Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts

Friday, April 4, 2025

Flies Won't Mate in a Petri Dish

Creative Commons 2.0
Sometime this past week, one of the articles I was reading--and I can't recall which or where or by whom--included this sentence: "Flies won't mate in a petri dish." For some reason the statement was so unusual and intriguing that I scribbled it down and typed it into a "Notes" file. 

A few days later I noticed that I had included several paragraphs of text. Was this a cut-and-paste from the article or were they my own original words? The beginning of a blog post or a story? I knew that the last part came from my own observations about sterile work environments. However, rather than be guilty of plagiarism I decided instead to turn the core elements of the article into a poem, smitten by an urge to create.

                     * * * * * 

Flies Won’t Mate in a Petri Dish

Beneath the hum of sterile light,

Gleams a petri dish, cold and tight—

A cage of glass, pristine, severe,

With trapped flies buzzing there in fear.


Wings slice air, iridescent, bold,

Even so, no courtship dance unfolds.

No rot, no breeze, no wild decay,

Just a void where instincts fray.  


Dr. Voss, standing mute with trembling hand,

Dreams of strains of fly she’s deftly planned—

Glowing genes, a perfect breed,

But the flies defy her sterile creed.


“Too clean,” she sighs, “too pure, too still,”

Chaos, not order, spurs their will.

In meadows rank with ferment’s call,

They’d mate—not here, they scorn the wall.  


With a sprinkle of mold and a desperate plea,

Antennae twitch, the flies dance with glee.

The dish, once tyrant, hums alive,

Proving life in mess will always thrive.


Utopians chase their polished dream,

A world too smooth, a muted gleam—

Like flies, we shun the sealed design,

For in the stink, the soul aligns.  


Office tombs with all their windows shut,

Oppress the heart, the spirit cut.

Perfection falters, hollow, bare,

While struggle breeds what’s raw and rare.


From petri prisons to grand ideals,

The flawed, the real, is the thing that heals—

Flies and men, in chaos free,

Find love where life is meant to be.  


                    * * * * *

Saturday, January 11, 2025

Night of the Restless Moon (A Poem)










Night of the Restless Moon

Beneath the night's unquiet sky

The moon will dance, it will not lie.

A restless orb in silver hue,

It chases stars, the night anew.


It wanders far from where it's placed,

A nomad of the cosmic waste,

Its light, a beacon for the lost,

Guides whispers through late evening's frost.


The sea responds with ceaseless waves,

To moon's erratic, wandering crave.

Tides rise in rhythm to its beat,

A dance of water, sand, and fleet.


O'er fields, it casts a silver glow,

Where shadows stretch and secrets grow.

The night, it seems, can never sleep,

As moon in vigilance does keep.


For lovers, poets, and the lone,

It hangs, a symbol, brightly shown.

A thousand tales it does inspire,

With every phase, a new desire.


Yet, in its restlessness, there's peace,

A tranquil turmoil, a sweet release.

For in this night of endless roam,

We find ourselves, we find our home.


The moon, it moves, but so do we,

In life's vast, mysterious sea.

Under the night of restless moon,

We're all just wanderers, all too soon.


Photo credit: the author



Saturday, October 12, 2024

The Ocean Is Vast and It Waits

I was a child from Cleveland who grew up in New Jersey where I left my innocence a lifetime ago; an hour from New York, an hour from Philadelphia and an hour from the ocean's embrace. 

The ocean is vast and it waits, an endless tapestry of shimmering blues and greens, whispering secrets to the shore. Its depths, shrouded in mystery, cradle the dreams of sailors long gone and the sighs of forgotten lovers. Each wave, a gentle caress of foam and salt, lingers on the sand as if to remind us that time is but a fleeting illusion. The horizon stretches endlessly, inviting us to lose ourselves there. 


Beneath the surface life dances in harmony, a symphony of colors and forms, patient and eternal, echoing the heartbeat of a world that exists both within and beyond our senses. A sentinel of stories yet untold, the briny deep beckons us to dive deeper.


How small we become while standing on this shoreline. Even the marks we leave behind are fleeting. In these moments, the weight we carry feels lighter as the vastness murmurs that everything is temporary and we but a small, yet beautiful part of a much larger whole.


* * * 


Tracks in the Sand

I turn to see my footprints in the sand
as wave after wave rolls in.
Now, here I stand, observing.

And though my footsteps be almost gone
they remain, and perchance someone will follow.

And if someone sees my kneeprints
(suspecting I had stopped to pray)
would I have to tell them
that I'd only stopped along
the way to pick up shells?

Yet, even on our knees with tiny shells
there is great glory
and a doorway out of ourselves.

Puerto Rico, 1979


Wednesday, August 21, 2024

Nothingness, Revisited (A Poem)

Nothingness 2.0

In the hush between breaths,
where silence swells like a forgotten wave,
I find the edge of nothingness—
a place where thoughts dissolve
like salt in a sea too deep to name.


Here, time surrenders its grip,
melting clocks into pools of soft gold,
and the weight of existence
slips through fingers,
no more tangible than a whisper
caught in a dream.


It is neither dark nor light,
neither void nor vast,
but a space between spaces,
where meaning goes to rest,
unburdened by the need to be.


Walking the line of this emptiness,
barefoot on the threshold of what is
and what is not,
each step becomes a question
that neither seeks nor finds
its answer.


In the nothing, I am all—
and nothing still.
The world fades to a hum,
a distant echo of itself,
and in that quiet,
I am free.


* * * 


How does it feel?


Collaboration between Ennyman and ChatGPT, August 2024


Monday, April 8, 2024

Memories

Total Eclipse
In the days of the Solar Eclipse
when the sun for a time hid its face
the creatures of night all emerged to explore
the strange world of non-light at mid-day.

Copyright 1984-ed newman 

Photo by Jongsun Lee on Unsplash

Friday, August 25, 2023

How Much Do You Know About Antarctica?

Most of us know that it's cold in Antarctica, but have you ever thought about why it's so cold? Until today I always assumed it was because of the tilt of the earth on its axis. Although that's partially so, there are a number of additional reasons it's the coldest place on earth. And it's intriguing how logical it all is.

Here are a few of the noteworthy features of this massive continent. In addition to being the coldest place on Earth, it is also the driest and windiest continent on Earth. The average temperature in Antarctica is -56.7°C (-69.9°F), and the coldest temperature ever recorded was -89.2°C (-128.6°F). That's pretty cold.

Most people familiar with stories about Antarctica know that there's a lot of ice there. How much ice? The Antarctic ice sheet contains 90 percent of all the world's ice and 70 percent of all the world's freshwater. 

I never gave much thought to how thick that ice was. At its thickest point the ice sheet is three miles thick. On average, this continent-sized ice sheet--5.5 million square miles of it--is more than a mile thick, and it sits atop of what is already a mountainous altitude. 

Why Is Antarctica So Cold?

We already mentioned the tilt of the Earth's axis. What this means is that in summer, the South Pole receives 24 hours of sunlight, but in the winter, it receives no sunlight at all. This lack of sunlight means that the ground doesn't warm up, and the air above stays cold. (How can it warm up anyways if it is under a mountain of ice?)

The high altitude of Antarctica surprised me. Antarctica is the highest continent on Earth, with an average elevation of 2,835 meters (9,301 feet). The higher the altitude, the colder the air becomes, which is why you can see snow-capped mountains year 'round in the Rockies.

Another feature also keeps it from warming up. The ice and snow there reflects the sunlight back into space, which prevents it from warming the ground. 

Finally, the winds in Antarctica are very strong and they can blow for days or even weeks at a time. These winds can carry away heat, which helps to keep the continent cold.

In spite of all this desolation, there are a few places in Antarctica where the temperature can get relatively warm. The warmest place in Antarctica is McMurdo Station, which has an average temperature of -17.2°C (1.2°F). That surprised me. I think I could actually handle that quite alright. McMurdo Station is located on the coast of Antarctica, where the ocean helps to moderate the temps.

Anyways, I was thinking about Antarctica this morning. Too bad they can't figure out a way to transport all that ice and cold to Texas, New Mexico and Arizona for part of the year. 

What's the most surprising thing to you about Antarctica?

Related Links

A number of years ago I wrote a poem called Hitchhiking Across Antarctica in which I imagined what extreme loneliness would feel like.


Sunday, March 19, 2023

Where Will You Be When Tomorrow Is Today?

I've often thought about the tripartite nature of time--past, present and future. I think it interesting that time going backwards is immense. Likewise, the future stretches forward to infinity... or so it seems. Where we live at this moment is in the now. 

How does that work? It's such a small space, yet we've never really lived anywhere else. Where I am now will quickly be past as I keep moving into the next now and the next...

Someone made a comment yesterday that led me to write down the words at the top of this page. "Where will you be when tomorrow is today?" I'm not sure that was the exact wording of what they said, but as I reflected on it those were the words I recorded. I was thinking it might make a good title or theme for a poem, or a song. 

Now here it is, yesterday's tomorrow is here now. I am captured today in this specific space in time. As a result of clocks--a man-made invention--I can even record the exact time of this now. Before clocks, time was measured by nature's actions. I will meet you at sunrise, or sunset. We'll go to the mountain together after the harvest. We'll gather at the Big Lake on the next Full Sturgeon Moon. (ricing season)

Where will you be when tomorrow is today?
If I met you there, what would you say?
It won't be for long but I'll be going away
to the land where the deer and antelope play.

Life is a gift. For most of us it is measured in years. 

There are many thoughtful songs about this matter of time. One of my favorites is "Who Knows Where the Time Goes?"  

And where does it go? 

Another thought here. You can't take it with you. Time is yours to spend as long as you are here. Therefore it is precious, not something to be squandered. 

Meantime... I hope the week ahead will be rewarding for you. 

Friday, January 6, 2023

Poetry Corner: The Geometry of Innocence

The Geometry of Innocence

The geometry of innocence,
A perfect shape so pure and bright,
A circle, free of angles and bounds,
A symbol of honesty and light.

But as we grow and learn and age,

The edges start to dull and fray,

The lines become less clear,

And innocence slips away.


We're taught to fear and mistrust,

To guard ourselves and lock the door,

The circle becomes a cage,

Trapped forevermore.


But oh, to hold onto that pure,

Uncorrupted, innocent form,

To live in truth and honesty,

Would be a life truly reborn.


So let us strive to keep that flame,

To hold onto the geometry of our youth,

For in innocence, we find a peace,

That we can never lose or uncouth.


* * * * 


The origin of this post is a line from Dylan's "Tombstone Blues." The poem and image here have both been generated by an AI. The poem was created by ChatGPT. I chose not to edit this, to let it be. The illustration was generated by DreamAI. 


Normally I'd share my thoughts at this point but for now I am interested in yours. Feedback welcome in the comments. 


For some reason the phrase is mentally stimulating. I've reflected on it many times over the years. Here's a blog post I wrote about the Geometry of Innocence in March 2012. 


Meantime, life goes on. Enjoy the sun.


* * * *

Saturday, December 24, 2022

Once There Was An Elephant

"Red Elephant" Collaboration with 
WOMBO Dream A.I. based on a screen print 
from my college years, 1970-74.
My longtime friend Charlene Groves, a poet in her own right, shared this poem with me today. It's unrelated to the major events in the world, but a nice little rift, which I hope gives you a lift. 

 Eletelephony


Once there was an elephant,
Who tried to use the telephant—
No! No! I mean an elephone
Who tried to use the telephone—
(Dear me! I am not certain quite
That even now I’ve got it right.)
Howe’er it was, he got his trunk
Entangled in the telephunk;
The more he tried to get it free,
The louder buzzed the telephee—
(I fear I’d better drop the song
Of elephop and telephong!)

* * * 

Here are some poems by Charlene that I've found personally meaningful and would encourage you to read. (Each is hotlinked.)

Emptiness

Someday

 

Tuesday, December 7, 2021

Winter Morn, A Poem from the Northland

Winter Morn

The cold North Wind has blown into town.

The earth, in her bridal wedding gown

awaits the glistening eye of sun

to smile (as if to say “you’re the one”)

and as smiling face sheds morning light

her gown reflects it, making bright

the world once shrouded, still and gray.

‘Tis glorious, this, the dawn of day.


* * * * *


Monday, November 29, 2021

Listen to the Breeze



Listen to the Breeze


When we never get an answer

and we’re always lost at sea,

the only thing we know for sure

is what will be will be.


We’ll wander, then we’ll settle down,

we’ll change our minds again

without knowing where we're headed

nor a trace of what has been.


We’ll feel it on our faces,

thinking back to that first kiss,

how little it really matters now,

how little it ever meant.


Listen to the breeze, listen to the trees.

Let loose your hair, your weightless limbs

and put your mind at ease.



Listen to the Breeze was a collaboration 

between myself and Sudowrite, an A.I. personal assistant.

Photo by Gary Firstenberg


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