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.

KD

Warm.

Cheesy.

Yellow.

(wait..)

Orange?

(whatever)

Yummy!

Spoonfuls.

(Big WOODEN Spoonfuls!)

Comforting.

Delicious!

Gooey!

Creamy!

Mmmmmmmmm..!

Gone.

(  : (  )

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

Alphabetty-Spaghetti

Always Bring Current Documentation.

Effervescent Fairies Glide Haughtily.

Introduce Jocular Kindness, Lavishly.

Meditate Now On Phosphorescence.

Quietly Reflect Serene Thought-forms.

Understand Various Widespread  Xenographies.

Your Zen-like Zealous Youth.

Xylomancy With Variegated Undergrowth.

Trans-formative States Revealed Quickly.

Psychic Observances Newly Made.

Leaving Knowledgeable Jobs Inexplicably.

Hypnotic Guidance From Elsewhere.

Delivers Consciousness Broadly Awakened.

New Old Post..

I failed to post in the past two days so here is a quick re-post from my facebook poetry:

The Ending Has Just Begun

They say all good things must come to an end.

The same must be true of bad things.

But sometimes an ending is just the beginning,

and a new beginning may be the end to an old story.

Endings can take longer than expected,

when expectations are based on false assumptions,

and prior experience of a simpler time.

This ending has just begun.

This ending is a story in itself.

This ending has it's own beginning

and this ending has an end.

This ending has just begun.

I don't know how to end this.

This is not the end.

But I don't know where to take this.

I don't know where to begin.

This may have ended before it ever began.

And maybe I'm a fool for beginning it to begin with.

This ending has just begun.

This ending is a story in itself.

This ending has it's own beginning

and this ending has an end.

This ending has just begun.

Now I've slipped into absurity and repitition.

Maybe it is time to just end this.

Or begin it properly.

But I am bad at endings.

So I will just say this:

The End.

My favorite of my recent poems..

 I wanted to start sharing some of my poetry here on this blog, so here 

is my favorite of my poems I have written within the last year:

When the World Ends

When the world ends

I will walk with you, hand in hand,

Under starlight, in the middle of the day.

When the world ends

When the world ends

I will stand with you, back to back,

Shotguns at the ready, popping zombie heads.

When the world ends

When the world ends

We will watch as all that we love falls

And laugh, for we know it is just the beginning,

When the world ends

When the world ends

We will joke about reincarnating as roaches

Upon the barren rock that may remain

When the world ends

When the world ends

We shall ascend as beings of Light and Soul

To embark upon a new journey together

When the world Begins...