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everyEvery student is my child
Every child is my teacher
Every teacher is my mother
Every mother is my friend
Every friend is my teacher
Every teacher is my lover
Every lover is my teacher
Every teacher is my father
Every father is my student

THE CHICKEN OR THE EGGTHE CHICKEN AND EGG DILEMMA

In The Wonderful Egg, a book written for children by Dahlov Zorach Ipcar, a mother dinosaur lays an egg that hatches into the very first bird. After growing up into a beautiful specimen complete with wings and feathers, it flies up into a tall tree and sings a happy song. (The little bird’s song may soon become a dirge when it realises that it has no one with whom to mate.)

So, which came first, the chicken or the egg?

I am delighted to report that after extensive navel contemplation, this quintessential human conundrum can be laid to rest. The answer (or answers), is revealed here.

The problem was apparen

IncantationIncantation

In the second half of day,
while the sun is watching rice stems
climb into afternoon heat, eager
for their taste of the rain-hungry wind,

and the Longclaw’s yellow throat
is only just beginning to pause,
unable to find its song for the Ugali
thickening beside plates of evening stew,

the mud-slime will pull its hardest
at the blur of her feet – even as she sees
she has no room to sprint
upland, desperate

eyes wet as the new edge of bone,
her mother not following behind
but fighting to barricade the door
against men who’ve come

without their hearts
to hunt her daughter, to gouge
and saw at her snow

Dear Post SecretI'm not sorry, if sorry means
I would do it over differently.

Did I seek pleasure merely
as a means to avoid pain?
And did I find joy by accident?
Yes, and finally contentment.

Did I seek the praise and
fear the criticism of others?
And was I ever disappointed?
Yes, until I found my truth.

Did I seek the attention of
the cruel and fear loneliness?
And did that tear my heart?
Yes, and my heart opened.

Did I seek to gain power in
money and worldly goods?
And did I despair any loss?
Yes, until I valued my self.

Everything that went before
Helped create the present me.

I am not sorry.

ButterflyAn onyx and golden butterfly
rested on my hand today
between chrysalis and Mexico.
I showed him the way South
when he remembered how to fly.

This Organized LifeWe are having dinner at a place I can’t afford. Carl has gotten into middle age at some point, complete with good posture and brown loafers. Hoping he plans to pay but erring on the side of caution, I order soup.

It is not awkward. We speak easily as ever, despite the pricey menu, Carl’s shoes, and the last time he and I stood yelling in a room together, each so loud the words became one great indistinguishable noise.

“I’m so glad we ran into each other,” he says. The waiter pours more wine. I begin to assume he is going to pay; that is what a man his age does when he brings a woman to a restaurant like this. You al

Autumn 11leaves struggling
in the wind
one by one they fall
memories of
a dead friend

Don't...Don’t be –
Too thin.
Too fat.
Too tall.

Don’t have –
Curly hair.
Glasses.
A lisp.

Don’t dare –
Be different.

These are The Rules
in the Playground of Life.

Six by Six by SixRide the archway
and feel its form.
Eye kissed by
the sharp possibility
of cold language.

Approaching the edge.
Rain burns hard
and holy
in this ancient sky.

The waters of thought
caress
and smile at
old arguments.

Summer Renga1.

heat wave
the beggar receives
another coat

2.

thundercloud...
my brother adds wings
to the chalk dragon

3.

apple harvest
all six hands
of the hornet

4.

mountain pass coyote eyes in xenon

5.

welcoming friends
lightning
wraps the sky

6.

summer dusk...
a photo of grandpa
alive

7.

warm wind
the sleeping toddler
wiggles

8.

deep rain...
her sundress dips
into curves

9.

noon heat-
bandannas sprout
from the cornfield

10.

fireflies...
another man's shape
in the darkness

11.

a week of clouds-
my sister paints her nails
sky blue

12.

show over
the magicia

ProposalsWhen the world falls down,
And the curtain is removed,
You see the machinery,
That has been driving you,
Think about what you're gonna do,
When the world falls down.

When your tears fill up,
And you cannot dry your eyes,
You cannot see through,
To what's bothering you,
And what this life’s coming to,
When your tears fill up.

Everything in slow motion,
Dancers stumble through the square,
Everyone is shoving by you,
Really getting nowhere.

The rocky road has become a river,
And the tires are making you sleep,
You dream in dark shades,
Some that terrify you,
While others help you through,
The rocky road has become a riv

My ReflectionOur lives and deaths,
Such lusty toil,
Memories left for comedy,
Blood replaced with burning fluid,
To preserve a shell, a joke.

Our breath and words,
We speak for days,
Voices echoed for tomorrow,
Cold stone marks cold flesh,
Embrace the loss of hope.

Our eyes and sight,
We see for years,
Only what reflection shows,
Flowers laid find root to grow,
In time they reach our bones.

Our joy and tragedy,
Is not in our mortality,
We never truly let go,
Small feet dragged to places,
Where children should not be made to go.

Sometimes being emptySometimes being empty can be good. You’re a hollow husk, full of air and dark space, a void, but at least you know the full dimensions of your body, where you end and when you begin. You can know all of yourself, with nothing confusing you or conflicting with your ideas.
Empty yourself. Empty your mind. Push the world out and in doing so, know who you are.

Cut open your head and peel back the shards of your skull. Dish out your brains with a rough spoon and carve out your cerebellum. Don’t miss a single piece. Rid yourself of the contamination, wipe it away, bleach it out, and beat it out. Do what is necessary to be deaf, dumb, a

Biting LeavesThe leaves bite my skin like your incisors once slit knuckles, one cartilage laden bone at a time. A cold, bitter wind leaves me messages like yours, once hidden in shoes and coffee mugs and eyes. Maybe if I close my eyes, you’ll be here again, and your empty space won’t be a troubling matter, without the bold lines your form used to lend to the landscape of my dirt strewn apartment. Maybe if I play your favorite songs I can tell myself that your silence is the sound of your listening. And maybe if I turn off the water and refuse to bathe, I won’t wonder why the patter of the shower does not accompany your morning-roughened slu

Let Me Go Without My DignityWhen my skin grows tired of being creased,
And when I’ve lived my life for all its worth,
And when it seems my breathing may have ceased—
In all, when I have left this perfect earth—
Dress me in clothes that I would not have worn
(Something pink and floral would be best),
And—if you must—you may, by all means, mourn,
But spare me when you lay me down to rest.

Black coffins simply will not do at all—
A bin bag will be grave enough for me—
And do not hurt your back bearing my pall—
The bin men ought to carry it for free.
So wave goodbye while standing on the kerb
And live on as the memory of

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Coyote and Crone Part 6After bellies were full and soft,
skin warmed by fire and blankets,
the children were sound asleep.

Coyote came to the hearth.

"Is it really worth it to you,
to undo what I have done?"

"I am not undoing, I am doing
anew, creating from nothing."

He puzzled over that for a bit.

"That is what I do as well?"

"Yes. But you are a destroyer."

"Is that a bad thing to be?"

"No. It is a necessary thing.
It is neither good nor bad. It is."

Coyote and Crone Part 5Hunched beneath a load of wood,
the children returned to the fire.

"Do not put them down! Follow me."

The old woman marched briskly away.
down a path they had not noticed.

They followed her for hours and hours.
They were weary, and hungry again.

Just as twilight descended, she stopped.

In a clearing ahead was a stone hut.

"Here is my home. You are welcome."

"She cooked potatoes far from home,"
he whispered in her ear, quietly.

"Why do you tarry? Come and eat."

Coyote and Crone Part 4Crone bowed as they approached.

"Are you lost?" She asked, kindly.

"Yes and no. We are looking for work."

"I am old and in need of help."

"How can we help you?"

"Bring me twigs, upon your backs."

"You will pay us?" They trembled.

"No, I will feed you til you are full."

They scurried off to gather twigs.

Coyote and Crone Part 3The fire was a merry glow in the dark.

Potatoes baked snug in the bright coals.

While the children watched, she bent
gnarly and crooked to turn her dinner.

Mouths watering, stomachs churning,
still they watched, still they waited.

Retreating to a safe distance, trembling
they wondered and worried, "Is she safe?"

Onto the potato she slathered butter
until it dribbled through her fingers.

The children crept cautiously forward.
The Crone smiled her very secret smile.

Coyote and Crone Part 2The children stumbled wearily, hungry.

Upon their backs were twig bundles.

They entered the rundown cottage.

"Is that all you brought? Not enough!"

The pair cowered in terror, tried to hide.

Later, bruises forming and bellies empty,
They worked on their run away plan.

At first light, before dawn's revealing,
They stole into the forest, empty handed.

"We will look for a fire. We will look for food."

Their hearts were fuller than their bellies.

Coyote and Crone Part 1Coyote and Crone walked to the edge of the world.
Both elegant and earthy, one voice rich and the other poor,
the duo was an expression of contrasts.

"It will hurt," he said.
Chin dipped and eyes cut towards her level gaze.

"Of course it will. That is not the point."

"No." He sighed. "I will miss you for a moment."

"You will miss nothing. You will NOT be there."

"Oh. But you need me to work the plan."

"No. Your work is the reason the plan is necessary."

"Oh. I should not have done it?"

"Yes, you should have done it."

"You are not angry?"

"I was grateful before it even began."

He smiled, ear to ear and howled with del

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Sunday Morning

by ~wh0rem0ans, Apr 15, 2009, 5:20:30 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Urban & Spoken Word

I want sheets one day past fresh
and enough pillows so nothing
every feels stiff or tweaks apart.

I want the windows open and
the temperature perfect for
Rubix-cube-square touching.

I thought to want Cleopatra's
handmaidens to serve us but the
world is not big enough for us.

I want movies of every moment
like this playing on the ceiling
so we can stay very horizontal.

I want no visitors and cannot
understand that part of Brian
Wilson's seven year plan.

After several of these days, I
want to write a new poem
prescription including innovations.

I want more of Sunday morning.

Sunday Morningby ~wh0rem0ans

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Urban & Spoken Word

~Wyn-- Jul 26, 2009

you have a talent for making the mood of the poem stand out. great work

~wh0rem0ans Jul 27, 2009

that is a very helpful comment ... thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts.

~Wyn-- Jul 27, 2009

your welcome

!einfachnurich Jul 26, 2009

A Sunday morning like one you describe in your poem would be so great. I like the atmosphere u created with your words

~wh0rem0ans Jul 26, 2009

Thank you. It was such a happy wander with words. I appreciate the fave also ...

!einfachnurich Jul 27, 2009

u r welcome

*AlecBell Jul 26, 2009

Such a delightfully lazy poem!

~wh0rem0ans Jul 26, 2009

Thank you!

=DailyLitDeviations Jul 26, 2009

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLD (Daily Literature Deviations) in a news article here: [link] .

Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

Keep writing and keep creating.

~wh0rem0ans Jul 26, 2009

thank you!

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