Every Sunday I post an original poem.
I’ve got a real challenge for you. Write a poem on Areae without divulging any secrets, directly at least.
Well, more of a poem about what I spent some time thinking about at work last week…
Network Optimization
Packet size, packet size, info little lump,
This coded, that coded, TCP’ed and dumped.
Piling into buffers, stacking up the K,
Header bettered, ack lettered, MD5ed in clumps.
Continue reading »
Ok, a challenge. Next Sunday do a poem on Ice Creme Cones, and do it without any insinuations of death, love, or nature.
No insinuations? Fat chance.
Pistachio
Pistachio piled high, a green the shade of leaves in shade;
Scintilla sparkles, specular sliding off the cone.
A spritz of soda, carbon captured, bubbles bursting;
Antiseptic odor effervescing from the glass.
Waterstains on spoons, overlapping nebulae. Straws. Scoops.
Color buckets, congealed craters, rough gorges. Crème.
Here there is no death except in melting. There is no love,
But for the sharing of banana splits, there is no nature
Save for green the shade of leaves in shade, the nuts,
The flavor on the tongue, purchased by my grandpa.
We chrome, we swirl, we pile double-high, we watch
As scoops sizzle on the hot cement, fallen from their perch.
We always write our verses on the green.
Extolling nature, one dull paean, then
Another, the savannah evo psych
So loves a bellwether to our brains.
We hammer home our thoughts of death, with odes
And eulogies, our writing full of black,
Of wistfulness, of melancholy. Sad,
As if mere “sad” was “deep” and “deep” was “good.”
We speak of love, the thrust, surrender, catch
Of breath, exchange of fluids, the coy glance
And longing. Each of us forgets that all
Of us know all of this. Forever. Now.
So much of writing tells us what we know.
So much of culture trades old comforts, myths
We tell ourselves to keep the strange away.
Just three great subjects, and our story’s done.
This makes it hard to write each Sunday poem.
It was a gift from her, when my back tired.
Though some, sunbursts shouting, are velvet soft,
My gift is plain, considered, quiet. Blue.
I tie it round the headstock with a shoelace.
It’s worth what all gifts cost to get, except
When we fight—
Then it is all the difference in the world
Between sitting down and standing to face the song.
The tops of ornamented lintels, carved
With bevels, claw-feet foyer tables caught
In dust: a prelude silk and parquet smooth
Where children march to pianistic doom.
