5.4.08
Mechanical poetry
How many nights spent together, afraid of your noise.
My first lines, immature like august grape,
took form thanks to your mechanical precision,
a poetry made of metallic hammering,
the strength of fingers guided by vision
unleashed on those defenseless letters -
my voice; and for this I'll be forever grateful, dear
old, at-rest, unforgotten, alphabet machine.
Touch
I have never known anything more valuable than touch!! When occasionally visiting assisted living homes to play the piano for the residents, I have seen the elderly suffer not from lack of food, but from lack of affection. We never outgrow our need for touch!!
Old Friend
He lies there still
Most of the time
He lives in a rest home
This old friend of mine
Until crossing over
His life's on the line
They help keep his body
I help with his mind
I visit him often
At least once a week
Sometimes he's awake
Sometimes he's asleep
When he opens his eyes
He might even speak
As I stroke his white hair
Or rub his soft feet
It's our routine each week
(c) mBarlew
A special note: Because of an elderly family member who is very sick I have been gone often these last few weeks and unable to post, comment and reply as I like to do. I hope to catch up soon. Thanks to everyone for your thoughtfullness!
Mike
4.4.08
Cristo, Rio de Janeiro - RJ/Brasil
O ato de tomar fotografias estabelece uma relação crônica e voyeurística com o mundo e nivela a significação de qualquer acontecimento.
A coisa simples
“Certos espíritos dificilmente admitem que uma coisa simples possa ser bela, e menos ainda que uma coisa bela é necessariamente simples, em nada comprometendo a sua simplicidade as operações complexas que foram necessárias para realiza-la. Ignoram que a coisa bela é simples por depuração, não originariamente; que foi preciso eliminar todo elemento de brilho e sedução (coisa espetacular), como todo resíduo sentimental (coisa comovedora), para que somente o essencial permanecesse. E diante da evidente presença do essencial, não o percebendo, até mesmo fugindo a ele, o preconceituoso procura o acessório, que não interessa e foi removido. Mais pura é a obra, mais perplexa a indagação:”Mas é somente isto? Não há mais nada?” – havia mas o gato comeu ( e ninguém viu o gato).”
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE
Retrato no Lixo
A fotografia, que brinca com a escala do mundo, pode ser reduzida, ampliada, cortada, retocada e distorcida, envelhece ao ser infestada pelas doenças comuns aos objetos feitos de papel, desaparece, valoriza-se, é vendida e comprada, é reproduzida, abarrotando o mundo, a fotografia convida ao acumulo. Pregam em álbuns, é emoldurada e colada sobre a mesa, presas em paredes, projetadas na forma de slides, jornais e revistas a exibem, a policia a codifica, museus a expõem, editores a copilam.
Cordas
Afinal, a melhor maneira de viajar é sentir.
Sentir tudo de todas as maneiras.
Sentir tudo excessivamente,
Porque todas as coisas são, em verdade, excessivas
E toda a realidade é um excesso, uma violência,
Uma alucinação extraordinariamente nítida
Que vivemos todos em comum com a fúria das almas,
O centro para onde tendem as estranhas forças centrífugas
(Fernando Pessoa)
Recycling
Last night during Earth hour, we were watching a show about recycling. We got so inspired that we loaded up the SUV with all our old newspapers, glass and aluminum cans. We got a little lost on the way to the recycling place so we had to drive around for about an hour and a half to find it.
We were talking to our neighbor afterwards, and he pointed out that we were throwing away a lot of crap every week. He asked us to come down to the city dump because he wanted to show us something.
When we got there, he showed us all these people who lived around the dump. The looked like extras from an old zombie movie. They had grey skin with big lumps and open sores. Some of the children even had two heads. Most of them only muttered. “What caused all this?” I asked.
Jokes, he said. Apparently jokes have become more toxic over the years. Not only do they have more profanity, but the subject matters tend to be more toxic and the overall quality has declined also. As people throw these jokes away, the toxins from the jokes seep into the soil and into the water table. Animals and people drink the contaminated water from the creeks or eat the plants grown in the contaminated soil and become contaminated themselves. As a result three headed children are popping up around landfills all over the country preparing for the apocalypse.
After seeing the damage caused by my jokes, I decided I had to do something. From now on I’ll be recycling my jokes. If you think you’re seeing a joke for the second time, it doesn’t mean I’m being lazy or that I’ve run out of ideas. It just means I’m recycling. I’m doing it for the Earth. I’m doing it for the children!
this is
no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Begging for Thy Kiss
Sitting still on my favorite chair
in the middle of the porch, I see
something happening there, high up above,
and here, right beside me.
A cloud is revolving. A flower is dancing.
Are they talking about the possibilities?
Are they simply whispering their love?
Are they waiting to get closer?
Or are they only talking and giggling of me?,
lazily lying just as if time doesn't exist?
3.4.08
Pacific
Up above, sneaking in from a hole in the sky pavement,
the peaceful burning eye is leading the clouds
to their evening rest. Days are longer now, a crowdy
train of lovely thoughts comes pouring down;
and longer is the wave of wholeness that Pacific sent
on a railway of endless intense sunlight.
2.4.08
it would be dishonest
to say that
i don't want
to call you
to tell you
i want you
at least several
times a day
1.4.08
31.3.08
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