Something to take the edge off

Where do we draw the line; -

At mountain, or river, or lake?

Intelligent Border Design: a misnomer we give to The Take.

Where does a ‘person’ begin; -

With atom, or boson, or quark?

Do edges commence at the skin – or with scent - if we’re lost in the dark?

I learn to divide and to name

Every bit with a badge of its own;

Carving worlds like they’re turkeys.  Bred tame

Plucked then sliced. Who will win the wishbone?

Give me something to soften the pain

From this knife made to enter and pare.

Let me blur.  Lose distinctions as rain

Falls to ocean.  Consumed.  Unaware.

Reciprocal Arrangement

Language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil.  - George Eliot

Redeemed! In weft wove gold of Raveloe –

Hush now…Kind heart –  I see this Golden Rule

Doth comfort thee.  Sternly observant as the love shall go.

Which Love? For Greeks had words

For passions – Fractured them – Cruel

Speech that throws a sense

Yet senseless lies.

I am undone in syllables –

E’en as your story tries

To reassure.  Its reassurance wanes.

A hollow mouth.

An empty glass.

And leaves – well – foretell Nothing.

True! Future rests her footing on the Past.

Seer, stop and tarry – for the night is young –

And we must marry meaning with the urge –

Strange feeling – not unique –

For were it thus we’d have no word for it.

O! Seer - Gaze upon the palm –

And see Eternity –

Reflected in the coin.

This one's for the also-rans

This one’s for the also-rans

Who loved but whom love lost

Who also dreamt of making plans

But paid the higher cost

Who fortune favoured fleetingly

Although their moves were bold

Who never got the luxury

To see themselves grow old

This one’s for the also-rans

Whose passions weren’t returned

A boat not quite remembered

On a tack that seldom turned

Their features went unmentioned

Their novels went unread

Their details stayed unwritten

By the pen outside their head

This one’s for the also-rans

For they too made the race

Without their added ballast

It would run a different pace

So let’s make up the numbers

‘Til one plus one is three

This one’s for the also-rans

Yes this one is for me.

Phasmid

I wrote this rhyme to break a spell

That made me think my eyes saw well:

A rose by any other name,

Or butterfly that looks the same?

The children round the storybook

Know when they take another look -

Or they replay a favoured game -

The tale is never quite the same.

The clone is but our own belief

That hides the insect on the leaf.

For chips designed to simulate

Will never recreate their mate.

The Twins – forever two in one -

Show where such sums must come undone;

For if I’m here I can’t be there

(Unless here-there is everywhere)

Tomorrow cannot be today,

Or reproduced another way.

All copies simply don’t exist

Beyond the swirl of human mist;

For we cannot remake A Thing

With nosuchthing as ‘copying’.

And still I see what this reveals,

Not creatures camouflage conceals.

Intravenous

As lines convey the saline drip

With certain roll to trembling lip

This mortal tastes immortal salt –

The Poet is but Nature’s fault.

Measured response

A giant flea – A tiny tree – The sighs? – Our eyes are blind – You see

#8612

Translators prove that you’re not me -

Do prisons show us who is free?

Experiments within The Cell

Sought out a cause for human hell.

Zimbardo traced the evil fruits

To situation’s attributes;

But who’s Observer, who’s Observed?

Inside the circle all is curved.

A lone Christina saw The Cross

The men had made. She sensed a loss

Of self control.  It’s ever thus –

The way a Me grows from an Us.

For, from the moment Selves emerge,

They’re swallowed up within the urge

To join the others in a purge

Of weakness.  And so weak, they merge.

The Stanford basement’s here and now.

Look! Check around you.  Notice how

You copy.  Reproduce The Code.

You are The Seed and you’ve been sowed.

Self-preservation is The Rule;

But it was written by a fool.

There is no Self and nowt’s preserved,

And no one gets what is deserved.

There are no prisons but The One

We fail to see.  My rhyme is done.