hurry



Wind in the Forest

by adminadam in poetry

Ancient Tongue

All persons
Familiar or otherwise
Are now winds.
Their faces appearing intermittently
Between gaps of voidness
As thin fragile films
On invisible Air.
How can such unreal manifestations be permanent?
They change, these insubstantial happenings,
So I call them winds.

Only you seem to remain fairly loyal
To my past perceptions,
However deceptive.
It can be expected
Since you are the closest
Of all natural expressions
To ultimate Natures
Of that, I have accepted

The immaculate jasmine that lasts but for a day,
The leaves of the Kopsia aged red,
Butterflies and moths,
Dragonflies and moths,
Dragonflies levitate,
These are thoughts,
But whose thoughts?

The language of Man
Too has vanished with the winds,
I’ve lost all words my teacher drilled me.
May I borrow your tongue to communicate,
O plants of the world,
Your lips to speak?
And safe-keep my memories between your layers of leaves?
O Mother Earth, O Father Sky!
Only with your words can I talk to you,
And I can do so only when I’m no different from
A showy hibiscus,
Or the moon, the mirror of the sun,
Or the sun, the discus of life.

7 November 1994
The Venerable Sujiva
The Buddhist Wisdom Center

I have, for some time, been talking to plants. Not in the way some people talk to themselves. It’s more of a communication, but not like what the mediums do during seances. When you develop keen awareness while working with and among plants, you can sense their unique characteristics, not just their external morphology but qualities which seem to tell you about the nature of life, the ways of the world and so forth. It enlivens and inspires my spiritual life as well as contributing to good health. Everyone should learn the ancient language Nature speaks. This reminds me of a short poem I wrote long ago:

Nature speaks in symbols and signs
Catch them while they fly
Let her tell you what’s in her heart
— The Truth that never dies!



Buffering the Storm

by adminadam in poetry

If only I could type it in a crisper way than this
to spell out why I try and play
a buffer-role and sit
guessing at the aspirations,
how to curb chance-machinations
of our absurd, undeterred techno-globalization.

This age for cheap is offering
to keep open the gate
the flood of infotainment
acting less like food than bait
only certain spaces in which we can feed and wait.

A storm gathers just off horizon
its soundless thunder rumbles
its dark clouds heavy glint of gold,
but what rocks it holds would care
to serenely come and tumble down
on heads that do not glance around?
From this we will need shelter or at least a wary mind…

So it is that I and accompanying allies strain and scrutinize,
future-wise puzzle-piecing new maps to help us navigate a world
brimming full of bullshit and apparently-free crap.
A legacy we hope to leave
(my part albeit incomplete)
to guide those unborn future flocks of man and
the info-shocked, sadly-vision-blocked souls living
who may yet know to use discretion sometimes
in keeping open for too long their minds for just a dime.

All of us, don’t we need sound notification on the nature of
our own bloating meta-predatory creation?
It seems something is waiting to snatch up idle ripe minds
to be its bio-platforms, do its ghostly calculations,
become its meme-arrays and unknowing-slaves…
The risk is if we end up biting every byte we see
(we think this data-lunch is free)
effectively lambs feeding from its trap we will be!

Digitally-versed, the buffers’ and shepherds’ work
is to clear a path wide enough for sheep to skirt temptation,
to keep them away from the ever-swelling impulse-inertia,
their desire for satiation
that leads them to trough in underheated isolated chambers
from which all but pre-made thought can escape un-rearranged.

Beware these rains inside will fall
black stones straight through the roof,
and the sheep who do not hear the call,
those too media-jacked-in and enthralled,
will be submerged and drown aloof.


Activist Hypocrisy – 4 Poems

by adminadam in poetry

Poems on activist hypocrisy.
From a book called “Burning the Anarchist Bible: Cynical poetry for those fed up with dogma”


he was a big guy, chicano, bisexual
nice as folks come
didn’t smoke but bummed for his friends,
kill whitey patch on his knee.

he chuckled at a rape joke once
and has been raped himself
but people don’t disclaim that
when they painfully laugh.

so a white woman turns on him
there is nothing funny about rape.

she calls him a straight white male
who would therefore never have to deal with rape.
the only word she got right was male.
he calls her sexist.

she learns that he is chicano
and her story changes.
she explains that in the same way
that he, chicano, couldn’t be racist
against her, white
she, woman, couldn’t be sexist against him,

“I was raised a racist,” he replies,
“by militant chicano seperatists.”
with her choice anti-racist views
she had denied the struggles he had
against his own internalized racial

but that’s okay, because later he became
too racist against us good white folks
or something
and we had to kick him out.


she gave three men, crusty punks, a ride
six hundred miles.

of course, she bought all of the gas.
of course, they didn’t know how to drive.

“why do you own a car?” it was their refrain.

she played the radio and drove them
most of the way up the west coast
to their green anarchist gathering.

on the stereo, political rap.
“if a woman ain’t down, she can never
really be your wife.”

“turn that sexist shit off.” it was their chorus.

“look, I am a woman, and it doesn’t offend me.”

sitting shotgun, one took the opportunity of
turning that sexist shit off for her.

“just because I am a man, doesn’t mean
I can’t be a feminist.”


years ago in high school
I was no anarchist.
I thought laws could solve the problems of oppression
and I thought rules should curtail improper behavior.

we formed the gay-straight alliance
to let everyone know that homophobia was going to stop.

one day a teacher taught us that fanny packs were for fags
and I used to respect that teacher
but I told him I didn’t appreciate gay jokes.
three other memebers of the gay-straight alliance
who were in the class with me
tried to turn invisible.

he told me that it wasn’t serious.

I told him the law against queer discrimination
in the public schools of our county.

his eyebrows dropped in anger
his old broken hands wrung themselves
“if you want someone to understand you
or comply, the worst possible way is
to quote law at them, to tell them
what they can and cannot do.”

I was silent and self-righteous at the time
but he was right about law.

I still don’t appreciate gay jokes.


there was a campfire in the woods, of course
and we soberly plotted authority’s demise. Read the rest of this entry »


Staying Solid in an Ocean of Corrosivity

by adminadam in art, home, humor, poetry

Yes, I know corrosivity is not a word as far as you’ve heard. It is a novel combination of corrosive and acidity to me. Because I didn’t want to write ‘an ocean of acidity’ — it’s not right, not P.C., err, I mean it’s not P.H.! (Gee…) Simply equip and tip in a ton of tums to neutralize the acidic H-2-O blip; not the right video-clip. So, corrosivity it is…

And let’s get it clear: I’m here not to neutralize the seas by puffin’ calcium into the breeze. Creating a ton of anything is hard work for me, being a crab astrologically. So, what to do in a corrosive ocean? What’s the potion?

I see my buddy Pisces afloat and adrift, aloft and aloof in a fantasy of idea thrift. I know not to follow so as not to get lost. And I also can’t abandon my aqueous ship there, boss. The depths being so well-equipped to my elusive style of image-shift.

And a playful warping of the story verbosely is not the essence of this poetic trip. So I digress — unless… No. The real question is not how to rhyme this session, but how to stay solid in a corrosive ocean where you know-not-what-means-stolid.

When you live underwater, the world is heavy. Ideas are tempting but can drag you down fishy rabbit-holes quick. Mystery and deception, image and self-defense protection not a problem for the clawed-crawling-shelled-crusty creatures like me-myself and a few other watery-signed-types on the shelf. But with an ocean of emotive ideas at my finger-claw-tips, and the schools of benign-looking hook-hidden pips, the challenge remains to open-shell with the proper currents and down comrades at my hip.

Open too much and pure-essence is leaked.
Too little and neurotic claws begin to auto-collapse on the allied-peeps.

So, to flow or to swim is the question to let sink in. To roll in the under-tow or no?

And the best way for us, these crustaceans, not-to-crack, is to never let this very question stab us in the back.


Reach Exceeds Grasp

by adminadam in home, poetry

I’m totally a slow grey monkey,
clinging onto the highest branch I can,
trying to get into the sunlight…


3 Haiku

by adminadam in poetry


raining patterns drop
their meanings lost stopped on the
black umbrella tops



where is the exit?
lost in a supermarket
must i buy something?



work implant installed;
in the mall, in the forest,
wireless slavery.


Beyond Here Be Dragons

by adminadam in poetry

— DANGER. Beyond here be dragons. —
“Shouldn’t we turn back?” begged a little voice.

The courage to continue into the unknown
comes from realizing, from seeing
that moving into the abyss
is more important than remaining in the light,
safely and in fear.

The future contains within it many dragons
so we imagine them to be:
Blue-ghost-lonely-rainy-mist, and

But it’s the imaginary dragons that are the nastiest…

What we know, all of what we know, we have seen.
And a purposeful life, a life of learning,
requires forward movement
into shadows that strangely gain illumination,
fading as we are almost upon them.
Feet falling swiftly onto ground — solid ground,
brown or grey or green,
and again we are suprised to find it not so full of darkness
as we had imagined it to be.

Beyond here be dragons?
The clearest sign of what we need to do.
Stomp out the unknown darkness.