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Oh Facebook, what is wrongOh Facebook, what is wrong with me and you?
Self-revelation leaves me very bored.
The more we talk, the less I say; we're through
Unless I figure why I have deplored
This process which has tried to make me young.
For who at my age would not wish to drop
Ten years or more and finally be the sung
Instead of unsung self, who's at the top
Of his or her best game? But wait! The game
Is not the thing, unlike the play, as Will
Has said. And why would it be such a shame
To quit the game, and play, and call him Bill?
The word's the thing! I'll make you laugh and face
This book of revelation with no trace.
The cat has chased the otherThe cat has chased the other cat under the bed.
I hear the growls and hisses of the chased.
The chaser has no sense of wrong, only glee.
Does he realize there's a third party, it's me!
I'm tired of noise and second-hand woe.
To get involved means chasing the chaser.
A few times in my life, I've been the chaser .
I tried so hard, I ended up sick, in bed.
I'm now resolved, I will not borrow woe.
Don't stand out to avoid being chased.
Give up the need to say, See, it's me!
Life is better giving up surprise and glee.
Now don't be all depressed by lack of glee.
Satisfactions unknown to the chaser
are many and you needn't give up your me.
In fact it all begins with sleep, in bed.
Eight hours is just the thing you should have chased.
Well-rested body and soul avoid much woe.
You're jealous, but you've not seen the chaser's woe.
Do you not think behind the irksome glee
He knows how soon he'll be the one who's chased?
How quickly strength will wane and chaser
finds he can't compete and takes to
The way the snow is hangingThe way the snow is hanging on the tree
Looks fake, as if a painter were unskilled
And clumped the snow in bricks of white quite free
From rules of snowflake art. He merely willed
The shapes into these clumsy forms like rods
Of plastic molded to the ashen bark.
The snow is thick and clings like sticky clods
Of whitened earth that have no shadow, stark
Like absence in these crowded woods. They stand
In summer with their busy, dappled leaves,
With pointilistic shapes more thrown than planned,
A splatter canvas, growth that sprays and weaves.
What else have I forgotten then to see
If in my mind I bungle snow on tree.
I wonder if musicians knowI wonder if musicians know that when
They're gone the music lives and on it goes.
It's different from a book, for then the men
And women do not speak till asked, and rows
Of books are dusty, hid, and voices mute.
Today the music clips are everywhere.
Just now I heard him Herbie Mann his flute,
His embouchure in perfect form, the air
Controlled in perfect breaths, the beat, the verve.
When life is good but gone, how dare I weep!
With so much wrong I should be saving nerve
For righting wrongs, and songs and books and sleep.
Just now I heard Duke Ellingon. It shows
That though he's gone, he lives, and on it goes.
A sequined top, a short blackA sequined top, a short black skirt, like night
With stars; the charcoal tights with high-heeled shoes,
Like distant mountains dimly lit; the light
Gray belt like shooting stars with purple hues;
The long smooth hair like constellations stretched
From star to blinking star that point across
A changing sky with motion slow that sketched
The wisdom of an age in gleaming floss.
How generous that beauty could be shared
By sight for all who dared to gaze that night.
And though but one could touch (I hope he cared
For her as much as we with only sight),
I know that many dreamed of starry nights
With sequined tops and short black skirts and tights.
I fabricate my sonnetsI fabricate my sonnets by the yard.
I used to think that craft was something soft,
And art, real art, was always very hard.
Real artists have a genius held aloft.
But who wants genius made by magic wand
That shows no effort, nothing to betray
The struggle, time and patience of your hand,
The things torn up, discarded, put away?
And if your work springs fully formed at first
There is no history for us to perceive.
You are like God who makes the world, one burst,
One bang. No trace, no how, just is: receive.
I sometimes say that I'm an artist now
But really I'm a craftsman showing how.
She puts the wings on anythingShe puts the wings on anything she can.
You never know when you must fly away.
It's best to have those surplus wings to span
Escaping's needs in case it comes that day.
The wings appear on animals galore.
For every creature has a place to flap,
A sweet spot where the lift will give up more
Than gravity will take away, the gap
Between the pressure up and pressure down.
She pastes those wings on anything not born
A bird or butterfly and thinks it's known
By you and me how gravity is torn.
You think today's that desperate day. You stretch,
You twitch, you grab those wings, the sky to fetch.
One thought is circumscribedOne thought is circumscribed in fourteen lines.
One hundred forty syllables is all
You have to spend. The whetting stone that grinds
The words is sharp: be careful now, don't fall
Behind and leave the stone with nothing there
To grind. The more you write, the more you slow,
The more you pause to fit the space, for where
You search is empty now, six lines to go.
The mind was full of words not long ago.
You grabbed for sound and meaning, profligate
And spendthrift both. You wrap it up, forego
The choicest words, admit it's second rate.
You'll write another poem soon I bet.
But aren't you glad to know this one is set.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More