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yet another found poem if you can believe it somebody stop me I can't help myself

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found poem

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                  ...the price of everything else keeps going up


                           ....sometimes  'this sucks'  is a good thing


















.....

a phrase recently observed

.....stark raving reality.....


















....................................and who can argue?

the revolting truth

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dqh2OfsIHQ




















...

toward a new ecumenism

It is absurd
    to say you follow
          Jesus Christ
            but
                reject the Church.






                                                       Francis I -  pontiff




















......

a scintillating moment on lutheran surrealism

Weather or not Mars and Venus
 are heating up and whether
 Uranus is saturnine
seem all to be subjects of mythmaking.














........          Kirby Olson - major American political pundit

for posterity

The big-bellied hippopotamus

Inhabits the jungles of Java,

Where in the depths of each lair, cuss

More monsters than haunt the dreamer.

 

The boa uncoils and hisses,

The tiger gives out its roars,

The angry buffalo whistles;

He grazes at peace or snores.

 

He fears nor kris nor assegai,

He gazes at man, with no cares at all,

And smiles at the sepoy’s musket-ball,

That merely rebounds from his hide.

 

I’m like the hippopotamus;

Clothed with my convictions’ weight,

Strong armour none can penetrate,

I tread, secure, the wilderness.


















....

!

Kiss the hand and cheek, kiss the lips that open.
Kiss the eyes and tears, kiss the wounds that open.

The nuclei of our atoms are so small,
                             we are mostly nothing.
Whoever did this made our stone walls
                       out of windows always open.

In a thicket: A bag too dark to see, too big to lift,
                                        too familiar to walk away from. 
God grant me strength to drag it into the open.

6:10, stuck on the freeway again.
Love is singing with window and throat wide open.

My friend refused to greet the stranger in black,
was brought to the surgeon, who cut his heart open.

Go ahead, I dare you, take another breath. 
                  Each one is full
of what 14 billion years ago blew this world open.

We safecracker poets sand fingertips,
                                    pass long nights on our knees.
All to feel those clicks that mean the door will spring open.

Len says, I love the night sky, but I adore the Milky Way:
It is the edge of Her robe.  See how gently it opens.

on the hierarchy of beauty

 












      True poetry
 ought to be secret
 and clandestine,
      concealed
    like a prohibited voice of dissent,
            while at the same time
               it should speak to everyone.










                                                    Claudio Magris