This is the new Bloem, Same as the old Bloem.

A mashup of words

Of Blog

And Poem

Makes a new thing

That has been done before.

Poetry is a dying art.

"They" have been saying this for years.

F*CK THEM!

(No, not literally)

((unless you are INTO that sort of thing))

If poetry was truly dying

We would have no new songs

Poetry is not dying

It is evolving

Poetry in lyrics

Poetry in pictures

Poetry in speeches and in blogs.

Poetry is the innermost whispers of the soul

and the passionate warcry of a Valkyrie fighting to her last breath.

Poetry is describing the immense joys of living

and the soul shaking sorrow of dying.

A Blog is an online journal

A repository of ones thoughts

An expression of the Ego

A desire to be heard.

A Blog is like your little sister's diary taken from under her mattress and put up on the Internet.

A Blog is an individuals political/social/satirical take on the world.

A Blog is a digital commode for one's mind poop.

I have no ending at this time

This Bloem shall finish with a rhyme.

Hinterlands

We travel into the Hinterlands.
The mist stands like a curtain,
All at once obscuring and enfolding the landscape,
Behind it's translucent veil.
There are monsters in the Hinterlands.
Creatures of pure, animate, Cold,
Which can pass through a man and stop his heart.
Beasts that appear to be more fang and fur, than flesh and bone.
Following the Forest Road we cross the Hinterlands.
These woods are deep and dark,
Ancient trees teaming with life.
Even the giant pines themselves seem to breathe and shift,
Nervous guardians over an uneasy peace.
It is often eerily quiet in the Hinterlands.
The apparent tranquility is a facade,
A carefully crafted lie of peacefulness,
Cunningly concealing the dangerous truth,
Of wildlife and OTHER life biding it's time awaiting prey.
'Ware the clearings in the Hinterwood.
The more crafty and sentient dwellers of the wood,
Make their homes in these open spaces,
And they don't take kindly to outsiders.
If you meet these folk of the Hinterland,
Show them not your teeth in a grin,
For it will be read as aggression,
And you may meet with a swift demise.
A show of the tongue through closed lips,
Like a contented bulldog,
Will express to the natives your passivity and welcoming disposition.
Guard your purse close in the Hinterwood.
For the aboriginal peoples are not the only life in the wood,
Of bipedal motion and opposable thumb.
Small, viscous bands of cut-purses make the forest their home,
And they are just as apt to cut a throat as they are a purse-string.
Time of travel matters not in the Hinterwood,
Day or night it is always dark.
The trees tower so tall as to not allow more than the merest trickle of sunlight,
Moonlight fares no better or worse,
Though entering the woods on a dark moon is never advised.
The wood is but the gateway to the Hinterlands,
Should you make it out their other end
You'll face a barren plain climbing toward mountains,
Peaks white and blue with ice and snow.
A long forbidding journey yet lies ahead.

Lost Futures

(Posted via my phone, later edited via PC :)

Lost and concerned, dazed and confused?

I never know what to do, my uncertain future has a hold on my heart.

The actions of my today are informed by my yesterday and shape my tomorrow.

The future terrifies me.

My past haunts me.

I live in the moment because it is the only time I can TOUCH..

The present is a present to my self with many wonders held within.

I want to hide myself inside that package,

surrender to an enveloping Now,

hide from my past and the terrible uncertainty of my future.

Is this box a trap?

Am I limiting myself,

and hindering the growth of my soul,

by stubbornly refusing to look either forward or back?

In my box, only living day to day, moment to moment..

am I missing the point of existence?

Time is an illusion, a man-made construct.

Who are WE to say you CAN'T live in the future or even the past?

Just because we "remember" something,

does that truly mean we've already "experienced" it?

Isn't it possible that,

what millions of people experience as Deja Vu,

are just future memories?

Our brains have so much processing power,

yet we only know of them using but a small portion of it.

Is the rest of the human mind just a giant space-time translator,

trying to keep us sane by making sense of our places in the universe

and displaying the sensory input in a linear and understandable output

that our perceptions can accept?

I don't know.

I simply know that I am concerned for my future,

(whatever that means)

and I feel LOST.

Sick...

It is a little interesting how something like coming down with a cold can lead to you forgetting about things like a blog.  More pressing things on my mind I guess. Like my SINUSES! Added on top of my abysmal attempt at flight of two weeks ago when I came off of a roof the fast and painful way, I have just not been that mindful of keeping up this blog lately.  With the bruised ribs from my fall, every sniffle and sneeze hurt my chest.  The sniffles aren't so bad, the sneezes are sudden and uncontrollable contractions of damaged muscles that do NOT want to be asked to JUMP in that fashion... those hurt :-P  I have decided that I will not take for granted all the little things like taking a deep breath, stretching, yawning, sneezing, coughing, sniffling, laughing, etc that just become more difficult and tinged with pain after sustaining a rib injury.  So this blog is just an update I guess, and an attempt to assuage my guilt over not having written a blog in a few days. 

I am already sick and tired of being sick and tired.  Hopefully I heal and recover from this illness quickly.  I will try to be more diligent with the blog posts. :)

KD

Warm.

Cheesy.

Yellow.

(wait..)

Orange?

(whatever)

Yummy!

Spoonfuls.

(Big WOODEN Spoonfuls!)

Comforting.

Delicious!

Gooey!

Creamy!

Mmmmmmmmm..!

Gone.

(  : (  )

Contemplating Explicitness...

I've just recently been considering adding an Explicit Content Advisory to this blog for the simple reason that SOMETIMES I feel inclined to write about things that are more than PG-13.  This is a simple thing to enable, if I so choose, Blogger.com has a little box you can check for that which then adds a content advisory warning each time someone visits your blog.  I did not do this, when I first created this blog, for two reasons; ONE, I did not feel I would be publishing much that would fall under a need for explicit content advisory and TWO, I worried that such an advisory page would potentially reduce my viewing audience, if only because the extra notification page is just a bit annoying.

Of course now I face the minor dilemma of whether I go ahead and enable the explicit content warning on my blog so that I may feel free to write or rant explicit without fear of blog removal by Blogger.com's censors, OR to censor myself whenever an explicit impulse strikes me..  I am leaning heavily toward the former.  It is probably my usual lack of confidence in my writing finding an audience that would have me worry about losing readers because I sticker a "Parental Advisory: Explicit Content!" sticker over it, and really, the minor annoyance is not THAT big a deal, right?  If any of my readers has any input or suggestion on this subject, please leave me a comment relating such.

Summing up: Don't be surprised if you click on my blog one day and are asked if you "Understand and wish to continue." ;)

He drives rain slicked streets in his Deliverator's car,

Fat, sticky tires clinging to the road like a slug to a leaf.

His machine crouches like a beast stalking it's prey,

As it accelerates and weaves through the concrete jungle.

He is ONE with his car, a perfect melding of man and machine.

The pizzas WILL be on time.

The sudden SLAP of a "poon" alerts the driver that he's picked up a stowaway..

Some brave entrepreneurial idiot is using the Deliverator to get themselves somewhere FAST.

He does NOT like unexpected passengers..

The driver's names, first AND last, are synonymous with hero,

And he fashions himself to be one, of a sort.

He determines to LOOSE this leech.

Glancing back into his blind spot the Deliverator spots the interloper;

Decked out in the flashy colors and modern body armor of a courier,

They are "skiing" off the back of his ride, dangling from the end of the suckered on harpoon.

Okay, damn... I'm gonna end that there.. I started this "poem" as an attempt to pay tribute to one of my favorite books by writing a poem BASED on it, about the main character. Any of my readers who have read Neal Stephenson's "Snow Crash" will have immediately (I hope) recognized Hiro Protagonist in his role as The Deliverator from the beginning of that great, fun, science fiction novel.  I feel like my attempt at an homage was just turning into a sort of butchered reinterpretation of events that Mr. Stephenson himself described far better in his OWN words, in the book.  So rather than sound like I may be ripping him off, or worse, doing a disservice to the tale told in Snow Crash by painting it less than it is, I'll abandon this exercise.  I was inspired to try such a thing by some of my favorite music artists who write songs about great novels that they love and manage to do so poetically and without infringing on the writings of those to whom they are paying tribute.  I will likely try this again, either with the same, or a different subject at a later time.  Perhaps I am being too hard on myself, and this poem was NOT going THAT badly... but for me it stopped even feeling like a poem and felt more like I was trying to tell the story and doing so badly :P  heheh :-D

I will end this post with a quote, directly from the book, a writing style that I can only HOPE to aspire to one day:

Image Copyright of lhn6856

"A row of orange lights burbles and churns across the front, where the grille would be if this were an air-breathing car. The orange light looks like a gasoline fire. It comes in through people's rear windows, bounces off their rearview mirrors, projects a fiery mask across their eyes, reaches into their subconscious, and unearths terrible fears of being pinned, fully conscious, under a detonating gas tank, makes them want to pull over and let the Deliverator overtake them in his black chariot of pepperoni fire." - Neal Stephenson, Snow Crash