Does This Ink Blot Make My Ass Look Big?
Jet black darkness
Reflecting back no colors
Is the temperament
Pareidolia seeks
Curves and jerky continuity
Belie the lies of fluidity
Fencing in the beckoning darkness
When the vacuum peaks
Murky and menacing
Inviting but cold
Resisting but bewitching
What Rorschach mirrors wreak!
How I present
To others, unsightly
Ugliness inside and out
From a blotter of shrieks
A Sonnet To Change
The easel lies neatly packed away. I
try to ignore it, but it accuses.
A memory aches to be brought to life.
This phantom longs to expose abuses.
My dead lavender begs to be thrown out
as I hold on to it for potpourri.
Choosing to ignore the obvious shout,
I display for all passersby to see.
My room is overfilled with paradox.
I decorate the dilapitated,
my furniture is this still unpacked box.
My neglect cannot be overstated!
In unison, the easel and the plant
whisper, "It's a new year. Time to repent."
The vista
Light shimmers on the glassy surface of the pool as a soft breeze glides across the water. On a warm day, it would look inviting, but today it's overcast and the blue sky is hidden by countless shades of grey. Beyond the pool, the meadow is lush and green and the view extends to the tree line, then a small rise lined with towering gum trees and then mauve and hazy in the distance the lines of mountain ranges, fading into obscurity.
A spindly tree stands, ghost-like in the foreground. A lifeless entity in a sea of frantic activity. It's leaves long gone, it's corpse slowly disintegrating under the relentless pressure of the elements, the fungi, the insects - spores and mouths eager to consume the ebbing remnants of the tree's life. One day, gravity will claim it - and with a whoosh, it will crash to the grassy ground below.
Boots rest up against the doorstep - angled to catch the breeze and any shy rays of sun that might peep out from between the clouds. The boots are damp from trekking through the dewy pasture in the field - and are covered it small bits of mown grass - which cling to the brown leather with a stubborn stickiness. Wet socks hang on the glass pool fence - and flies buzz around them in interest.
The timber deck around the pool is worn and sun-damaged and parts of the planks have rotted and been replaced. The wood is warped from being repeatedly wet, then scorched, then wet again. Without maintenance - the entire deck would crumble within the space of a few years.
The deckchair is weathered and grey - matching the timber that it sits upon. The cushion black with white stripes - or is it white with black stripes? Perhaps it is both at once - or neither. The edges of the cushion are worn and frayed and the seat of the chair is splintered and broken. It look uncomfortable.
The water ripples again - fracturing the light apricot reflection of the roses, flickering between light and shadow and light again. The sun is straining against the clouds - and for a few moments, the sky brightens, but then it fades again. It's going to be a grey day.
a Boring class
A white screen reflects back against my glasses-
Glasses
Rarely do any see me with them, so in an irony I suppose I don’t “see” myself in them either
It brings me to reality-
A classroom, a teacher chattering on and on in my ear
My ears covered in headphones
I love math but who can blame when- what problem are we on? The same as from a half hour ago?
Numbers on the board- no- letters
Just letters
When did math only be words rather than numbers
Bright pink sheets, homework sheets that make you go blind to stare at them
So i go back to staring
At the blank white screen in front of me
Rorschach 9
Two red roosters get together for afternoon tea, but all they do is stare intently into each other's eyes, and neither blinks, nor cries. The contest goes on and on. In the meanwhile, two black monkeys, with big eyes and a yellow unicorn sticking out of the head, join the roosters for the same game. Nobody’s interested in tea.
They just stare with pleasure and intensity; it’s beyond me. You would know what I mean, if you could picture two Inuit throat singers having fun on stage. Like them, the monkeys and the roosters enjoy it immensely. Their happy faces tell it all.
There will be no winners or losers. They enjoy the game for what it is. Imagine going back in time, when games were played for fun, not for the glory of winning. Imagine going forward in time, when winning IS the game! Perhaps we could learn from the monkeys and the roosters to make life a game without winners or losers!
Pity
A wedding cake, a long white dress, but is it mine? No, I'm sitting at the table at my crushes wedding. I shouldn't have come, but when they both asked me to be the maid of honor I couldn't say no. My best friend, and the guy that I had just met about three months ago that I had feelings for. I didn't want to be there but as a favor to the both of them, who had paid the fee for me to teach Tae kwon do in exchange for lessons was sitting across from me at the bride and grooms table. Everyone is taking selfies and having a good time, but why on earth did I check the yes box on the wedding invite? When the reception was close to done and the bride and groom started to slow dance, as happy as I was for them, I didn't want to watch this anymore. I didn't want to feel alone anymore. The first thing on my to do list was find someone like HIM, who made me entirely happy. I knew that day would come, but for now all I felt was pity.
A symbol
Once upon a time, a man looked into an ink blot. It made a very distinct shape, but it had no real meaning to anyone else. That man, however, saw something special in it. It was a symbol. It could be anything. It could be an omen of death, a beacon of hope, or simply an ink blot.
This man decided it ought to be shared. His reason? Unclear. After all, it was simply an ink blot. Still, for whatever unfathomable purpose, he made dozens upon dozens of photocopies, and then hung them around town. And it didn't take long for people to notice.
The average passerby would stop and stare. What was it? Some... butterfly (As the children said)? Was it a face (as pareidolia struck)? It was just an ink blot. Though, others made much more of it. The extraterrestrial eccentrics saw it as the symbol of their new masters, soon to descend in their flying saucers. The overtly religious deemed it some satanic ritual, and took to gathering the fliers and disposing of them. The police took note of it, fearing it as the sign of some gang or terrorist group. The conspiracy theorists began fervently planning and plotting. And of course, some simply believed a lunatic had gotten his hands on a photocopier (Was this true? Perhaps. But we will never know).
The news made a fuss of it. Who? What? Where? When? And most of all, why? Again, they would never know why, nor even who and what. But where? Everywhere. The symbol spread into every nook and cranny of the city. Like a ravenous beast, the symbol began to shift and spread, consuming the entirety of the country, then continent, then world (And as the UFO fanatics stubbornly insisted, the rest of the universe, where it had even come into contact with the aliens). Experts from around the globe studied it. Did it have certain cultural significance? Was it an ancient symbol, unearthed and brimming with yet-to-be-deciphered knowledge?
Many attempted to give the symbol some kind of meaning. It was a symbol of the gods. It was a symbol of creativity and artwork. It was simultaneously a symbol of free speech and of suppression. Some gave it beauty and value. Still, others took it up as the face of violence, hatred, and destruction.
It was just an ink blot. That was all that the man had spread. Was it his fault? Did he mean for any of this to happen?
But it was just an ink blot.
And this was what I thought of.
What I See
I see a room full of students
quietly doing their work.
Hah, psych.
What they really are doing
is just staring mindlessly at their screens,
waiting for the information to jump off the page
and smack them in the face.
They whine and complain
that the work is too hard
when they are expected to color a picture or be creative.
And yet, these children can't even read or write.
All around me,
I see learned incompetence.
And every day
it makes me want to quit.