This is part of a series of poems I hope to write about a plane flight.
I have been stamped out,
but not stamped in.
I have miles and miles and miles to go
before I am anywhere –
flying through a hypothetical nowhere,
on land, but not in land.
Somewhere in limbo through the airports and onto the planes,
over countries, over oceans –
there, but nowhere.
fog over morning:
rain too sleepy to fall.
Ubuntu is a version of Linux (an operating system, like Windows or Mac, but free) that’s trying to be a normal, mainstream operating system.
Ubuntu, you are like a star trying to be the moon.
You’re perfectly fine as a star, you know,
But you INSIST that NO, I MUST be the moon.
So you keep getting bigger and bigger and bigger…
And do you know what happens after a star expands?
Lace is a play
on light and emptiness,
the beauty of nothing
to dance is to hear
a voice in the music
a soul, a being, a life
to dance is to follow
the voice in the music
to rise and to fall with the
rising and falling of sound and of meaning
perfectly twirling in the music
to link your emotion with the feeling of song,
stopping and starting and loving and hating
with the music,
to dance and to sing with the rhythm and rhyme
of the dancing and singing of the music,
to slow, to finish, to draw to a close,
with the synchronized slowing, and finish, and closing,
of the fading twirl of the music.
The computer sits upon its throne.
Dustily magnificent, three inches thick,
years and years of history scratched and rubbed from its surface,
perfectly accurate representations of ancient plugs and ports, now lost in the archives of newsgroups, abound like a treasure chest of fool’s gold –
(the chest being more valuable than the gold) –
splendorously crowned by a lace of wires and tape, jeweled with the miraculously shiny remains of the names of bankrupt hardware manufacturers,
sitting unheeded, unused, unappreciated,
in its corner.
This is a poem I recently wrote about a person who is being prayed for, but doesn’t know he is, and a translation of the poem in my imaginary language Sohdi.
you are so completely unaware
of the soulfelt prayers
raining down on you,
though you would like to think
you are waterproof.
dax xaš’luh iv iv
rà jieliluh ctöē,
death is not absolute
but leaves footprints in soft hearts
that cannot be swept away.
Poetry captures the shadows in life,
the wind and the light and the dark,
the psychological theories that cannot be proved,
the whispers that leave no mark.
Poetry captures the feelings in life,
the love and the hate and the pain,
the joy in the beauty of plants in the spring,
the power in wind and the rain.
Poetry captures the living in life,
the laughs and the hugs and the gasps,
the satisfaction of talking with someone you love,
the wonder in a newborn grasp.
Poetry captures the essence of life,
not the touchable realness of ground,
the subtle, the secret, the invisible things,
the meaning in meaningless sound.
Zethra Dusti is one of my favorite imaginary characters. In his complicated story, he overthrows the crooked, corrupt, and repressive government at 19 and becomes king of a new country centered around freedom. This poem is about his coronation.
as he steps up
a door opening into an unseen land
hung with fog about to be lifted
a cup revealed
deep and thirsty to be filled
a nation, and nations
a people, and peoples
balancing on the edge of a wall
they have climbed
He steps up.
His confidence unmarred,
His confidence beginning to blow at the fog
beginning to trickle into the cup
beginning to show these people
who he is
A lover, claiming what he loves;
A leader, finally leading;
A seeker, finding his place;
A king, crowned.