“Believers”

are never satisfied until

they caulk the cracks,

plug the holes,

drape the windows and

seal all the doors

such that neither sunlight or stars

can spoil the romance

and shadows

of their flickering

small candles.

(C) Jim Lyle, 2006

GESTALT

It's something that happens in our brains and our hearts
No!  Not the one that looks like cheese 
Not the pulsing pump that looks like liver.
And it' s not flesh or blood, or bones or arteries.
Nor is it snapping synapses, jerking muscles,
     or the air soft tender touch we save for our children.

None of  it comes from the chemicals that equal us when totaled.
But, we are living, tasting, testing, walking laboratories. 

It's the things we hang on the chair beside the bed: 
      the non-living self-images carefully draped so' s not to crease;
      the templates and notes to rebuild our courage next morning.;
      the necessary warm self-love we may need in a cold world;
      the naked mocking lies the world dictates we wear.
      and, the old bandages from wounds rendered by splinters of love.

And this doesn' t even include the large upright chest with trick doors,
      the ones  with mirrors that might force truth upon us, and
      that lock dark hidden vaults full of the caricatures we use 
      to calibrate  memory.

It all allows us to recognize ourselves,  and sometimes  
      it helps to tie us to the mast when storms rage. 

We give this flotsam and jetsam names:
     Art, Invention, Inspiration, Loyalty, Duty, Patriotism, God,  and
     Oh yes!   Love! 

But, buried Treasures of  Life and Love are both undependable.
We can' t count on expectations or predict contents.
When opened, some are full of shinning treasures
Others hold nothing but the crumbling bones of past hope.

 At first soft breath, the powders of old bones and false love
       will both blow away,
       and dust is very hard to reassemble.

                                   © Jim Lyle   17 Nov 05. 

I woke this morning
thinking
how wonderful
waking
to the face
with whom you
chose to live life

is.

The corollary does not
teach kindly.

Those blessed
with opportunity
think
too seldom.

Those without opportunity,
do think
every morning...
at minimum...
without effort...

and wish we could stop.

© Jim Lyle

I don't need Furlongs, or Fortnights, or Fathoms,
I don't like Rods, Acres, Pecks, and Bushels,   
Don't even talk to me about cubits!

But, I've got Avogadros number;
    there's more to life than packing molecules in a Mole.
         (And no!, I don't know how many you can get in
                   and, it seems,
                   neither does anyone else until
                   Planck's constant is more constant).

Concerning what Amperes do to Volts
         in the privacy of their own Coulomb,
         my attraction fades proportionate to distance.
I do not multiply with LaGrange.
Fermat and I do not theorize.
I am turbulent about Reynold's Number; in this regard,
     I have never been laminar.
I have no fluid problems; let Navier-Stokes worry.
I don't think about Riemann; not even hypothetically.
I don't get very close to Simpson's Approximation.
     Euler's number doesn't count up.
    Brownian Motion doesn't move me.
    My calculator will not process Schroedinger's Equation,
    Maxwell's law means naught
         (and yes, I know ignorance is no defense).
But, I do wonder if Yang and Mills theorize about Yang and Yin,

It's not hard to see them go, I never used any one of them.

Use to be...
    you wanted to see the "real meter"...
    lift the "real kilogram"...
         well, the French had'em in a vault.
But  now the "real, real meter" is how far light travels
     in some minute fraction of a "real second";
The "real, real second" is how long it takes cesium
     to vibrate damn near 10 billion times       
    (and I'm not even sure what the hell cesium is).

    Distance equals time; time equals distance.
    I'm not smart enough to explain my misgivings but 
         seems like nervous logic to me.

Once, it was simple:
The King of England 's royal foot told us how far to go;
    but was it his left foot?, his right?
         was it measured at the end of a long hot day?
         had he been kick'n ass?
         I think there's trouble afoot!;

I worry about things like that,
         was I cheated last time I bought a foot long hot dog?

    Or take leagues!, now there's something to walk on!
    Every country had its own;
    A guy could wind up sucking hind tit just from
         stopping too soon.

And, when was the last time you took a scruple of Aspirin?
    Huh?, Huh?;
    how many grains are there in a Scruple?

         Who knows?
         Does anyone care?
         Why?

Well, I want you to know,
    I don't give a rat's ass!

    I'm opinionated, I admit, but
         Heisenberg's Principle of Uncertainty is
         certainly the only thing I know for certain.
    I welcome the demise of Rods, Leagues, Pounds and Acres.
         Just walk right in here on your ...     lineal feet;
         Help me dispose of all these ...        linear feet.
        
Again I say:

    Let them go!
    Let them go!

              But I'll carry one banner for you...
              Let's hear it for the Metric System.

                   It's your pick.
                   Drop any two:
         
                        Lords a leaping,
                        Maids a milking,
                        Swans a swimming,
                             or,
                             those damn  golden  rings.

              Any thing chop'n two of the
              twelve days of Christmas....

                        has my vote.

                                   ©Jim Lyle 1994

Those who aspire to be,

      or

are forced to be

      poets…

those who, coincidentally,

      are not always the same

      as those who

           pose as or think they write

      poetry;

those who either learn to live with,

      or are

naturally prone to,

finding their minds

      at home

      when adrift in trackless mazes

      of seemingly

      illogical, unstructured,

           and bewildering connections.

For those, it is like being lost in a mangrove swamp

      there is beauty,

      there is mystery,

      there are alligators, insects, and venomous snakes,

but

      there are

      Orchids

           and always…

           another bayou to try.

We learn there is no way out, and that

      at times, that this can be

           pleasant.

The trick is in finding beauty and meaning where you are

           rather

      than where you are going.

Salvation, sanity, and…

      when we are lucky…

           poetry…

      are the fruits of that discovery.

© Jim Lyle Sept 05

AGNOSTIC RECOGNITION 

Their thundering addiction for your name drowns your song;
    "a still small voice" never seems an option.
Denouncing science and blossoming creation, 
    they do not hear "rocks cry out"; 
    they forbid divinity in progress and process.

Burning crosses foul night, blacken stars, 
    and blind the heavens to which you pointed.

They proclaim your royalty, but forget your humble clothes.
They turn "the least of these" away, 
    never dreaming you among the forlorn seekers.
They praise fish and loaves but deny food to the hungry.
They condemn contraception and then murder to protest abortion; 
    yet they ignore children who starve smelling the banquet, 
    and freeze just beyond warm insulated doors.

They dream your descent from heaven 
    wrapped in power and radiance,
    but never consider... such power might already be here& 
    unannounced.

I never, ever, see you in their posture, or from their pulpits.
I do not know you by their works.
I do catch quick freeze-frames of presence in crowds...
    remnant graffiti wrappings from gifts of grace;
    warm auras of comfort and sympathy;
    radiation from exchanged love;
        and, within children, 
        the spreading infection of forgetting and pardon.

Then, do I dare dream renewal.
But, I do not soil myself, nor ever misunderstand you...
    by following!
 
In my mind, I enjoy walks side by side, together...  You and I...
 
    and  Buddha, and Lao Tsu, and  Socrates, and
    Zarathustra, and Maimonides the Rambam and
    all the unnamed others... the whole lonely gang...
    all the ones who really wanted to understand;

    and could see,
    and could learn,
    and could love,
    and could teach,

    and dared to do so. 
                                  (C) Jim Lyle, Christmas 1999