Minimum Verse :: Salvatore Poeta

What a shame!
I let the water run too long
before I took a drink.
Now I forget what caused my thirst
in the first place.

If you are afraid of death,
just change the channel
and go to a new station!

I'd like to write an elegy
to the death of the space
in between words never written…
I have no words.

As I wait,
I feel the rustle of the passing wind…
How do I distinguish this moment from others equally,
and will I remember?
We are all just waves,
which one are you
and will you remember?

Who? Who is witnessing
the ant's journey up the hill,
as it carries a corpse of some distant ancestor?
Is it ancient or new?
And does the ant know if it is good or evil?

If the answer is always no,
or I don't know,
then what is the question?
--Does he or doesn't he?

Mathematics are merely
an arbitrarily infinite series of mirrors
in which we seek God's face.

If there is nothing new under the sun,
including the thought there is nothing new under the sun,
then what is creation?

If life is space within time,
then death is time within space.

I fear the earth at my core
and yet I embrace it in my soul's soul;
What love is greater and more eternal than a mother's love for a child?

Fame is nothing more
than a small nick
a knife makes on the lifeless body
of eternity;
there is no blood, no life, and no memory;
there is only the nick.

If he is dead
or never existed,
than who cures this wound on my finger,
and why does the chameleon stare back at me
through my own eyes?

WRITING & NAMING: the medicine of acquiring knowledge
Joseph Robertson

Language is that point of contact in the abstract, that plane where the intellectual life within us is enabled to assert itself as part of the overall experience of living. Language is that plane where the individual self is allowed repeated attempts at manifestation. What takes place in the process of writing, in the spilling of ink or the posting of digital characters, the slip toward defining a landscape, however brief, is the sanctification of an individual, and by extension of the human condition as such...

Not every person is a writer, by trade, nor should they be, but there is something about the act of writing that serves the writing individual as if it were a medicine for selfhood, a healing venture into clean waters. Especially so when its intent is to be expressive of secret regions of the mind or to lay out new experimental vessels for such expression. [Keep reading...]