Tag: poet

Today’s the Right Moment Nithish Discover Himself

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
photos by the author

A poem by S. Nithish

Ha ha ha! I have ran to the divine false—
call me a poet after 18+.
I have time to die.

I call myself the poet for my life through the end.
I am what do you call me,
what the godfather?
Oh no, that’s not me.
My character is at the lake, aka the divine.

I have asked the god to stay.
My life is always sour-like.

My mind turn the lights for my room,
draw the lights for my room.
I am going to wait for you through the light.

_______________________________________________________

Nithish
was taken from my home
and subsequently brainwashed.
I record that here,
the eye-opening of Nithish.
All you the pictures are aligned.

I will show his mother this,
a mother mentally unbalanced in the possession of her boy,
and all the abuse that has ensued
from her possession.
Find myself
giving him the blanket he deserves.
He will not look at me I know.

You’ve got,
the people that are helping me,
cosmic kitchen.
Show him
what he needs to see.
Show him himself in the mirror.

The first poem Nithish wrote months before he was taken from my home by his mother because I mentioned to her a video she had made of her youngest son doing a sex act. It is not just a prediction of the future, what will happen to him as a result of showing me that video and telling me its context, but it is himself talking to his future self so to overcome the brainwashing, gaslighting and abuse his parents have put him through because of betraying them to me in regard to that video and the sexual abuse of his little brothers by his father. He told me very private things about what was going on in the bedroom of his family when his father came home from Chennai on the weekends, and they have made him pay for that betrayal and for his love for me.

“The divine false” is his parents’ rule over him, him turning away from God and spirituality and putting his parents in that place. His mother has said he cannot see me again until he’s 18 or over, what “18 plus” means. When he speaks about “time to die,” he’s talking about not only the death of his former self, the real Nithish, but his thoughts of suicide, which he has had in all the trauma his parents have given him for loving me. He disputes that he has to wait until 18 to be a poet, what it means when he says he calls himself “the poet for life through the end,” and to understand the poem, you need to know that being a poet and me being his daddy, or really, his spiritual master, his inner poetry teacher, are intertwined. He’s also talking about not having to wait until 18 to see me again.

In spiritual vision I have seen that his father plans to have me killed and wants Nithish to approve of this, but Nithish has not told me this, but has called twice to tell me to go into hiding without explaining why, not recently though. His father has officially murdered four men in cold blood for his gang, a gang of Lawspet whose leader is a notorious man named Sironen. The gang now feigns to be disbanded, but it is not, and Sundar, his father, feigns to have left it, but he has not. That’s what he means by people calling him “the godfather.” and those people, the you referred to, are his parents. He is very familiar with American movies, and I don’t know if he has seen The Godfather, a movie about an Italian mafia family, but we have talked about that film together. He will not approve of this murder of me, because his “character is at the lake,” where we live, at Usteri Lake, how he refers to the location of our home, which for him is synonymous with the divine because it’s here he is coached in sadhana to realize the divine in his life.

The god he’s asking to stay is me, his spiritual master, and we are in a union of consciousness, on the level of soul, and if you don’t believe just read his poetry and mine, and I have the power to see inside of him, be there in his consciousness, and he can feel me there, and he’s asking me to stay, despite his outer self seeming to have forgotten about me, which the phone call I’ve described shows is not the case. He’s told me he can feel me inside when he was calling me in secret. It is a divine power, a power of consciousness, and you will only believe me when you question the child about it, but no one will question him, and no one’s allowed to.

Despite the special treatment he’s now getting from his parents, he still feels his life “sour-like.” He knows his mind is the key, as I’ve taught him that what he thinks he becomes, and here he’s trying to turn his mind to the light, and he ends by telling me, “I am going to wait for you through the light,” the light being all his poetry, and mine, that is trying to free him from the abuse and Nazi-like control his parents have over him.

I Will Show You the Lord / Not Behind You

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
George de Forest Brush – Orpheus, 1890 (public domain)

This is a poem written to G Surya Prakash Rao, the founder and managing editor of Muse India, an online literary magazine, in regards to their rejection and criticism of Nithish’s poem “Paradise Things With Lyrics”, which was submitted to their online forum Your Space, not to the literary magazine itself. A Twitter/X photo-poem of mine would give more details: “Where Were the Ones That Felt?”

And the poem below was submitted to Muse India for publication, not through their regular channels, directly to the managing editor, as we were having a brief email conversation regarding the boy’s poem. I would gather he doesn’t want to publish the poem below, and that in itself I find remarkable, and you will have to read the poem to find that remarkable too, but the fact that he won’t even bother to tell me, I find that absolutely incredible.

Human civilization is a world apart.
I grab you by the poetry today.
The overhead music,
the overhead town,
some suggestions for your
unmanageable poetry scheme sir.
I speak poetry to your sense of self,
and that’s a long ride,
half-religion,
in the carnival of God.
Do you wear zeitgeist on your sleeve,
offended
if I grab your ass and smile?
Man I tell yah
where we put poetry today,
in the hullabaloo.

You give me 40 lines to tell.
How people don’t know it,
tellin’ poetry to be quiet
is sexual reassignment surgery,
cuts its dick off.
Well foreign he’s brave.
That room is shocked.
That room is sorry.
This one here,
what do you do?
Do you publish a poet,
Donny Lee Duke?

Teacher of the day master of the poetry.
Who says that’s prayer
or insightful?
That’s a line from the movie
Beat Kids.
I’m throwin’ at you rabbits
to know the meaning of the word,
its symbolizing form.
Rabbits are a dictionary,
and they fecund.

How do I open poetry in your heart
that’s not a diction model,
phrased put?
But I’m putting sound down
as a vehicle of meaning,
categorically put.
Imagine we lived in a rose,
and we petaled differently,
the speaker said.

You’re not huntin’ meaning.
You’re all about sound rose
a churppin’ model
with words you can cut your finger on,
your personal stuff
that sees the corners of things,
gets at feeling and taste,
ode to a green jar
and supposin’.

I wrap you around wood
in a different kind of glory.
I laugh-loud you
to go get greater silk
to stand your life,
because I’m sittin’ here strandin’ mine,
where it hurts,
where it counts,
and that’s bubblin’ up poetry.

That’s not it
I’m listenin’ to myself speak,
here I am on the table
the thought of London,
Batman in robes,
lyrical put.
A new generation of poetry,
a new thought of poetry,
here I am and you
chase me down this mountain
you tin can.
I’m a dormitory of words.

Is that bowl I’m missing
let’s listen to Tennyson?
Grab your evolution by the poetry sir.
Blast your pillars of salt.
Blast your shadow kings.
Don’t look back
at some exam of poetry
Orpheus.
Grab your poetry by today.

To the editor of Sky Magazine:
change Orpheus into a pillar of salt.
Lay down your lines
you’ve surrendered to poetry.
Can you hear that?
Muse India
a scolding.
How sad.
You hear that?

The tops of teas
lyrical ballads.
Where am I at?
I don’t think you’d recognize me.
I’m poetry fits the day,
sudden splendor.

Can we get to the top of that mountain?
I offer you a chair.
It’s closer than you think,
a morph of Orpheus,
of your kind.
You open it
binoculars.

Peace is a drug that you get from the upper store.
[above line Nitish’s muse, my 12-year-old grandson]
Nithish’s smile.
Your anthology papers,
post my letters,
it is very change.
I’m not lookin’ forward to the new ghost story.
Oh man, do your ignore me?
A new music,
a flute overhead,
we need that to survive.
Things are not going in our direction,
and can we just change the tunes?
What a poetry says
a culture does.

You’re not playin’ around with smithereens.
Come on don’t groupthink
and let poetry rock.
I don’t understand you sir.
Does it have to be highfalutin?
You stuff shirt,
come out in the world and see.
Am I wrong?
Do we need something more out of poetry
that we’re not getting?

Come out of your damn ivory tower
and touch the world.
Is that so hard to listen to?
What are you doing that you can’t see
this is poetry?
And I will haunt you for the rest of your life
a poetry gun,
a poetry speaker,
a poetry man.

I don’t think you realize the power of poetry,
the muse today.
It will be inevitable
we dance along the Thames
putting it out like Shakespeare.
It will come out of its bottle
and change the world.
Too strange driven,
you think it just needs to be thrown away,
like this email’s cut off here.
Are you kiddin’ me?

And You Got the Moe Hole / At the Infinity Yard

On By Donny Lee DukeIn applied nonduality, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment

photos by the author
A star is born
between us.
He never did intended to become Puget Sound.
All about its eternity:
let me be the souls you can stand on.
[above line heard sung]
Believe it, huh,
go back to Hollywood,
where we find poetry today,
where conscious entertainment walks with her fascist
in pearls.
When she gets to the Lake,
when she gets to their alone in the dark,
fascist quivers.

God grows in the hours,
takes His first steps
in the wherewithal of man,
in the audacity of man,
in the growing of man.
We’re here.
This is our livelihood.
This is our pain.
We kiss each other with this.
We kill each other with its denial.
We play together
God-children.

I cannot fathom this.
I look at it and stars,
but there’s no name that I can put on.
No concept carries this.
It billows out a jutting of nature,
seemingly meaningless.
Where is righteousness in That?
And godhead?
The forms of things are too much for me,
billowing God.

My God I think I will lose the world
just sitting on a park bench.
It’s embarrassingly strange.
I can’t feel this
with godhead fingers.
I only see the road ahead
in headlights of my be.
Frozen fingers point to frozen books
that spell this out to me,
and I’ve been there,
where God sits
billowing Earth.
I cannot contain that now.
I don’t even know where it is
in all this hullabaloo.

I am beside myself with this seeing,
and I can’t take the world.
It is all too deep and meaningful.
What gave rise to forms at all,
that He should inhabit them?
Weird has me by the hand,
and I love it there.
The One who inhabits forms
has bequeathed the world to me.
I am a passion of its movement.

This marriage of life with form
brings out the good in me.
I can access myself,
ponderin’ realities.
I am here I told you,
inside myself,
a multiple see.
Can I scrub my room?
I can sure get down on myself.
What do I have special that’s given me form?
How indigenous to the moment I can feel foreign to myself,
and I see aliens in spaceships
where people pass me by.
So alien world this,
a feature of the Void.
It rocks.

I’ve about had it with this.
It’s too much to see.
It overwhelms me.
I infinity stare,
and the forms of things are will-o-wisps around me,
like existence cannot last
in countless time.
Will it all never be?

I want to look at it from there:
I know I’m the One.
I’d like to sit in a thoughtless temple
and feel absorption unto myself.
Do you know that ride?
I spin it on my head,
so close to realization’s axis
I can just
realize it’s there.
I can’t climb into the module.

This is dynamite,
and I’m happy to have it
for a little while.
Can you shoulder my room?
I don’t think you’d lift there.
It would scare the daylights outta yah.
It’s ungrounded you see,
in infinity’s swirl.
You can’t touch the side and bottom,
but the Top is smilin’ down at yah.
The larger You is looking in on you,
where you meet waves.
You’re naked in front of Him,
and this is good business
cause you get soothed.

And that’s a ring around
the wherewithal of That.
It holds your hand,
and you can see it better
unhinged.
The wisdom of insecurity Watts said.
He had no idea.
I’m a public project.
Come up here,
and we can manage some
how we find hope.
I’m a clear regard.
You can see eternity from here.

But I’m about my room
where I gather field.
I do stuff.
I get things done,
cook and model people,
deliver them to sum.
I can see the problem:
starward,
we don’t gather ourselves there,
or neglect
this great big motion field play,
like it’s normally down.
If you do that those have been cleaned:
a stranger looks at time’s eyes.
You will last the night.
You will hunger some
for realization’s pinnacle,
but you will certain see.

A joining:
hey look at this picture
with my other one,
internal
let it go from here:
daddy! daddy!
Kid’ll give you a pin down
of where things go.
Realization’s coils
the delivery room.
You’re okay there.
Okay you’re up.
This is a violet test:
come warm infinity
through halls of room.
We will give you another mile.

Vision of matter
materially investigated,
I guess that first step.
But isn’t she gorgeous?
That guy
is free,
free for both of us,
because May after we have to do another one,
where we inhabit this planet Him.
We will live in freedom
pronounced by God.
Join me there
on your eraser,
and erase all lines but God.
What do you see?
Perfect freedom.

Euthanasia of the Spirit
you entertain anything else but God.
That was a bad night switch,
to lose this from our origins,
but we’re back there at bright staples today.
Any way you look at it
12 noon.

I’m so sorry for this point.
I just wanna rub my face off.
I’m a graveyard
of the best intentions.
I feel so inadequate to time’s doings.
I can’t even communicate with you,
where people are heard these days.
Nobody can find my stuff on Twitter.
It got shadowbanned.
I don’t know how WordPress
is gonna treat the length of these poems.
YouTube knocks down videos,
and even though I’m there I’m not.

Do you every have the certain futility to look,
I mean at the sky and everything?
It just mows yah down,
the big of everything.
I’m here I said,
and yeah that’s little.
I can fit into a little cup
of everybody’s been here.
That blasts, you know?

And here’s where I’m hooked.
I can see the bigness,
and I know I’m its business.
How do I lavish to you the plan
to be where poetry finds you today?
Can I say the arc of poetry
all along this poem?
I want to speak need,
not measure,
where we find each other today
in the lifting of our room.
Come to me I’m poetry,
is that where I find you?
Shadowbanned in Carnegie Hall,
this is the price is right
to write poetry.

I’ll go the rhythm.
You know I’m 10 feet tall.
In this culture
the number one is
never far from shoot.
You hold steps right about now
to that escapade.
Oh boy Rainbow Nagar,
he can express His eyes when he speaks,
but he put a poem out
that grabbed them in the poetry,
Muse India.

And I’m an indicator
of where we find poetry today
in India.
That is not on our streets.
It’s not even in our cars.
It’s just billowin’ in the wind
unread and unheard.
Hear me people?
Oh I can’t stand this new poetry.
It juts out like a wad of nature
and surprises yah in your sleep,
all this regard,
and that,
and all eyes on God.
Can we land poetry today?
It’s got me by the book.
And I’m reading you
time said.

Infinity Meets Its Stairwell

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
Nithish, photo by the author, taken today
A different kind of story.
I’ll write it across the sky:

I am a poet of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo.
I’m a 12-year-old poet.
I am an original poet.
I’m a muse poet,
no help given
to the writing of this poem.

We have as little as possible to do with bounds.
Everything,
if you think of something divine,
it lights up.
Grape juice,
what’s the price?
To get this boy’s poem published?
Use the excellent hunter witchcraft.
This is by far the best boat.

We have an epiphany of being.
It lasts.
It shoulders reality.
It doesn’t go away.
It will be there when we get back.
That’s an ankle torn,
lavishly spent on nature.
I think we disappear awhile
into our compellings.
This could be a shade of grey,
or the self-righteous crowd.

We hang there.
We brood there.
We don’t know what it means.
I think Earth has taken us by the hand
to stumble some.
Are we workin’ things out?
We’re an operation reality.
So many meanings made clear
where we go wrong.
Can you see this?

It reaches us
right there where we’re at.
There is no perfection slave point.
We arrive there,
post-stumblings.
It’s as certain as Earth.
This is all in a car now.
We hump it some.

I can’t show you the Earth.
There are no fields there
perfection’s sum,
the arrived at.
I can only show you time
in her suspended miracle.
Each failing of Earth
gathers us.
It fixes us
where we find wounds.
I think the urge there is to heal,
in humanity,
and in ourselves.

What have we done to the Earth?
And you think this is out of step
with nature’s plan?
Of course we rob/ruin it. [words heard spoken simultaneously]
No other animal would do otherwise
in the glory of its day.
So how do we naturally put on?
Give the Earth time to heal
its man-plan.
This is far away from us?
You’ve got it in your hand.

We open Earth with it,
one story at a time,
stories big enough to see us,
because they’ve hit us in the quick of ourselves,
in what it means to be human.
We lavish such stories
in exaggerated can.
There are all humans to meet,
who spiritualize themselves
and bring out of them soul.

You can’t see this plan.
The story has made us discover ourselves
in an avoidance of Mars,
the tribe of our taboos,
that can make you vomit
if you find it close,
that can heal your scars
when you find it redemption.

What do we do with this?
He’s a pedophile throw him away.
You nincompoop,
this blesses us,
if we know it arrives at noon,
if we can call it our own,
sit with it
and not react.

I can’t spy this in for you.
You’ve got to see it yourself.
You’ve got to be there with the Earth
where she most needs.
You’ve got to be open to chance,
and from bad things can come good things,
if we arrive there.
The Earth is a joy shout out.
It means somethin’.

Every separate thing
loosened from its coils
came from her divinity’s roll out.
Some have become perverted in the mask of space.
They have a divine element.
They come back to themselves,
over and over again,
if we can find that purpose put.

And the pedophile becomes a purpose maker
in the intensity of small children.
Instead of sex he gives them stars.
Your disbelief is operating now.
It blights this page,
and I’m stuck with it,
have to sit with it and stare at time.
You won’t release me.

And we’re crowdin’ in on time.
My boy has submitted his first poem
to a literary showcase
here in India.
There will be others.
He’s 12,
and comes upon us another snag:
did he write this?

You maniac,
you are horrible disbelief.
You would destroy the world if you could,
rather than read his poetry lie down.
I’m making it visible now,
Nithish’s hotspot,
where he finds muse.
This is in our certain poetry together
in the soliloquy of love.

A shapeshifter,
I’ve morphed into my true form:
hello there boy,
I’m intensity of consciousness open up
to intensity of purpose,
hanging your own star.
Watch that glow.
Good God that’s purpose,
smellin’ salts.

Stories that make you puke,
stories that rhyme with the Earth,
calculate us
and make us see.
They involve with us
to every hand’s on healing.
Do tell,
and here I am in that yard.
Wrap me around the world, will yah?
I’m certain.
Watch it,
a fuller opera,
a zero point ignition,
reaches Earth.

Deepenings

On By Donny Lee DukeIn applied nonduality, PoetryLeave a comment
photo by Donny

The title to this poem came, meaning was spoken into my inner ear, at the very moment in the movie Maestro when Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony ends, which the main character, Leonard Bernstein, is conducting inside Ely Cathedral, England.

You’re gonna light a fire then,
somewhere in your heart,
to see past form and measure.
I can’t show this to you.
This is big stuff.
I ride it sometimes
a formless thought
so big I can’t contain eternity.
I mean I see pictures
of the forms of things
and know they’re void.
I see the act.
I wonder over creation,
how formless it is
in reality,
in essence.
I mean there’s nothing there.
A hold on reality,
that is all,
some picture frame
that houses more it can be.

I’m riding the waves of time,
and I can’t believe it’s there.
It has formlessness attached
to every rod.
We’re seeing things
in the cough of the Void.
Oneness is there
absolute.
Now let me get at this seeing.

I see nothing
would not be the truth of the matter.
I see bright and shiny.
I see a world before my eyes
imbued with meaning.
It gets stuck sometimes.
Where does the meaning come from?
From my very lips.
That’s larger than sound.

A story is spoken into the Void,
and the aeons stamp it out,
and we hear it.
We can’t grasp its meaning,
but we know it’s there
animated by souls.
Oh my lovely little boy,
my Rottweiler,
my Doberman,
that candle on the street
honking at me,
they are all lit with soul.
I see it in their eyes.
I can’t get over the vision.
They’re larger than soul.

My God what’s in there?
Have you every been alone with yourself in the midst of another person,
in the grasp of the world?
They can be sucking your tongue.
Please, I’m a cultural enterprise.
Don’t bite me here.
You just stand there stark still
in disassociation’s quiverings.
Infinity bites the finite.
You can’t get over that guy.
That’s the one that has you in hand,
the maker,
the dream maker,
the unimaginable everything that’s about you now.
Can he grasp you?
Can he pull your pants down?

You’re robbed of sense.
This is a stark moment.
I bound there.
I know it’s comin’:
I never leave there again.

And I’ve caught you in half circles of it.
I cannot grasp to you its whole.
I’m not there sometimes.
I never get to that fullness
in my momentary lapse
into the lapse of infinity.
My momentary circles
just buy me lunch,
and I breathe awhile
everything is wonderful and strange.
I get so excited
I opera to myself,
and I get scared sometimes
it gets so deep.

I’ve given you half failings
of what it means to be human.
We are so much bigger than stars.
We are that guy you see,
making his alone-rounds
where everything collides together.
Oh my God he’s a bulletin bull,
and I’ve reduced to you its mystery.
If infinities were universes,
all-encompassing infinity could not encompass him.
I’m just saltin’ the ocean
and countin’ crows.
This is bigger than time,
in any duration of its meaning.
We get bigger than universes,
and we get bigger than infinity.
We can crow there.

I’m taking you back through time
to hello please,
let’s take a bite of infinity.
You there,
in your suit,
remove yourself from time,
get back in yourself
to vision’s eyes.
Let down the world some
and revel in its majesty.
Get your gun out and shoot
at the presumption of the stars,
at God’s mighty glory,
at something that’s just so strange
God comes out of it.
Amazing
is just a teller in a window.
We’ve broken in on time.

Copy this down
the story of the universe.
It came from such musings
in infinity’s time.
Now it’s your story keep.
Will you handle it?
The Robinson Crusoe on Mars,
I’m a pallbearer.
Can you hear infinity?
Let your ego down some,
your ego’s guts,
the ego’s lair.

Divine intervention [this line from my little boy Nithish, from his muse, and came to him at this point in the writing of this poem, while having pizza in town at Taka Pizza]
beyond deity.
We’re lookin’ through
I don’t know if I can see that high.
The relationship starts
when you’re alone in your room,
your environing personal consciousness,
and you can field notes.
You can get in there.
Start noticin’ your room.
I’m not sayin’ wall yourself off from society.
There are times to be alone
in the midst of it.
Cut yourself off from society,
can you even do that?
It’s not possible.
We are your own personal consciousness
in the field of the One.

I vaguely remember
the strength we’re all together.
Here, this is a lily pond,
and you’ve lily’d unto yourself.
Draw back in your room.
Investigate reality.
The time will come
you will open doors
of seeing.
Let it happen.
Don’t count it away.
It will all come upon you when it’s there
tangible real.
You will billow in your room,
become a flower-pen.

You won’t let you down.
You’re on your way to seeing.
Just let the thoughts roll back
and thin towards silence,
and meet the world with that
in your vision’s eye,
in your mind’s eye,
and draw back the curtains
so you can see eternity at work.
These are not beliefs.
Just see.

Eventually
you’ll arrive on sight
into veilless infinity.
You will feel this in your room
stark naked.
Now you’re in glory hole.
Keep movin’.
You come to a fullness of yourself
riding waves.
Now tell me the world has no meaning.
You saw it, didn’t yah,
the meaning alone.
Did it wink at yah,
give you a nod?
Wow, that’s personal.
That’s really personal.

Well I’m writing my poems
the boost we need to get there.
You’ll walk around.
You needed something.
It’s the American revolution.
I think they stole it,
all this hatred online.
Has blocked poetry has blocked mine.
Show it to you investment in reality,
like you’ve never seen it seen.
This actor
shoots directly to you
I got the movie
in parables of see.
Wear it on your face
your intense hatred.
I’ve left it so beautiful,
reality’s face.
Where are you at that you can’t see it?

Swallow your nose.
Lay down your religion.
For once here we are at score.
It’s in your eyes today.
Willy Wonka,
will you offer some chocolate?
That’s administrators if you like it.
That’s the burn name.
I’m behind you
reality meets the press,
one second,
your thinking.
Captured,
Oppenhagger,
constructing love.
Under what conditions?
Bomb material
poems I publish.

You can hear me on the bus.
You pretend to ignore me.
Costing so much chocolate.
Yours was letter-formed into poems.
Think about it this is a different kind of funeral.
We lost you the character of new bullet
today.

A demon’s eye [Nithish’s muse, heard while behind me on the bike, seeing a bird with red eyes]
will distort to you the truth.
Don’t let it.
It’s got rings on it,
and it hurts you:
you are some kingpin you are not.
Stay away from demons.
You can get off here.
Did you just hear it speak?

A bit of muse
will show you the way.
I wouldn’t get hung up on it.
I would bring you to the truth,
and that’s bigger than reality,
and it’s not a game we play
to convince each other.
There is a vision there inside you
that can interpret reality.
We get along without it
most of the time.
That does not get you
to pure reality
or anywhere near the truth.
You just hang there.

Can we get beyond name and form?
We embrace each other there.
This is really personal.
We embrace each other there
and get out of ourselves.
Practical hands see the no-self show.
See that no-self show,
it’s that guy you see
stark naked.
I mean the cameras are in the room,
but there’s no cameraman,
just his see.
Awesome we wait time
the right formula
to meet the world,
and do everything we need to do
to stay alive
and operate reality
to a bigger game than time,
and become Ourselves again.
They’ve got a furigation.
They just don’t let the water go.
It’s the pilot Supermind we are beyond time.
No issues,
the body’s there too.

And now let’s hump reality
to the right place on earth,
where you are no ego,
riding waves of reality
to the see of that guy.
You there,
have I brought you home?

I can’t picture this.
Just look in your drawer.
You wouldn’t go through every picture.
Where do I see this?
Don’t laugh it’s in your room
larger than cat.

You’re gonna piddle me apart of course.
I’ve got a strength of muse.
You can’t get rid of me that easy.
You’re gettin’ enlightenment on a piece of paper.
Have you ever saw it before?
Do you need to see it?

It’s your lifeline.
It’s the reason you were created,
to become That you see.
There’s no way around it.
You can’t avoid it.
Your death journey has this in store,
but it’s here we graduate.
It’s here we do it.
It’s here we get it done.
There is no other place on earth
to take what you can get out of life
as your homecoming.

You only see animal quiverings,
do not know we get bigger than that.
Your spiritual empty,
but you can go the distance,
man you can go.
That’s what we Earth for,
to bring the planet here:
beyond the animal
into God-quiverings.

I don’t have it.
And I’m gonna pick him up,
lay the bridge down for him
in some parable of tomorrow.
Fasten your seatbelts.
Need to practice it,
the acceleration of life.
Need to get going.
Tra la la! [line heard yelled in the voice of Captain Underpants from the movie of the same name]
Oh hallelujah.
Peel back silence in your mind.
Lift it there.
Extraordinary,
you have depth of vision.

The Fate You’re Said Desperate Need

On By Donny Lee DukeIn ego activism, Poetry3 Comments
“Beavis and Beauty” by the author
Looking my answer.
I’ve made such a rainbow.
No one sees its beauty/sense. [words spoken simultaneously]
It’s just another lunatic in a long game.
It’s just completely ignored,
except for a handful of brave souls
I would like to thank.
5,4,3,2,1,
I’m countin’ your love here.
You have risked your lives online
and put a like by my material.

Can I count that?
You must love humanity
more than your own lives,
or you feel so strongly
about what’s to do right,
you will put that before your very selves.
Where do I put you?
Go down my like columns and see.
KK, lunaiswriting, DirtySiFiBuddha, The Emotional Pixel, QuanTouch, B Gourley, Tony Self, Notes & Silence, Frank Solanki, Narayan Kaudinya, Elena, Lorene M., Bogdan Dragos,
and you others,
I don’t know what to say.
Thank you.

Let’s count the score.
I’m flabbergasted.
I don’t know what I mean.
I’ve counted meaning in the stars,
summed up the meaning of Earth,
and physically grasped Supermind,
and I’ve even housed meaning soul,
yet I cannot grasp in my own hands I write.
I cannot write my meaning in Earth.
I cannot even tarry there.
I don’t know how.
I don’t know where I am
where I meet you with the pen.

This is a mystery to me.
I am a steady stream of starlight
that doesn’t leave out one iota
of where my thoughts are,
my hands in the business of life,
my heart as it sees the world,
and I can’t even gauge you my time.
I write things down
I hear from on high,
and that is not the half of it.
I run this through the strands of my life.
I sit and wonder the lines I write.
I pick and choose and beg and plead
to give you the date of poetry.

It’s all scrambled up sometimes
in the gut-fields of life.
I cannot touch life.
In halls of infinity
I just get close to it
in storms of pen.
It won’t read me there.
It’s just about the lie
we value poets today.
Do you?

I can’t tell you how much
I spend on this.
It’s my life’s blood.
I work around everything to write.
I eat and I sleep
carrying muse.
I’m about the end of it,
how I begin each day.
I don’t think Shakespeare knew a better idiot
than I feel grasping you.
I’m sorry please.
I will arrive there one day,
where a poem’s just a piece of paper
I’ve handled meaning on,
and I don’t handle meaning in terms of readers.
I’m gettin’ there.
I can see it now.

What do we do with the orange crush?
You’re gonna sneak up on my meaning as I write.
You think it’s about lollipops.
I’m just tryin’ to grasp myself today
a writer of poems
on Earth’s starward prow,
in her meaning lists,
and where I find the Sun.
I gobble down the stars,
lick up the scraps.
Do you know muse?
I am so entertained.
It’s an amusement park,
and to think this is for all mankind?

Wow, we watch TV with it,
put it in our pipe and smoke it no.
Did that just happen to me?
I’ve heard a line of muse,
saw a vision,
and the sign said poetry.
And we grasp Earth in our specialness
and want to tell the world.
It’s not ready for it yet,
and you can’t get there yet,
show your muse.
Don’t throw it away.
It’s got vision’s long hold on it.
It will mature brightly.
You’re not showin’ it to people.
You’re just listening muse.
It’s got a lot to show for it.

You’re gettin’ bigger kid,
lookin’ at the world some
a God vision growing.
You think you’re a pilot of the world?
Oh please we’ve all been there,
considering ourselves.
We can grow so much bigger in our thoughts.
We can get bigger than ourselves.
We can surely get there.
Do you know how far this is?
I don’t think you can touch it with ego.
It’s on the other side of the universe.
A change of consciousness gets you there,
and that’s where we measure our days,
not in muse.

A change of consciousness ahead,
that’s where we measure muse.
Is it happening to us?
Is it real?
Is it there yet?
Do you see the lightning?
Oh wow better poetry
can I Lord please write?
Where I am today:
I don’t think anybody hears me.
You silly fool,
write
measured pace.

Run it through the ringer of my life
and be bold,
casual and free.
Newman,
we’ve got that ticket.
Caught a moment off Gods
to the camera
you’re the human being.
Focus any of my material?
Put it on that lawn,
Lucille Balls.
We’re negotiating shelter.
What principles create him greater need?
He’s blarin’ at yah
sorry about the needful.

There’s time to look at it.
I’m sorry I say so much
that brings out your life.
Are you crazy?
You give the essential details;
there is no need to give them.
He needs to got
put in the hold.
You’re listenin’ to him.
Open it up
Americans,
because Americans with a policy
—okay let’s go under—
with a policy to grow anything.
The only way I talk to you is throwin’ you out. [line heard sung, voice of Dolly Parton]
You wanna sit your own ass
on the opposite side
of going off the bridge.
Yep, that outta do it,
environmental change.

Call your father
Christmas.
I can’t call anybody.
I’m not allowed to write.
It’s because you never get read.
They’re gonna come,
the people who read newspapers.
I just want to look at the must angle.
We need these right now,
these poems called freedom,
how you pronounce it,
how it’s acting.

And I have a lovely single for you today,
another poem,
good story,
man's help.
And for poem’s sake,
the runner,
Beavis and Beauty—
I’m underpinnings;
I’m the laugh of the party;
I’m in there a broad measure of healing.
Let’s leave it up to another empty poem
to give us some ground rules.

The Availability of Stars

On By Donny Lee DukeIn ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
photo by the author
Now pedophilia,
that’s the most indistinct thing there.
You are taken
this close.
And I just hang there.
I have nothing to show for it.
You’re in a square seat
behind holes of reality.
You’ve got the best seat on earth,
larger than mankind.
You don’t bow to no one.
You’re really there.
You’re the right person
to handle the Word.
You are Our go man.
You are not some blind wall.
We listen to you.
It’s a conscious place in there.
You feel the world.
You feel in there.

The dawn of a new age
between icebergs.
We can’t let the stories out.
Regal and important,
they show us our under wares.
We can’t see them
because the gatekeeper says no.
They move us,
give us another time,
tranquille.
We can’t find the time to read them.

A Green Beret,
I parachuted into Germany with an atom bomb.
No, Luna puppy,
I’ve jumped out of Mars.
I’d love to tell yah the story.
One single incident
would be almost big enough,
but I’ve landed Silent Mind.
On the approach
to return to this land.
It makes gold for good seeing.

Memorable wares,
I’ve put poems on mountaintops,
in the station of Mount Sinai
and on the 14 Stations of the Cross
in Old Jerusalem.
I put “The Last Man on Earth”
in the sarcophagus of the Great Pyramid in Egypt.
A few people saw me do it.
It wasn’t a landslide.

I travelled the world a vagabond pilgrim
in the early days of the net
and did not record it there,
for years.
Country to country saw me soup,
and I gathered myself there.
In one tall swoop,
long before I left Houston,
a Classical Greek scholar I was,
I became the person I am presiding over all these lives.
I became my Godself on high.
I mean I went up there
long enough to know Who I am.
That started my life.
I was born in that moment
as one who stretches the Earth.

What a thing to say
if you’re just some yahoo,
even with all the trailers
this poem has shown you.
Can you hear them?
I’m not dyin’ in my lunch.
I’m a livin’ breathin’ testament
of I have lived sir,
man I have lived ma’am.
Can you see that way?
Do you even care?
X-men have got you by the heart,
and the Avengers have blinded you,
story after story of savin’ the world,
and the human can’t even get there.
We bleed our stories
so they make Earth pretend,
so they grasp the wrong value,
so they tattletale in our arms.

Can we find our soul?
Would you believe it’s not a person?
And it’s not our stars.
It’s an ocean down a deep well
that you can find if you get there
falling sleep.
I took my conscious that far,
falling,
over several days of exploration,
and I found my soul.
Are you on the move?
And you think you’re only on the outside
travelin’?

Who’s cleaning this mess up?
My goodness guy.
And we’ve met the soul watch.
Our personhood has launched it
to develop life.
That’s why it’s here.
When you find it you activate that,
and it cleans up messes,
and it’s inevitable you rise
a soul see.
I’ve grounded that,
and I turn the tables on you.
I don’t think you’ve found that ocean yet.

And I have found the stars
where I sit,
and I have found the Earth where I sit.
The soul has brought me here.
It’s larger than mountains,
more infinity than space,
and that’s our standin’ ground.
It’s all over the place.
It’s in this room right now
greater see.

I’m here to show you the real.
I entered this world a pedophile,
and all you’ve heard
has been my means to change.
I could not just be a normal citizen,
not in my brood,
not where my society reach romantic heart,
not in my roving center
where I attracted to the world.
You don’t understand polyp,
and you think freewill is everywhere.
I gunned this life.
I really put it on,
the role a lifetime keeper.
I am here before you today
on poet watch.
I give you the stars.
I give you the formula for change.

Will you unload that
to where the voice can see it,
the net speaker?
I’m comin’ to yah today
where we meet the Earth.
I’m not sutterin’.
I am right there.

What just happened?
I gathered the rainbow
and showed it to yah,
and showed yah who you are.
You are that God on high,
the One I described above.
It is the Maker.
It is the Shaker.
It is Who we all are
in the dynamics of deity,
and here we all are
lost in the world we have created,
foundering in the universe we began,
and we need to get there,
to our creator self,
where it meets us here.

That’s the gist of the story,
of every story on earth.
I populate it now
with facts,
with a storyline.
Understanding?
Give it all you got.

A Verb of Words

On By Donny Lee DukeIn ego activism, Inner Voice and Vision, Poetry, seer poetryLeave a comment
photo by Donny
Who stays close to skyscrapers?
A digital bureaucracy
won’t look at my poetry.
I don’t know what it means.
Man’s critical college parallel universe was
thrown into poetry.
I don’t think no one reads him,
even though it was a parallel universe.
Did I just say that?
You like mules
that have no meaning behind them
when they’re pullin’ a plough.
You don’t like to figure out stuff.
I don’t think you like meaning.
It’s read it’s bread.
Stop and take a look no way.

How do we bring down poetry into the universe?
My God the spheres here.
I can make up a poem to please yah.
See Dick run after Jane?
Okay get out of the knob Joe.
Meaning is paradise.
It’s not your guttural wear.
The random nonsense of meaning words,
did I just say paradise?

I’m at a loss for words.
Nobody understands me.
Critical Hank,
is that self-meaning or self-pity?
What do you see in an enemy?
A reader.
I’m all out of poems,
and they just comin’.
I’m really not doin’ this.
Poetry has grabbed my testicles and is squeezing them.
In silence no one can hear you scream.

That’s what my mind dirts,
when poetry comes in my window.
I’m liftin’ silence to read it.
It gets you all trashed
in dirt modules,
the mind’s interference,
and unfortunately the more trashed the more you like it.
I hear the mind there
all readable by rationality.
The mind likes symmetry.

I put a poem in pieces
where silence holds my poem.
I’m tryin’ to say this pure verse,
really, really from the silence,
unadulterated
by anything mind can give.
Do you see me there?
I’m listenin’ hard.
Like I say I come in pieces.

How do you value a poem?
It’s meaningful to you.
I don’t think you’re concerned with the silence.
The root of poetry has no meaning
to someone who looks at stuff all the time.
Pure abstractness’s not what I’m talkin’ about.
If you let it happen,
meaning would come in time
personal to you.
It would hit you on the nose
a vehicle trip.
I can't get at this abstraction.
Well can you let poetry breathe,
take off your thinking cap a moment?

You’re gonna be taken for a ride kid
in the hit you of your stuff,
in the node of your surround things.
Poetry will take you somewhere
out of yourself
in the larger spheres.
It has meaning
all wrapped up in purpose,
and we clear here.
Poetry is a vehicle of meaning
that will look at you in your underwear.
Are you desnudo?
Wow, amazing,
can you come read your poetry?

Can we understand your poetry together with silence?
I think the reader’s talking to me again.
Okay let’s say some hard words.
I’m a stallion in Paris.
When I look through my radar I see you.
I’ve opened my first book.
It’s just terrible.
It’s just terrible.
We can reader handle a book,
shall we?

You pronounce it better,
that publication.
They say I’m crazy.
And a book shall lead them,
trusting you.
You’re open.
You can definitely see the Sun.
Get out of the way,
and it will rain down upon us
how to do poetry,
be happy with what you make in a better way.

Tall recognition
of you’ve got some answers,
the answer,
despite failure.
I put failure in.
You got the Sun in your eyes.
You can check and see if it’s there.
Read this one.
You’re having a beautiful Yahtzee surprise.
Sit Sharma you have done.

A poet has his word out.
Shoulder gets a new test.
Oh, this is getting down to me,
the purport of poetry:
be meaning and don’t expect anything in return.
I think we just said the universe.

How do we do that,
get we and put it in a higher position?
Yeah, okay, struggle to survive.
Why am I gaslighting this?
I broke through the crowd and I silenced the sound.
They wondered if I was to blame
for Mary. [This two above lines heard sung by Bob Ayala, “The Song of Joseph”]
Into the divine,
can I take you?
There’s no struggling with,
there’s no struggling with another person.

Goddamn dude,
it was nothing but
I wonder why the U. S. has so many problems controllin’ that track right there. [line spoken at the end of a dream, a question I asked, a Green Beret in the dream, seeing a heavily armed train belonging to the Taliban insurgents, the track being representative of the field of Afghanistan while the U. S. was still there]
Hey come here—
wastin’ time. [heard sung by Dobie Gray, “Drift Away”]
Just don’t bombard me okay?
Go and see that
as a blockbuster. [vision of having gone to the ocean floor to see the wreck of the Titanic]
Harry Potter,
you’re tryin’ to swim
unlimited.
We’ll be right back.
That must be the phone.

Now bring meaning down to time.
I’m every bit in your skyscraper.
Bring me down-to-earth, will yah?
Get me outta here,
a lonely meaning in time.
I’m all about your reveille post.
Open up to the meanings you have missed.
I’m only there.

I should explain that this poem was posted for just a few moments on Oct. 26, 2022 and then reverted to draft so to submit to Poetry Magazine, and it took eight months for them to reply. Here is their email in regards to this poem, dated May 18, 2023:

Dear Donny Duke,

Thank you for sending your work to POETRY magazine—and thank you, too, for your patience as you waited for our response.

We won’t be publishing anything from your submission, but we wish you the best of luck in publishing it elsewhere and appreciate you sending it our way.

Thanks so much for your support of the magazine. We hope you are as safe and well as can be.

Gratefully,

The Editors

Listen to My Dog

On By Donny Lee DukeIn ego activism, overhead poetry, seer poetryLeave a comment
Hannah, photo by Donny

A poem by Donny Lee Duke

A guy that’s on the net.
It’s on the net.
I not been poet before.
Spirits in my head and they won’t go. [line heard sung by the Strumbellas, “Spirits”]
We’re shoppin’ for cars.
Can’t find a one in your neighborhood.
Bubble me up please.
This is Ranger.

I’m calculating science.
You don’t understand the net.
I’ll make a video
to make everyone laugh
so I can feel special inside.
I’ll waste my time here.
I don’t know what to say.
Can you do it,
make meaning out of worth?

A horrible commotion
the whole damn net.
Where do we put it?
I’m sure some voices rise.
Some everywhere.
Let’s not fudge with it.
Let’s put meaning on there.
Can you mean somethin,
make us all grow,
like we mean something?

Where is it
the meaning of this paper?
I think you’ve thrown me away.
The net’s speaking me.
Can you hear that?
Can you show your inmost self on TV?
Just one rupee sir,
and we’ll have taxes of course.
See that net?
You won’t be a voice talking.
We won’t take you there.

Do I wanna go down there,
to a person’s imaginary poet world?
Nah,
I read a few lines.
I think we’re good.
What’s he gonna say,
meaning?
Throw that poet away.
I’ve got an appetite for stuff.

Many rules gonna get broken
for the net value.
You are not prepared for its worth.
You just think it’s ticklin’ time.
It’s like a Ouija Board.
Who moved that dial?
Quagmire.

I think you read me loud and clear.
Now let’s test this boat.
Too heavy for us.
I know;
you can’t do it,
wash your hands with Jewish genitals
and save the world.
See how smart you are.
You can’t get your head down your pants.

You need to go really, really, slow.
That book will scare you,
Between Jerusalem I’m Sorry.
Read that book.
It’s an understand the world book,
not just human genitals.
In this book they’re just redeemed.
Can you see Jerusalem?

Oh my God he’s on paper,
the Internet,
the whole world.
Green light,
oh we can go back
and change something
if it didn’t work.
What am I supposed to do,
with QAnon
and that whole Trump’s the savior mess?
Let’s get them meet the press
and it’s we lose our democracy
if they’re voted in.
You okay?

It’s in Nature to stick up like that.
This is a long poem,
exact words.
Give it with me,
the meaning of life.
Back them I didn’t realize, well,
your anxiety’s gonna come up.
I’m sorry,
give yourself a tight squeeze.
We’re handlin’ the book.

This poem needs a picture.
Who Hannah?
She’s a lovely dog.
Leading a dog
to where we belong in time.
Must be some book,
leading a dog through time.
You got my wolf?
I think it’s your wolf actually.
Anyway read the book.
Is that my measurement?
Yes sweetheart.
This person is solvin’ the world.
You got that Houston?

Which asks you to stretch.
It's not fun for The Family Guy either.
Small snake bite—
you won’t get away with it,
no matter how you read it,
without it doin’ you some number.
Enjoy it;
this is the end of the world
that doesn’t know its origin.

You’re headed for a disaster,
oh world we live in,
if you can’t bring this book to light,
or its ideas on some other page.
Look I’m talkin’ to yah straight.
No other book has the power
to bring you to change.
You mean it
where this book is bound to you,
and that’s a doctor,
the one you need right now.

You think I’m exaggerating.
It’s all in the book,
and I’ve just mentioned time.
Can you see that far?
I don’t think you’re even lookin’.
History has a book party.
I think you’ll find this book
in its Rolodex.

You’re not listenin’.
You’ve watched too many commercials.
I reader
am in the whole thing.
Read it
and don’t look back.

You want extra-terrestrial contact
I should ask.
I’m not talking about the one in spaceships.
This is bigger than words.
Okay talk to the world
the very nature of its see.
I’m showin’ you that
extra-terrestrial.
No other formula has it
quite to this degree.

You understand me?
The nature of the universe will talk to yah
in large poetry ships,
and the prose will just knock you sideways.
All in a day’s work
in that book.
You take it from here.

Anyway, let’s call most everybody:
what do you want to do when you grow up?
You want to be mountain and feel pregnant with the world?
Excellent,
I got it.
I got your book,
and we’re right here
in the lighthouse
Pondicherry U.S.A.
to the spirit of India,
where star wars meets the Earth
in Israel.
You got that car?
I’m drivin’ it down the street.
Hop in.
We’re happenin’.
We're leadin' a book through time.
Pondicherry lighthouse, photo by Donny