Complete text versions of the Poetry of 2003 are displayed on this page. So far there are only about four of them, and I just wrote three today, July 13. It was a hot week, culminating in a hot weekend, and I have been smitten by the muse three times. The poem, "Evolution and History" promised a prolific year of verse, which hasn't yet arrived. So much so that this "text page" is the only page of poetry for this year. (So far, anyway.) A Beginning Again Poem for the New Year 2003 The Outline for Existence poetry by Michael F. Nyiri Januay 19, 2003 9:00-10:00 am Accomplishment. Lack of same. Many ideas, few distinct points to make. A big point to make, but hard to put into words. Words give meaning, but the look of the words sometimes gets in the way. And then the words tend to lose meaning. Too many words. Too many ideas. Too few points that ever seem to be made. There is a purpose to and a meaning of existence. Thoroughout existence,as one experiences the gift of life, one often wonders if he in fact exists. This is the unwritten cosmic question. Every time I approach the page, or the screen. Every time I contemplate the preaching of an answer to all of these questions mankind harbors. Every time I think about teaching all that I feel I know, And every time the full blown and restless impetus forces me to open the program and type. I know I will begin again in earnest, but I know I will type useless drivel as always with useless abandon. And the point will never get made. And as I type, And as I say, And as I repeat, Over and over and over again. Accomplishment? Simply to repeat ideas which never seem to make sense even when that attempt is made. Or to formulate an outline for existence, to which one can refer when one has questions. Funnel the few distinct points into a handbook for life. That was the plan all along, I would gather, As when I gather my thoughts, And outline this existence into these words, And hope, at last to make that universal connection Which transforms the mere words into inspirational gospel. And starts me on my way toward explanation, For myself and for mankind. The outline in verse: A poem, like the other poems for the New Year. A beginning again, like all the other beginnings again, To get on track, Outline the imperitive, Make a resolution for humanity that humanity can read and understand. There really is a point, and there really is a way in which everything can all be boiled down into a few major themes and concepts. If I could, with my stifled abilities to communicate, Distill the essence of these myriad concepts, And inform the masses of humanity of my understanding, Then I would be able to expound with infinite knowledge of this existence, But if I keep rambling, and losing the thread of consciousness Which, by running through us all, connects us and disturbs us, Then I can tap into that understanding, And upon reading the simple words I write, Anybody can unlock the secrets of the universe. The problem with my outline so far is that it hasn't been written. So here goes. Evolution and History Religion and Dogma Politics and Society Conflict and Power "Evolution and History" Poem for the New Year 2003 poetry by Michael F. Nyiri January 19, 2003 10:17 am pst Energy Geology Life Evoulution History These are the building blocks of existence As we know it As we understand it And as we are living it At first, all is universal As before, And for all time. Geology lasts for a long time And sets the stage for life Life began from energy And life evolves From one aspect of existence to the next. As life, and mankind in particular, lives, and dies, and propogates the race of man into times unknown and uncertain History is written For the good and for the shame of mankind. First building blocks of understanding Energy is vast and formless Precise and volatile Creator and destroyer Unharnessed Or perhaps just reinventing itself Energy crystallizes into spinning orbs of light heat and matter An infinite number of these orbs, These stars and planets, these building blocks of the tangible universe These orbs spin and cool and solidify, Our Earth cooled, And the long process of formation, For landscape and for mankind, Began with an ironclad dichotomy of purpose. Earth, Gaia, Mother Nature, and Man, Humankind, Intelligence, and Naivete Life as it evolved on Earth gives the human race the edge. An edge so sharp it can cut the very fabric of the planet on which the human race exists. And at the time I write, this cut is fairly deep, and the rift has began to change the planet. Evolving with the speed of ignorance, humankind Began to believe he was smarter than everyone else, including his neighbors, Who always disagreed. History proves one thing. There were a couple or more paths travelling through history which in retrospect shouldn't have been taken by anybody, And these paths have driven the babbling incoherent explanations of the Reasons behind why the masses travelled upon their disastrous ways Into an unbearably doomed vision of a divided future, Where nobody ever agrees. In fact, the powerful have always been able to decimate the unbelievers. History proves this. Yet it's always repeating itself. A cosmic lesson which never gets learned. It's about time the teacher comes back into the classroom. "Perceived Crazy Actions In Sanity Lie" poetry by Michael F. Nyiri July 13, 2003 9:38 am pdt Inside, deep, dedicated, heartfelt, I know the feelings are let loose, And the pent up inefficiencies of others' illusions do not touch my psyche at all. Oh, they think they know it all and only know what they don't, and I have always sworn that I know nothing, But yet feel all..... And each week I read and hear of life's little skirmishes which result in pain, And lingering, And death, And destruction. And each day I feel that I am not a part of this insanity, and that in sanity, I live untouched, but futilely feeling of the fervent fevers of frustration that Cause the masses to unleash this bubbling anger I was untouched perhaps, and then, Unknowing and unwanting, the full force of insanity's blows hit me left right and center, I am a malleable dummy, pushed inside out with incredible ease, By the purported sabotage inflicted by those for whom I once held respect. The days can pass without knowledge. That existence can deny reality is a truth as old as our consciousness. I am rife with hurt and agonize now nightly Because inconsequential inconsistencies can be set up as emotional bullets Which rip my self satisfied facade to burnt shreds. Are those whom I respected yet do not now playing games with my psyche? Are they who are clueless to clarity charting the course of my life? Are the inmates running the asylum of insanity? And, In Sanity, do I live in my skin? Or, does insanity live in my skin, as they think? Because they never knew anything anyway. They choose to believe what they see. I know I am sanity solidified, shouting only because they can't hear. That is the way it has always been. That is the way it is. The clueless and the cancerous cacophany of indifference, laughing All the way to smug delight, Cannot know truth, Cannot know pain, Cannot know what it does to me. So I am called by the insane as in sanity I trust. "Do you think you need help?" they ask trustingly, Unbeknownst to them that the sabotage did not begin yesterday, And the ineffectual stupidity of mankind, who documents each tirade as if it were insanity's call to arms, And his ticket out of inconsequentialness, Because he is smarter than I had thought. "They know how to push your buttons", they told me. "They are hurt by your truthfulness." Truth hurts. And I have always thought I could see the truth coming. But I didn't see this coming. That is because it is not life's truth, But life's lies, And the talent to proceed will never hamper the truth in my eyes. "Little Thoughts" poetry by Michael F. Nyiri Sunday, July 13, 2003 4:48 pm pdt Little thoughts can cause big headaches, big trouble, big bonanzas, big horizons and big breaks Little thoughts can be positive or negative yet takes No little thoughts to positively destroy a person's highs, So people positively cut up all their positive right vibes. Little petty solemn thoughts that people think, all of the time, Set the stage that sees those headaches boiling, bubbling, seeming strife. Little thoughts were set in motion, And a big ball of hate and fear I don't know why little thoughts are random thoughts not thought so well or with care. "Callioscopic Memories Play Tricks in Time" poetry by Michael F. Nyiri Sunday, July 13, 2003 5:58 p.m. pdt The circus came to town, in other towns. The candy cane cacophany of other plans and other happinesses The lumbering elephant of danger stepping on the toes of propriety The laughing eyes of laughing clowns caring not for proper etiquette, And the ringmaster, Announcing apocalypse as if it were a media sensation. The circus tents rose large among the buildings of the town Another town, in memory, another age, another time. The rusty wheels of circumstance turn heavy on the soul, And those damn laughing clowns wouldn't go away. The carny folk had frowns behind their laughter, And the tents had to fold, as the money got scarce, The bottle wouldn't cease to fall again and again... And the clowns. That damn clown with the funny feet and the laugh. The circus left and the memories linger A busted balloon and an upturned middle finger What lessons to learn from the bright floppy clowns? Did the mayor learn lessons when the circus left town? The loud dissonant voices yelling about love and doubt The circus' round brilliance gave up and about I called to the ringmaster, or was it a shout. And the circus came to town, But it was other towns, So long ago in memory That I don't remember it at all. But that clown was still laughing at me. "Don't Think About the Consequences" poetry by Michael F. Nyiri Friday, August 15, 2003 5:57 am pdt It's been a charmed life I've led, I'm full of sweat and blood, I exist in time and tide, and in my own domain. I feel with a feeling felt immeasurably, and time has taught me well, but as the eons pass, I'm falling down a well, And light, cool breezes, sanity, and good feelings fall in as well, And I will try but never understand, and only this same time can tell. If life were extinguished for me, in a minute or two, I would try to explain that it doesn't matter, Really, I have a clue To the unstoppable eternity that's waiting for us all, And if the clarion call, should hasten my fall, I will embrace this inconsistency, no matter what happens next And this past life shall be spelled out in my poetry text Perhaps, this feeling of foreboding shall melt away, And though I feel I have no worries, charms can stale the most perfect day If my life is set, and there were no more challenges for me Then I will welcome the doorway at the end of this life's well and as I mentioned before Embrace lifeless eternity. "Some Verse for the Worse." poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 10/18/2003 09:31 AM Some Verse for the Worse. (Or for the better, whichever time will tell.) Poetry or some semblance of same. 10/18/03 9:25am I am at the computer, computing, Verbalizing at last on the word processing software that comes with the blogger And looking at life one last time, Before tomorrow. Poems paint a pallid putrid past, and pustules on the skin gather dust, As do the books in closeted cases covered by diamonds on the glass, In hilltop mansions, unread, but admired by millions. The paper tells stories of armageddoned interest, and life goes on for some, and stops for others. I am disheartened, disillusioned, dismayed, And abandoned by my own self importance. I talk to the vestiges of humanity, and as usual, they always tell me to shut up. I am just typing unintelligible gibberish as usual, as the clock ticks ever so quickly, And the voices in my head can't seem to agree Live life and prosper, Pass on and out, Pull the covers over the head and breathe easy....... Waiting is sometimes difficult for the prescient. "A Lively Afternoon Indoors" poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 10/19/03 8:50 PM pdt An afternoon working hard maintaining sanity, collecting artistic tendencies, And typing literature, and creating soluble art. That's the ticket None's the wiser. Crawling out of the thicket Peeking over the riser. And seeking to see the whole instead of the part. A busy day looking at someone else's accomplishments, While beginning (again) to begin to begin to build mine. There I go again Can't be much clearer Back and forth again Slake the fear, or I can pay the price of the cultural fine. Inasmuch as I can see that nothing is really accomplished much, Even when wasting a day proclaiming that typing on a computer is artistic. That's the ticket. None's the wiser. It's a fairly sticky wicket But it sure is a tantalizer, And I fail to end the day with fulfillment, yet my accomplishement feels intrinsic.