Listening for Love-Poetry for Scientists
Dear Reader,
Thank you for visiting this website. I hope you enjoy the 50 pages of my poems following. (Place cursor over Pages above.)
If you do, please pass my site along to others.
There is a search box at the bottom of each page.
Some poems show up in more than one column.
My goal is to attract a book publisher, and donate half of any proceeds to the
Rhode Island Community Food Bank, USA. Know that you are helping in this endeavor.
My thanks to the Muse throughout the ages.
RBMontanaro May 22, 2016
I got out of bed one sleepless night and started writing; I was 12, and it was 3AM in 1960. There began a quest for meaning through religion, psychology, and philosophy that eventually opened to the transcendent--whether it be love, humor or dark energy, the questions and answers lead to the invisible...
Dear Reader,
Thank you for visiting this website. I hope you enjoy the 50 pages of my poems following. (Place cursor over Pages above.)
If you do, please pass my site along to others.
There is a search box at the bottom of each page.
Some poems show up in more than one column.
My goal is to attract a book publisher, and donate half of any proceeds to the
Rhode Island Community Food Bank, USA. Know that you are helping in this endeavor.
My thanks to the Muse throughout the ages.
RBMontanaro May 22, 2016
I got out of bed one sleepless night and started writing; I was 12, and it was 3AM in 1960. There began a quest for meaning through religion, psychology, and philosophy that eventually opened to the transcendent--whether it be love, humor or dark energy, the questions and answers lead to the invisible...
Poetry for Scientists
---------------------- The Maze In was in without trying-- open, light, a new panorama. Program, program, walls information. This way and that way, it doesn’t matter when: where are we going? It’s new and it’s nice and it keeps changing--but-- just keep walking. So many ways that die! Just keep walking. ******* The Badlands 1970 Between the leaves of eternity's time, within the control of earth and spirit, dies and bears a place needless for itself. And yet its beauty stays a place in time, where we chance to expose our thoughts and selves and sometimes know truths; and together we become one. Could you really not exist if not perceived? I believe we need you as well. ******* Freedom A flower unfolds in the cold of night extending itself in directionless flight, receiving its life from an inborn light; so still it stands there. Clouds don't drop rain to the soil not one bead of water moistures nor foils, still the flower unfolds seeming never to toil, and life flows within like a river. The ground that surrounds it is barren and bare. No support does it give, nor food, nor air. Not even a crypt can it be for the fair flower that rises above it. Without a spark, a cause, or a claim; beyond reason and elements that tame, a flower grows freely without domain- a flower grows freely to remain the same. ******* The undertow of imagination often causes waves of reality. ******* Time Sun though the heavens moon through the stars, daylight and moon shadows an endless barrage. Time after time, or so it is said, the changes are noted: a moment arrives while one has fled. Seconds into minutes, gears into clocks-- one is just turning, the other a mark. Thoughts to the past, you remember them well. Where are they then if time will not tell? Time isn't moving the planets around. Time doesn't move you while dreaming in down. Time isn't yesterday or whatever's in mind. Time is just objects in motion we find. ******* Time, Color, and the Sun Oct.12, 1988 Green, is red orange yellow with time. Time, is Winter Spring Summer in Fall. Fall, is light returning color to the Sun that charms Winter to Spring. ******* Existential Babble I sit here on the long night of my lost hoping. Nowhere can I forget who I am. Long lost hope of lies I can't even think of, only a rolling thunder silence, the very sound that is me in the absence of all that I am. Everywhere is this time at all times. This is freeing under starred skies that never answer so silently. Personal history aged in darkness comes choking; lighting the alleys of my misunderstanding of some other world. The one is because we make it so. Imagination lost on the fat edge of guessing in a blindness that is not our own, but only lent as a clue. Minds pronouncing thoughts incorrectly leads to philosophy. Psychology is the language of false meaning. Next to the word lunatic is the story of our lives, superimposed on the backdrop of every moment that will ever exist And you don't ask why we sit here on the long night of our lost hoping? Logic is born of madmen lost in vocabulary Who matters if nothing cares? Can't I say it all in these few words, even if my ideas are misspelled?. ******* Lives Going Past Unnoticed A tree in the great forest falls; the forest listens. Hearing, the trees remain trees but can't be seen. Without a sound they fall forgotten, to a world rolling away in the night. ******* |
Poems from the Heart
---------------------- Waiting 1960 3am Being captive in my egg, an outlet I seek, for this I beg. Straining, searching, for a crack, a slice of light is all I lack. Just a beam to point the way, to lay a path so not to stray. But here I sit until the time, the shell is broken and truth is mine. ******* Separation 1971 Time, turn the tides of tomorrow's tomorrow... lessen the stay of the squirming seconds that drip through the minutes mangled and mourned, giving rise to the unending hours filling up the days that they themselves barricade against the open door of love. ******* 1978 Wintering Spring, hidden source of all, blessed be thy mothering wing, alas but for the Fall, that stops thy living heart to beat that hangs thy breath in toll, and yet another Spring will flow out of the icy cold. ******* A rocky road weren't ya? Unbreakable now though huh? Walk softly. ******* You I can hear a song that ended long long ago. Still, quite still, we dance. ******* Some lives have to be lived for others to be lived at all. Some feel they have nothing, unless they have something to give. Some know the flowers to be sweet and their roots that grow underground. Some don't forget that children sing and heaven is but a feeling away. ******* Breathless Breathless I vibrate in the presence. I am more than ever. Becoming all and everywhere here in the boundless, I am to the universe at it is to me. ******* Vessel In the quiet dawn the temple is trued. No shadows. Feeling and feeling again, innermost we are what is most alive. ******* Morning Reflection B.C. Buddha say: attachment is the root to all pain. 1990 cool-age proverb: Who cares! Not to hold on, but to let go. Not to fight, but to surrender. Dancing with hands in the air, big earlobes flapping in the wind, rolly-polly man say: Who cares! Wisely unattached and laughing he soils his pants never to notice. ******* What is and is not Sublime We are the topic at hand. We are the importance. Salvage the thinker always. Take prisoners into your heart. We are the subject matter first and foremost. There can be nothing before us. ******* May 1984 Deep within the spirit is the easy flow of yes. Happpiness waits in the heart to be claimed. When all is said and done, nothing will ever be as important as a hug. ******* Unattached in Tibet Dancing with open hands in the air, fatman say: "Who cares!" Six years he sits beneath the Bodhi tree watching, learning that suffering is the nature of the attached world. Showing the way, he holds forth a flower. Without words he teaches emptiness, serenity, compassion. The Four Noble Truths, The Eightfold Path. His prodigy waiting on Nirvana, meditate in mountain temples. Dying at the feet of marauders, headless monks empty themselves into the earth.. Buddha say: attachment is the root to all pain. Unattached, sword in hand, a priest rushes toward the temple gates. ******* |
Observations
---------------------- Outside Inside 1969 If I could have seen the world before learning taught my eyes what to see and how to see it... Or if I could have heard before I was told what to listen to and how to treat it... And If I could have felt before I was told what to feel and how to feel it-- I would have been free to be... to be what I truly am. ******* Speak lightly what you say, for if you live another day you may find that what once was, is no longer, and how beliefs can change so rapidly. ******* Even though Dorothy got turned on to a bum-wizard, she still got home. ******* A cow very quickly becoming a school of piranha. ******* We started with a dream, it ran the theme quite well. In time we came to know the truth, it shot the dream to hell. ******* Freud has pushed us much to the brink about what he thought about what we think. To play with him a game that he led, I believe he saw projections in other peoples' heads. ******* Embrace Christmas Eve 1995 We tell each other stories in laughter and tears, yet hide from each other when we need to be found, and how others don't search for us in the deep within while right there in front of them. The way changes keep moving us towards who we are now and here, and millenniums away. How we track and trace our lives, holding them up to match and compare overlapping universes-- For all the differences we must be the same: insane and loved, amazed and laughing, crying and hiding and finding, and finding and finding... ******* Telescope Walking the horizon between the worlds; dreaming aside the walls of lilacs, between the oak and meadow... weren't we here once before? Was it upon this same pressed path that we ate blueberries? Or in the cool of the pine where we came to linger? Still, here somewhere... we're just hard to see. ******* April 12, 1988 The solid sound of oatmeal cooking, like the applause in a faroff concert hall, or the sound that raindrops make on canvas. Tiny explosions of warm airpockets... the bass sound of static from a broadcast too far; the sound of hobnailed soldiers, the rapid fire of thoughts before we rise from bed. On my stove resounds rivers and waterfalls., rushing through me like the inner ear's sweet song. It is popcorn popping in an iron pot. It's all the warm energy of the sun washing over the windswept grass of the west. Mighty rivers rush up those dry stalks growing. The sound of the farmer's reaper as row after row fall to the ground; the crackle of the harvest as the stalks are gathered. The solid sound of oatmeal cooking. ******* Rights of Passage Oct. 29, 1987 Brooks incoherently babble; a solar heart weakens, murmurs, skips a beat. Trees, balding in dayglow colors, lose their leaves. Eyes dull, Mother Nature loses sight of Summer; forgotten somewhere. Misplaced, like the scent of lilacs. ******* Requited Love March 20, 1988 With all hope of snowflakes gone, cold and clear the night wind freezes. Snow, from March must now refrain, for March will not a snowflake claim. ******* |