Poetry of 2001 Complete text version of the Poems of 2001 is on this page. Ultimately Alone Poetry by Michael F, Nyiri Sat., Nov. 17th, 2001 2:12am pst I've had this warning, this simple feeling, this surge of passion, this artistic bent, But it has always been with me throughout the years, and to me the love was never sent, Sure yes , the women, three month wonders, indulging nature's deepest secrets, But the secret of sexual ultimate satisfaction, The kiss that takes forever? Finishing each other's sentences... Love with the equal partner? This eludes me, And all my life offers is bitter regrets. At once my intellect reasons that we're each one of us ultimately alone. As age escalates, the social circles get smaller and smaller These computers don't really help now do they? Emails send themselves these days, and even the great chasm of humanity hooked up to computers, merely seems to be a bunch of lonely people sitting in front of machines. Like me, I guess. So each day I tip my hat to the excuse for middle aged craziness I call my set of wheels. Twenty Thousand reasons to get out on the road, put the top down, and listen to music blaring unsahamedly from the open maw of cultural disrespect. I like it. I'm me. I'm alone and enjoying it. The sad fact of age advancing with alarming irregularity, taking with it valued human resources, Leaving us with nothing but memories. And as one ages, there are more memories to forget. I have always embellished my memories and now I don't know what the truth is. I do know this. As I drive the 8 speaker, 100 watts per channel two seater stereo system, I don't feel alone. I feel refreshed. I interact, I talk alot. Sometines people evern listen. But it's always "people." "Humanity." Never "my soulmate", or "the one." I yearn for connections, and I'm ultimately alone. I travel the country, and I'm ultimately alone. I'm having lot's of fun. But I'm ultimately alone.,,,, The receptacle has never been located, With which I shall energize this existence, But perhaps I shall never find the other half. Perhaps, I will find answers long after my stay on terra firma.has degenerated into dust and dust. Perhaps, I know the answers. And I am fated never to find my soulmate on Earth. Who knows. I am resigned. "People move away, they die, and they grow old." The dust and dust and dust blows away in the wind. Existence extinguishes eventually. Everybody knows that. And they are ultimately alone. And then everyone gets together.............. When they all leave here. SoulGrief For Sheryl and For Jon poetry by Michael F. Nyiri November 14, 2001 5:09am pst The beginning of our life arrives at the moment of our death, Yet that doesn't begin to console the raging hearts of the still living, Or explain the loss and pain to our children and family. We can accomplish much in our scant hours of existence in this plane, Yet there always seems to be unfinished business to be done, And the clock doesn't stop for the rest of the world. The world will grieve, and the individual souls will, too Yet nothing can stop the pain which those who are left will feel For days, for months, for years, until the passing arrives for them as well. This is the blessing and the curse of mankind. Yet sometimes nothing can prepare us for the suddenness of a life's eradication. I awake each morning and I greet the spirits, As the ancestors of humankind have done for generations: "It is a good day to die" The righteous and the just prepare for passing with each moment in the sun. Yet nothing can help to stop the tears from streaming down the faces of the survivors. Nothing this feeble soul can muster will serve to cause SoulGrief to flee, Because SoulGrief is our connection with the minds and hearts of Our Loved Ones. SoulGrief will permeate our beings, and rack our physicality with pain. SoulGrief is a cry to heaven and a shout into the bowels of Gaia's Rock hard permanence. There are hallowed hallelujahs harboring wonderful soulmemories You will share these deeply while you suffer your SoulGrief. There again is nothing anyone can say. He was a man, a father, a lover, a friend. He was imperfection with a purpose, and Although for him, perfection is attained, The hole he has left behind can only be filled by memory Love, And SoulGrief. I stop my daily life for a moment to grieve with you. Yet I know this cannot console you much. The door to all of life's mysteries lies beyond the final living breath. "It is a good day to die" Yet nothing can serve to answer why To those of us left behind this morning. Full Moon On Hallowe'een Night Wednesday, Oct. 31, 2001 5:25pm pst poetry by Michael F. Nyiri poetry on Hallowe'en night 2001 5:25pm pst Amidst the horrorific feelings that the world is feeling now On a Halloween night, where the full moon shines bright I am locked in a struggle between the heart and mind For comprehension of the meaning What is right? What can I find? I am rational, and ready for the answers that I seek Who answers clearly now, and who can wonder how This feeling that I'm feeling is wrong, and so unclear I'm helpless, hurt, and angry Have we dealt the final blow? Is humanity doomed to despair? It will all come out in the wash, I will proclaim It has to be all right, we will prevail into the night But something tells me friends it is the beginning of the end I've read it since inception Proclamations bourne of second sight And disparate messages to send But as the neighbor's kids are screaming as they always do On a Hallowe'en night, whern the full moon shines bright Under a haze of suspicion and deep regret It doesn't really matter Who knows if anything's all right And someday hasn't happened yet. (short, sweet, sad, solid, another poor excuse for poetry from a conflicted soul.) Perhaps The Missing Were Prematurely Raptured Wednesday, Sept. 19, 2001 7:15pm pdt poetry by Michael F. Nyiri A friend and I, we have talked so much, Remember simpler times, and in memories, touch The very fibre of our broken souls, Even as we commisserate, a lonely darkness grows. We were remembering the parts of hearts, Our feelings that lives had not been given starts. For on the morning of the eleventh, when A large part of humanity met their worldly end A little part of our hearts went too And even a week later this hole's an open wound. I've been trying to set my heart straight you see Recover it's heft, get a handle on reality But I keep reading different stories, And each succeeding day new worries, Arrive, about hearing of new souls who soon might be gone From this Earth by a taste of American bombs. And I read of the immigrants, who fled other places With large traces of evil memories Which time never erases, And now they see that the terror follows them here I read of their plight, and my heart sheds new tears. A woman at work had a sad look on her face We have to get over this feeling, I said, we have to erase These horrible grievings for humanity's sorrow Because we have to get out of our beds tomorrow. Friends email with sorrow which wracks me, to cry Again and again, why did they have to die? But resolution, and stamina, are needed, we know Because this kind is the world of today, and we grow Stronger with knowledge, and we didn't know personally That this kind of grief is the grief of humanity. My friend told me they can't find many bodies In the rubble of New York's Once Magnificent Towers. Only a few hundred out of thousands who are "missing" Have been found. Perhaps this is the beginning of the end, And perhaps the missing were prematurely raptured. By God's Hand as an early escape from A coming tribulation on the ground. Those who seem to be constantly grieving, the sad, the meek, Shall inherit the world, says the Book. We shall perhaps soon join our New York friends in Heaven And will rejoice with Jesus while evil souls cook. My friend and I talk to console our broken hearts We mention much, discuss till it hurts, in broken fits and starts. We do know that the New Yorkers passed to Heaven And we can take some kind of solace in this knowledge. Tragedy a short poem for humanity this morning by Michael Nyiri Sept. 12, 2001 5:00am pdt There is an ill wind blowing through our realities right now, A sense of dread, a thought unsaid, substantial emotion bursting forth Imagined latitudes of worth, the ever present feelings of safety have fled. The world is not the same world this morning. We have lost a precious memory of reality We have lost what innocence we thought we had We have lost a world view that has been changing for two thousand years There is confusion, thoughts of retribution, who can I turn to? God and man We watched, we cried, we saw a great chunk of humanity perish And now, as we begin this morning in the shaky aftermath of uncertainty I feel we need to know there is much more to cherish My thoughts, and yours, are with the souls of this incredible tragedy We suffer with them, as we question our leaders, our redeemers, and our souls as well It is with another steely resolve with which we have to meet the day Because what we lost yesterday can never be regained Much will be remembered in history If history survives the implications A tragedy of biblical proportions portends a world to stop and pray And my heart goes out to all humanity today. Nothing in life prepared us Nothing we feel, read, or see So the morning of the rest of what's left of our sanity We'll just have to breathe deep, wait and see. For if this is the end time predicted so long ago, Then we will fight the battle for good and for God And if this ruthless murder of a way of life is the fault of the few Or of an incorrect ideology, then we will eventually punish this Grand infraction. Humanity is just not the same today. We grieve for our friends, families, and unseen irrationalities. If we naively believed we could live life without enemies, We know now that this is not so. If we felt sad for that part of the world when they suffer each day As they have suffered for centuries, because we saw their pain on television, we felt sad from afar Now that sadness is at our front door The skyline of America has changed. But not the resolve which makes up a global power Through all insanity, there will be some voice of reason And everything will change after this. This morning the world is not the same. CuteDog   4:49 pm pst September 6, 2001 poetry by Michael F.Nyiri CuteDog passed away last night, a night countless nights ago, and I just found out tonight, by visiting her website, and recieved this shocking blow. For a soul whom I hardly had visited lately, late news of a frightening sort If only my emails had been more frequently sent Her humanity has been cut immediately short. Her photo survives, as do her soft words, And the presence I felt at her site, And the site still exists, in the ethereal mists, and the feeling there feels just so right. CuteDog lives in perpetuity tonight, and tomorrow in our minds and our hearts I will promise to visit her website in depth, and find her word, so comforting In pages and in parts of her persona, her humor, her reality in virtual space. Because that part of her will always live on, and inspire us to see her sweet face. CuteDog I am sad for your husband and family and your friends, But I am happy for the universal existence which brought us together in the first place. Happy for the fact that you still exist in cyberspace, And thanks to your husband I can still visit you there. The souls pass into the otherland, but the universal mind is everywhere. CuteDog passed away last night, And I scroll her life and sigh. Her existence is still amongst us on her site As I linger, my heart feels a cry. Michael F. Nyiri copyright 2001 Roundelay Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri Sunday, July 15, 2001 11:25am p.d.t. Experiencing an undulating roundelay, revolving attitudes and emotions, Broiling amongst the waters of experience, using what little I still possess To let me know firsthand of the many failures And to fail first in love, and last in experience. The ayes have it, and the eyes cannot bear to look. Another personal ad, or another parting glance, Another realization, another get together for the soul Experience angst bubbling up from the graves of those who have come before Experience ridicule from the huddled masses giving lipservice to aquiesence Even as they laugh, and plot to forget their humanity. Another thousand words, and the experience gets lost in the encyclopedia. Nothing came to me again, I wrote years past, as I pondered this existence. God proved himself to me, I proclaimed, fat with the juices of smugness. Experience the vast play of emotions and misunderstandings, as those damn words get in the way again. Live like a hermit in the city, go out and eat the good life, Then hobble back into your hole and weep. Experience the swinging surges of the roundelay, the words mixed up, The emotions mixing together, the memories fading fast in the wind. Each moment lasts forever, but there is never enough time to ponder it. Each living being has something to say, but they forgot the sentiment, And isn't it so easy to post a greeting card on the internet, and mistake it for emotional weight. That weight hasn't gotten me down yet, But the sheer poundage is showing in the lines on my face, And the breakdown is about to happen Yet again, Around and around in this roundelay called life. Experiencing another undulation, And another irrepressible instantaneous culmination of ecstasy. Words don't mean anything, and the roundelay doesn't need them to revolve. Faraway poetry by Michael F. Nyiri 7/1/01 4:55 am Is love near to my heart or is love faraway? Nestled within the harbor of my soul Or simply around the world at play. Can feelings be near Or must they be faraway? The answers aren't in the sky Nor in the earth, nor in the chirping cry Of the birds outside, singing in their tree Is love heard on the wind? I won't ask why. I think of emotions No one can fill every soul I think of a smiling face for me I see a rich valley, and hear wonderful sounds And the emotion fills Round and round and round. The animals live in my sight and my mind The view from the eyes of my soul Retreats into the distance But a few words bring me close And is love faraway calling me? That Certain Feeling Returns Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri Wednesday, June 13, 2001 4:45pm p.d.t. Hello heartache, we've been here before, a - while now. We've been looking for answers, detaining our sanity, ruling out ridicule, Biding time with vanity. Searching, souls surmising that the way is out of reach, Looking in the mirror for the target of desire, Fooling all our feelings for a taste of love's warm fire. Poetry proclaims, as it has done for years and years, that simple supple friendly words will prove a tonic richly shears The petty thoughts which tell us nothing new will every be again, And heartache, gentle muse, I know we've passed this way before. And will pass this way again. And yet again. I hear the calling of the feeling, that certain feeling from the past, A few kind words, from around the world, and I'm in a holding zone. What feelings conjure up the very object of desire? A knowing nagging understanding that I am not alone. I hear humanity crying out for a will that will be forever done. I said I've never felt that certain feeling, that feeling of true love, Rhyming and writing and reading , rereading and what's the world made of? Saying that I'm happy, yet searching yet searching yet again, And the words get all jumbled up, and the phone's off the hook in pain. Yet this time, like the last time, I feel that certain feeling, yeilding, growing, firm And I feel again like I have the world to gain...... Dearest muse, you've heard me cry from the depths of heartache, rise Hello heartache did you think I'd give my answer to the skies? Do the clouds have pictures, and is the painting showing bliss? And is the answer there in words, and am I truly feeling this? This certain feeling, yes, that certain feeling that I never felt before, Even as love knocks, her gentle fingers at the door. Heavenly portent, send with intent, all thy works and fully breathe.... And here I am, on bended knees, will I feel love, heartache tell me please... This is another poem, guaranteed to wither away yet grow, And I am knowing that this feeling which has yet in life to show, Is enlarging me and fulfilling me, even as I write these words, And someday that certain feeling I will know..... UncharacteristicRollercoasterEmotion Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri June 08, 2001 4:39pm p.d.t. Here it is a happy day, mellifluous laughter, Oh God, yes I pray for the wondrous of feelings, the rapturous intent And to think I have gained more than I ever spent, On the slightest of measures, measure more rather than less This feeling of goodness, never better I profess..... And again a joyous sound is heard, a kind gentle glance, blissful thoughts overheard. In the glimpse of a life and the bond of a muse, The most happy of  feelings, those are ripe, wholly fused And a feeling of goodness, Just the kind I can use..... But as the days grow long and light, and a feeling  so strong bears me through the night I can't help but wonder at the size of it all, gracious muse in the mist, blessed with God's gentle thrall And I'm so glad to bear witness to this kind  call..... But can connections so slight and so infinite be, a clarion to love or false reality, Will the muse ever speak the words I know she will say, of will she ask questions as I do today. And as I give thanks to the Lord, I still must surely pray....... Help me to bear the weight of your pain, and to live rich with wisdom, through sun and the rain Falling hard on the knowledge that love exists in life's presence As certain as feeling has a sharp effervescence...... Uncertain feeling, falling up falling down, looping sideways and over and upside down Rollercoaster emotion, playing fast with thought and time, Emotions falling forever toward the cycle of thought and time.... Here it is, a happy day, I will hear from love's messenger, and again I will pray, Is the answer to life's questions in my datebook for today, and am I ready for the emotions to be put into play, And will I get to feel what I set out to feel today????? dedicated to the lovesearch yet again......convince me.......believe me.......respect me........retreive Random Soliloguies Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri May 27, 2001 6:51pm p.d.t Meaning, there was a time when it all seemed less meaningless than it does now That time existed in some ethereal space where meaning ceased mattering. That was a long time ago, too. Here it is the twentyfirst century, And I can't find the meaning in the momentous millennium. I thought I could, I practiced for months until it happened, And when it did it seemed so happenstance. Love, there was a word I cherished and disdained. I searched for love until I hurt, and hurt causes meaning to destroy whole continents. Love ceased to desist, but I craved this love from afar. I looked up from my (lonely) meal to find peace and anticipation. I grew tired of meaningless diatribes, even as I formulated my own. Meaning is found humor, a proclamaiton of presence, a solid footing for disaster. Love is an emotion few practice, I fear. Existence, there, that was the flaw. I am here, so I exist. Just like you and everyone else. But do I exist in reality, or in my tired mind. I ingested alterations, only to find that the reality wasn't so perpetual. I grew insistent that this existence should not be in vain. The existence of the meaning in love is tantamount in thought. Love exited quickly. Meaning eluded capture. Existence keeps on happening, and I'm not sure if I care anymore. Proof that existence, love, and meaning exist, and are present in me and in mankind? Look no further than this poem, Look no further than this existence, this meaningful love of perfection. It does exist, it's just that so many of us are condemned to waiting for meaning in perpetuity. We wait, We exist, We sometimes die, and maybe it is answered, as I feel, or maybe not. These are but the random soliloguies of quietude, reserved for the imminent few. Spout on about all this, and milk the words of the prophet. Keep the belief system warm, and I shall comfort you. And nothing was accomplished, but much was said. Again and again and again. Life........goes........on ................................. Anticipation Redux poetry by Michael F. Nyiri    5/13/01 10:08am It's coming soon, I know it. Serendipity bestows a glance upon the profane and the happenstance. The day begins with anticipation Regurgitating solace with participation A few weak knees at the outset And cacaphony's tuning fork at the headset. I listen for a sound, And begin again in anticipation profound. The words are just laughing again, Pin it down, It's all been said before, And can it be said with profundity again. Repeat, rewind, regurgitate anew, Rhyming couplets with eradicating sympathetic spew. Words can mean so much I always thought, To that party my hearty appetite I brought, And I spewed beatitudes and witticisms wry and wicked, But reality itself became as always bland insipid. The paragraphs advanced, and words fell off the page with age, Rhyming dictionarys were thrown in the fire, and I began again, In anticipation And with rage. Another sage bites the dust. Journey to Shiloh poetry Michael F. Nyiri Monday, April 16, 2001 4:30 a.m. Many times I have split my yearnings for companionship into the reality and the fantasy, And have fooled myself that I will settle for the reality, while secretly embracing the fantasy the more so. I have tried so many experiments and experienced so many heartbreaks. I know that kismet still exists while serving just to create my heartaches. I dream the weekend long that my goddess exists in tangible space She''ll satisfy my soul and make my heart gallop at a faster pace. The reality happens on weekdays, and she stays in my head and my heart And the fantasy bursts Friday night open, but true existence does not seem her part. Countless poems have screamed with no meanings at her unknown name and her nonexistant presence And the fantasy life I have led has sometimes gotten the better of my good senses The experimentation has to cease at some point I would surmise. Because age keeps on marching from sunset to sunrise The journeys I have made searching for the fantasy have yeilded naught. Until Good Friday the Thirteenth, and I may have found what I have sought. Many times a false connection, we pay for our mistakes. But we have to try all the ways of piecing the puzzle together to know what it takes. My Journey to Shiloh began with a destination familiar yet unknown A new opportunity for the fantasy to begin afresh, filling me with passion and stoking the fires of my soul. My dancer in the mist appeared at last, but was she real, or was she only an illusion? One glance from her eyes told me I should bear no confusion. While I know I have always reserved my heart for a soulmate and a bond for eternity She who bares her openness for all has a place in my newfound serenity. I asked her to call me, to open my door, and live in my humanity for a moment Time will tell if this fantasy will become reality, if this meeting was a portent. The Journey to Shiloh began with a dream, and whatever part of that dream becomes true, I will gasp With knowledge that universal connections are made in the strangest of places, That reality and fantasy can and will live in the same world with me, and survive And perhaps I, too, can reach and and touch her, and somehow enrich her life. For now, at my desk, the fantasy is in my head and in my journey, inspiring me As no other experiment ever has intruded into the day to day existence this much The next connection should be made by Serendipity herself as such The perfect body holds a mind, with whom I would love to be able to listen A universal mind, and mine with yours, commencing the ultimate conversation. The Journey to Shiloh ended at the intended destination. I can't stop thinking about her, her smile, her eyes, and her long flowing hair I want to make the Journey to Shiloh again, to languish in her presence fair. I am always talking about chance. I took one on Good Friday the Thirteenth And perhaps my life will be enhanced. Push Start My Heart poetry (still another poem about writing poetry) by Michael F. Nyiri March 18, 2001 8:00 am mundanity (is that a word?) I wait for something to happen nothing happens I try to inspire inspiration, instantly entertain, push start my heart but it does no use the poetry lay there dead in the water, hardly moving life is stagnant and repetitive, poetry is getting wet and sinking into the river the words are idle, blinking cursor laughing at my inability to start my creativity i set such goals at one time and time rolls on and on whether creativity exists or no i ponder all those creative souls who perished early before they had a chance to expound i greive for them and as the months pass my stalled persona and leave me in the dust i sigh sometimes i'm just too tired to ask why anymore the words the same words the same thoughts in perpetuity just like a motor and the motor needs oil and water and a push start down the hill of insanity and I will exist again in my words but it just seems to take time.............