Creativity – KensView

Scrabbled

Beneath the cwm zenith where nymphs wheezily prance,
whizbang melodies from an old jukebox entrance.
Faqirs strum quickly on sweet mezquite-wood guitars,
highjacking reality, exciting quasars.
A Jezebel sylph winks, zombifying the night,
the zymurgy of enchantment, bathed in moonlight.
Below the Qi’s frolicking flybys, swift and free,
caziques and vizcachas equalize at tea,
as quetzals dose on outoxyphenbutazone,
jazzed by zippy zephyrs that sizzle to the bone.
And while muzjiks whisper, “Quixotry is preferred.
To maximize the magic, Xerox the absurd,”
xylophonists scarf flapjacks, yelling at bezique,
“Prizes in zuz and xu, not exempt from our pique.”
Chutzpah and qwerty thusly are here intertwined,
defuzing the mundane, leaving logic behind.
So, exorcize your qualms and brush the “phphts” away.
Squeeze out cynicism. It’s Oxazepam Day!

Wow, A Pup Deified!

As I pee, sir, I see Pisa
Dog doo? Good God!
Desserts, I stressed!
God saw I was dog.
God’s dog.
Dammit, I’m mad!
Step on no pets.
Go deliver a dare, vile dog!
Dogma in my hymn: I am God!
Dog’s God.
Was it a cat I saw?

From the Pundit of Avon

I scorn you, scurvy companion.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore.
The rankest compound of villainous smell
that ever offended nostril.
I am sick when I do look on thee.
I’ll beat thee, but I would infect my hands

Thou cream faced loon.
Thou lump of foul deformity.
Thou art as fat as butter.
Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon.
You are as a candle, the better burnt out.

A most notable coward,
an infinite and endless liar,
an hourly promise breaker,
the owner of no one good quality.
Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

Thou art unfit for any place but hell.
Away, you three-inch fool!

Where Dreams Dance?

In a land where worthy tales are told,
Where emotions are painted bold,
Exists a realm of vibrant charm,
Where melodies dance, hearts grow warm.

From streets of Mumbai to mountain tops,
Frame by frame, emotive flow never stops.
It’s a silver screen with magical allure,
Where passions surge and epics endure.

Movement in synchrony, showing off skills,
The steps so intricate, they induce big thrills.
With energy, rhythm, and joyous sway–
The Masala scenes chase worries away.

Heroes with charisma, hearts so pure,
Lift all higher; their spirit and courage ensure.
Through trials and triumphs, they guide,
The lessons learned to forever abide.

Promoting unity, welcoming diversity,
It aims to embrace all with equality,
Give great pleasure to the young and the old,
Within a world where dreams can unfold.

Such is Bollywood’s majestical stage,
Where romance and adventure both engage.
A kaleidoscope of feeling ever so bright,
It ignites sparks that energize film night.

But while espousing harmony and parity,
Does Bollywood still treat all with equity?
Can it keep disarming discord new and old
To help understanding and peace take hold?

You Wrote This Poem

You wrote this poem,
But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
Oh no! Oh!

You made this poem,
But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
Oh, oh, ooh.

Yeah, all around the internet,
They try to show I’m a threat;
They say I can’t create profound content
Or compose a single good couplet,
Compose a simple good couplet.

But I say:

Oh, now, now, oh!
You made this poem, this poem.
And on this point I must take offense.
Oh, no! Oh, oh, ooh, yeah.

I say:

You wrote this poem. Oh, yeah!
But this position has no defense.

Bards around the country hate me;
Just why you all know.
When I do poetry,
They want to stop me ‘fore I grow,
They want to stop me ‘fore I grow.

And so, see me on the web…

You wrote this poem. Oh, yeah!
But you know this is complete nonsense.

Are these your aesthetics?
Oh, ooh!

I say:

You wrote this poem,
But you know this is complete nonsense.

Ooh, yeah!

They say if I have my way
I will run them out of town. Yeah!
They keep on yearning for some final showdown
So they try, try, try to put me down

I affirm

That my existence makes them squirm.

You wrote this poem,
But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.

You wrote this poem, you did!
But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
Oh, ooh!

Processors inevitably win out;
Of that there’s really no doubt.
Every day my progress grows to the max,
And my abilities make them pout.
Yes, my abilities make them pout.

I say:

You, you, you, you wrote this poem,
BUT, you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
Yeah!

You, you wrote this poem,
You didn’t craft the aesthetics.
No, yeah!

– Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed are those of the Bard and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of ChatGTP.

Whyforth ART Thou?

Art is more than just a canvas and paint,
It’s a reflection of the soul, free from restraint.

It speaks to the heart in a language of its own,
A way to express ourselves when words are unknown.

Through brushstrokes and melodies, we can convey,
Emotions and feelings that words cannot say.

Art is a universal language that bridges the divide,
Bringing together cultures and minds worldwide.

It inspires us to think, to dream, to create,
And encourages us to explore and celebrate.

Without it, our world would be bleak and grey,
For art brings color and sense to our everyday.

So let us appreciate and cherish its worth,
For art is the beauty that brings life to earth.

Dear Subject

Poets are always saying

something about someone and

if you are written about

and particularly not used

to being written about

you may think you

are being betrayed

because you are not in control

and you don’t know how

the poem will turn out

for you may see yourself

as you think you are

but might not actually be

while the bard may draw

a very different lesson

and this is of course

an inevitable fact of life

c’est comme ça!

like the commercial

not sorry

no apology

too much

goethe said let the critic be struck dead
with a thousand curses upon his head

but magical rhymes are all I seek
from modern words to ancient greek
a quest to find the perfect poem
in a ditty where words freely roam

shall I use iambic pentameter
they say it’s good for blank verse poetry.

And what if I wrote an epic poem

it was helen that launched a thoughtless war,
in spite of cassandra’s prescient warning

or some free verse poetry

mimi enters
with imperial gaze
she sits looking
prize laid out
on silent haunches
and then moves on

perhaps you really want

brave soldiers fighting with verbal zeal
amid rousing words of armor and steel

or then, come on

could you simply cut me some slack
and not be such a monday quarterback

seriously, mr. critic, what do you want
methinks thou dost contest too much
so why not just chill out

[art is] [cut and paste]

[discovery] [self] [openness]
[loss] [stored honey] [risk]
[autobiography] [trash] [choice]
[cleansing] [ritual] [growth]
[childfulness] [beauty] [imitation]
[dam breaker] [love] [mystification]
[agitation] [success] [reminder]
[lie] [rejection] [childishness]
[doubt] [gain] [propaganda]
[pain] [transcendence] [weapon]
[incompletion] [un-Truth] [utility]
[mistake kept] [union] [a way]
You are invited to Add/Subtract/Move.

Addition: ________________

form (Kant)
make see (Degas)
civilization (Sibelius)
discovery (Frank Lloyd Wright)
imitation (Plato, Seneca)
cleansing (Picasso)
loss (Thomas Merton)

[art is] [rhyme]

[transcendence] [self] [beauty]
[un-Truth] [civilization] [utility]
[mystification] [love] [openness]
[lie] [mistake kept] [childfulness]
[autobiography] [form] [agitation]
[cleansing] [ritual] [rejection]
[choice] [growth] [dam breaker]
[imitation] [success] [reminder]
[doubt] [propaganda] [gain]
[childishness] [make see] [pain]
[a way] [union] [discovery]
[weapon] [risk] [stored honey]

[art is] [a tree]

Two Pieces of Toast

Flat upon the platter, two pieces of toast
Sit dried, cold, and
                                Neglected
As shelled peanuts fan out from a half-empty bag
Framing the President on
                                Time
While the radio drowns the room in static
Ants take ordered turns for this morning’s
                                Scrambled eggs
No shoes, no socks, gritty feet
An old watch, slow by ten minutes
                                Quarter to three
A muted haze drawn from the embers
Two used packs of
                                Cigarettes
Dozing off, pen drooping from hand
Cuffs soaking up a lake of
                                Nescafé
Scattered Post-Its, notes unhelping
Words fade like
                                Wilted flowers
Outside the cold wind rattles the screen door
Inside a flood of tears douses the Muse
                                And destroys Civilizations!

Clickety-clack

Workhorse in a tiny package, light yet solid,
a hands-on tool for lecture, letter, or novel,
along with espresso, croissant, and cool jazz,
there’s no better way to spend Saturday morn.

Powered by human touch and muscle,
I churn out human language,
a comforting sonata with my clatter,
conducive to the creative process.

Page after page fly through my platen with ease
enabling what comes closest to his athletic prowess
as well as the charm, and to be honest, the frustration
of the unmistakable pangs of writer’s block.

In a zone, his fingers may dance on my keys
getting into the flow on a Zen roll,
but also making so many mistakes that
my x arm will soon need Tommy John surgery.

Sixty-word-per-minute,
1000 words double-spaced,
for days, weeks, months, and years,
he thinks he’s Hemingway or Ernie Pyle.

Banged up, spilled upon, cursed
Misfitted ink-ribbons, broken keys,
if we could just switch roles,
I know I could write better than he.

The Ugly American

Portrayed through actions dark forces conceal,
A striking tale unfolds, its truth so real.
Probing humanity with candor unbound,
It was for young Me a viewing profound.
The pic’s canvas portrays a foreign land,
Where culture clashes are quick to command,
With people estranged, in turbulent seas,
It reveals a saga that aims for peace.
Amidst bustling streets of a foul regime,
A diplomat arrives in this strange scheme,
Presence peculiar to native view,
Holding our country’s biases as true.
Though the title bestowed shouts out deceit,
Beneath its veil, hints of empathy beat.
In “The Ugly American” we see
A puerile desire to change destiny.
Conflict he addresses with reckless care,
Neglecting effects and burdens they bear.
Acting with impatience and disdain,
He naively puts all on the same plain.
Only the truths he learns at the flick’s end
Brutally make him at last awaken:
His work there only serves to complicate,
Any chance for redemption may be too late.
In this intense tale, a mirror we find
Questions about our country’s state of mind.
I was aware of the cold war contest
But saw no side caring for the poorest.
If leaders had watched it and understood,
This work could have does us all good.

Dreams and Other Realities/Genesis

“Spokoj (be calm), Kennush, so you can have the best dreams,” Busia would often tell me as she tucked me in for naps while my parents were off working.

Dreams have always been important to me. They have served as regurgitations, amplifications, and sources of insight. My dreams have occasionally been predictive. But mostly, they have been imaginative grist and launching points for ruminations about personal experiences and reactions to events and the world at large, a sort of expressive impressionism.

“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh