Life’s almosts —
seismic shifts —
herald of looming
inscrutable rifts,
tearing the fabric
of the everyday,
stripping the known
and the snug away,
emerging newness
from this to that,
change aborning,
verdant fiat.
From depth of cyclic
mystery
its swelling vow:
What wasn’t will be.
The frizble connects to the whatnot,
the whozzis fits under the thing,
don’t ever mistake the doohickey
for the updated technomajing.
Thus is this whatchamacallit
in aperture, appendage, and bloat
an eloquent manifestation
of gibberish with which I am smote.
It’s the shape of my grandchildren’s planet,
a world they inhabit with ease,
conversing in hieroglyphed newspeak,
fluent in emojieese.
Their view of the world is brand new,
just the way that it really should be;
I grudgingly grant I am miffed
that it gets along fine without me.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
I cannot think a thought
pen a treatise or a ballad
explaining mystic morph
from yellow frill to salad.
LOWER TO HALF-MAST. REPEAT.
Measured anger,
calibrated,
methodically
articulated,
sourced in heart
tempered in mind,
sentence by sentence
clearly defined.
Rage and anguish
penned halberds
change can fly
on wings of words.
We must, dear reader, believe that.
There comes a time to change the view
to risk a higher bar
a new perspective, boldly askew
but I think this goes too far.
I’m sure the folks who live here
are very kind and sweet
but before I enter in there
how do I wipe my feet?
And thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Oddments 