Freedom In The Unity

I synthesised a novel potion
To transgress the laws of motion
And with accelerated learning
I could satisfy my yearning
For answers to my questions how
That never could be answered now
Elusive in the present frame
But illuminated in the name
Of progress with the time device
Elucidating wormhole splice
Stripping, pruning, clearing fog
Stepping back with mouth agog
And visualising transient fields
Full of creatures, perception reels
The place has changed, not understood
Still has evil, still has good
And rather than transfixed in flesh
We now are spirits in a mesh
A web where all connected time
Reiterates eternal mime
And imagination rules supreme
As all participate in dream
The future, past and present phase
Were lost, decision to erase
Material life in evolution
A different plane as the solution
As we wait to cross dimension
Select emotion for retention
Or without love's help to reveal
Expanded consciousness will reel
Impotent for whatever after
And nevermore to hear the laughter
Dead to all who cannot see
This freedom in the unity

©2004 Hey Hey

It's amazing how you can entail such beauty with words. I probably sound like a broken record, but your work is rare and very much appreciated.

that girl, your broken record is music to my ears. Your words are greatly appreciated.

Hey Hey, you got here just in time. You left, but then, Gott sei dank, came back when I begged you. It is getting dark here now, and I have lost support upon which I once depended; our mutual friend Rick actively promotes the flamer who has hurt as much with words as one can hurt, and has done this to the one I love and me. My fellow-liberals turn away from me in my distress, in my despair at seeing the one I love attacked without cause. Disillusioning, disappointing, disgusting. Embittering.

Yet I must not be bitter. You are still here. When you leave, we will leave with you. But stay, please, stay. I had such a beautiful dream once, of building a beautiful community of poets, a family of art. I dreamed of doing that right here. Isn't that sad?

Is there still any hope? Yes! Because you are still here, and because of the new people who are coming, good people and kind. Old friends are returning, in this our hour of darkness.

Stay, and light a candle with me against the darkness of the evil which is swallowing me now, consuming us all, tearing down our forum and turning everything to ruin. Stay and help us. Stay and help me, your friend who loves you, who needs you more than you can ever understand. But then maybe you can understand. Knowing you, I think you just might. And, knowing you, I think you will stay, and will help me. Because I need you.

You are a good poet, blooming into a great one. I am watching you bloom, and it gives me hope. Please help me. When she comes, fight her. Don't let her leave things for Silke to see. I don't care what she does to me, but no, not Silke; not Silke: hasn't Silke suffered enough? Dosn't she suffer enough? Will Rick, will Shawn, will anyone ever understand?

Hey Hey, I know who you really are. You are quite the equal of any of these people. And there can be no comparison with nonspecifically angry ones who only seek to destroy. As if I were an authority figure! I who subsist on SSI in Bush's America! I whose brain was destroyed when I was nineteen, I who came here to Mind-Brain.com to ask Shawn about my brain and to show him my poetry, and to wonder to him how I could write it with my brain destroyed by encephalitis and coma. He loved me once, he gave me a place to share my poetry. Have I lost his support? Have I lost it in favor of some furious flamer? How did this happen? How did it come to this?

If I have seemed arrogant, I beg everyone to forgive me! I am NOT arrogant! You misunderstand me cruelly! Shawn's wife Tabitha made me a fancy merman with my Poet in Residence title in response to my giving Shawn money with which to save this site; it was a beautiful artwork, but seemed arrogant somehow, especially when I was under such vicious attack. I deleted it. But I am still Poet in Residence. No one, not even Shawn, not even Annie Moses, is going to take that away from me. Why? Because it is just simple fact: I live here. My work is here. I am a poet, and this is my residence.

Hey Hey, stay. Help me. Fight for me, for I have no fight left in me anymore. I am missing a doctor's appointment for my depression, exacerbated as it has been by all this cruelty, because I am too sick to go to my appointment. I wish that either doctors still made house calls, or I was admitted to a clinic to rest. But there, from the clinic, like has been the case with Silke, I would see my name dishonored and degraded on these pages I have fought for, paid for, worked for, lived for, and now feel like dying for.

Thank you for being my friend. Please stay with me, and stay with Silke.

I am not leaving. I just wanted to know if you thought that I had made a mistake. Your opinion is obviously that I did not. I am not leaving.

Love to Silke and you.

(I know you get it, dear friend!)

Hey Hey

Yes, you must stay.

There are those who should leave; there are those who have left who should return.

I will never leave, because this place is mine. I built it and paid for it and it is mine. It is yours, my friends; you also built it and paid for it and it is yours.

I shall not be moved. Are you reading these my words, those who should? Do I make myself clear? We shall not be moved. I am not alone; we are many.

This forum belongs to poets: to you, to Silke, to Kevin, to Tobias, to akhtar, to dear Bill (rhymer), to Chrissy, to Dara, to so, so, so many beautiful, beautiful poets. It belongs to US. Poets and people of goodwill. It does not belong to the darkness.

I say to the flamer:

"Go back to the shadow; you shall not pass!"

I say to all of you, my friends, my fellow poets, my family:

"Rage, rage, against the dying of the light."

Hey what about my poem? (Ha Ha!). Actually, I suffered mental anguish writing this one. Maybe I was trying to be too clever and it made my brain hurt. As my dead dad used to say, "You can never be too clever". He wasn't always right! Only kidding dad. Love you, up there!

You're right, Hey Hey; I have been studying your poem now, and I can tell you that I believe it to be your best yet. I like the couplets; they are perfect, yet the couplet structure never gets in the way. If a poet is capable of creating and sustaining such a structure, why not? I enjoy it; it satisfies the intellect with meaningful pattern. It also serves as a vehicle for the narrative, which, by the way, is brilliant, and very germane to Mind-Brain.com. I think they would enjoy this one up there on such boards as those about consciousness, philosophy, and the like. I think Shawn would love this one.

You accomplish in this poem what I seek to accomplish in mine; to wonder about things with an open mind, and to do this within the parameters of an artwork. In this way I fulfill what the nuns say about singing Gregorian chant: when they sing chant, they say they pray twice. A poem like this, where both form and content are art, prays twice, lives twice, is twice. Twice as nice.

Thank you for creating it and posting it, and also calling my attention to it out of my anguish over all the nonsense of the site of late, to look at it afresh as an artwork. In this way you call us back to poetry, to why we are here; in this way you call us to wonder about things artfully, you call us to peace, to poetry. Thank you for that.

You are a good poet who is blooming into a great. In my illness, you are the strength of the poetry board. I will try to gather myself from the pieces strewn about, shredded as I have been by mindless cruelty and misunderstanding, and I will try to write a good poem, as you have here. Thank you for calling me to peace, to poetry.

Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.

Steven

I appreciate your detailed analysis very much.

But you deserve a rest and we all know it. We realise that you are around and viewing and that gives us support. You have written plenty for us to ponder on still. I often go back to your older postings; some I missed, some I needed to review, some I am addicted to. I think that I am a poetry addict now anyway. Is there a cure? What are the withdrawal symptoms like? Is there a poetry methadone? Perhaps the latter is limerick. I just posted three and it hasn't satisfied me. I had intended to go to bed, but here I still am.

Friendship to all fellow poets and also especially, peace to you Steven.

Hey Hey

It means everything to me that my poetry means anything to you; to mean something to someone is to be somebody.

Maybe I have "arrived," now that I am continually being attacked. My son Teddy tells me that is an infallible sign that I have made it, that I am seen as a master now.

He knows how shattered I am, but he also knows a thing or two about poetry. He gave his literature teacher, Mrs. Harms (!) a copy of my first book today, and she was glad to get it.

I am not so easily destroyed.

VINCERO