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    SciArt Shop    •    Visual    •    Music    •    Poetry

    The gift we receive    •    Honey don't you know    •    Oh me oh my    •    Wait for me    •    Circle of time    •    For once in my life    •    The cure

    The gift we receive

    In the spinning arms of a galaxy within an expanding universe
    We are born to the biosphere on Mother Earth
    The gift we receive is 3 billion heartbeats and 30,000 days

    Let’s step with care, caution, and content
    Walk with certainty, direction, and purpose
    Run with high cadence, bent knees, and enjoy the breeze

    Let’s speak clearly and concisely
    Sing melodies soft and sweet
    Respect the rhythm of silence and then repeat

    And for each step we take; for note we reverberate
    Let’s share the landscape; Let’s share the soundscape

    Let’s share cultivar with those that cultivate like us
    Malignant seeds have no place in our garden

    We don’t grow envy in the shadow of the rain
    We don’t grow violence in the dark of night

    We grow strength, discipline, and virtue bound by strings of steel
    We grow compassion, respect, and understanding united by love
    We don’t long for greener grasses - we grow them

    And so, I say, with the precision of an infinite decimal
    At the volume of an intimate decibel
    The same closing remarks as Max Ehrmann in Desiderata,
    “Be cheerful. Strive to be happy”

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    Honey don't you know

    Honey don’t you know, it’s a wild world out there
    I’ll issue out a message, on a wing and a prayer
    Be careful of the steeple and the castle in the air
    Grow yourself a garden and grow out your hair

    Honey don’t you know, you’re like a blackberry vine
    Thorny on the outside, but fruit so fine
    With a shape so sacred, geometric crystalline
    Dissolve my little fears because you’re turpentine

    Honey don’t you know, these things take time
    But if we keep it honest, it’ll be sublime
    Honey don’t you know, I’m gonna trade in a dime
    To better understand you, Earth and maritime

    But if you ain’t got your ear to the horn
    And if you ain’t gonna hear my warn
    Fix it in your mind, you’re the one that I adore

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    Oh me oh my

    It was early in the morning and my brain was yawning
    I was wondering how I got to you my dear
    Maybe it was the blissness of how you do dismiss this
    I think it's time we shed away our fear

    Oh me oh my
    It's what we do
    It's how we grow
    It's what we knew

    So meet me by the willow, I didn't know that you were indigo
    You are what I was hoping would appear
    But now I am tongue tied, side effects not as advertised
    Since when was this world so austere

    Oh me oh my
    It's what we do
    It's how we grow
    It's what we knew

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    Wait for me

    A city of love, a city of throes
    A city of forks and knives and clothes
    This must be it so I'll follow my nose
    To where you are, that's where I'll go

    Thirty thousand days, so it goes
    Endless forms and fallen mangos
    The elements of your cargo
    The unbearable being that you forgo

    A trigger pops and it's end game
    Share our words, that was never a shame
    But your life is yours to claim
    Your glowing eyes never looked the same

    To be with you is a miracle
    You are the light, you are the pinnacle
    and so, I'll wait for you
    but will you wait for me

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    Circle of time

    The blackbird may chase the hawk far from its breed
    But its still got to leave the nest in order to succeed
    Now I may be wondering about too many things
    But its got my mind stuck like unknown contingency
    We may be connected by at most six degrees
    But with all perfect honesty, it don't mean much to me

    It may be five minutes or it may be five hours
    This will be the time I'll have to learn to devour
    The stars may align in the sky ever so bright
    But with so many hues it's no longer black and white
    And like a dog goes wandering in the grass hill and all
    I may go wandering in a glass bottle tall

    I don't know how many times you've grown
    But it's far more than I have ever shown
    Everyday is just another milestone of undone déjà vu

    We may be headed in the right circle of time
    But these rings, they may alter
    We may be headed in the right circle of time
    We just got to make sure

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    For once in my life

    Just for once in my life I want to see the villian fail
    So I took off his mask to display him unveiled
    I looked into his hollow eyes you can guess what I had seen
    I am he and he is I if ya know what I mean

    Now I read about the marriage so hungry and dirty
    The malignant little lies that butcher everything
    I got a hoard of dishes in the sink left to clean
    But I turn to the bourbon from my unkempt canteen

    Where do you go when your home is falling apart?
    Where do you go when it's charred by the fire you start?

    I don't know how much longer I can stand this nihilist feat
    It's a job oh, it's a chore, it attacks me in my dreams
    Six pairs of black socks and underwear I need
    Percholating ideas about floating downstream

    I walked right through the labyrinth, right through the house of leaves
    I was bleedin', screamin' disbelievin' what I had percieved
    It killed me soft, it killed me hard, left me bare to the bones
    But still I wanted to go back to the unknown

    Where do you go when your home is falling apart?
    Where do you go when it's charred by the fire you start?

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    The cure

    The drooping eyes of His serenity dissipate
    into an empty abyss carrying nothing
    but a beaten carton of cigarettes.
    The broken bi-focal glasses, unopened books,
    bikes unpedaled, and primetime
    splattered with idiotic formulaic episodes,
    draining the function and fulfilling purpose
    of our presence, of us.

    Us, the ones, driven to madness,
    unknown to previous decades culminating,
    in the fate of young brilliancy’s potential to explode
    in a violent banging and popping,
    the unbranded cataclysmic kaboom.
    Consequently the unfamiliar melting, gooping, and dripping
    of our own brains out of our own ears and
    into the wastebasket of conformity’s mastermind
    leaves our bodies to be the drones and do-nothings
    of puppet-masters dressed in coats and ties.
    It is Facebook, ‘what not to wear,’ Reebok pumps,
    Doritos and MTV attacking the glory of boredom
    leaving three-fourths of us in the dirty dumpsters
    and the remaining gasping for air,
    some contemplating suicide amongst price-tag materials
    consuming themselves for consumerism, is the only thing they know.

    The dissonance is no longer there.
    The abused machine has regressed thought
    renaming the ‘rose-garden’ as just ‘thorns.’
    We are suffocated by carbohydrate snacks,
    twice-over processed meats, and question marks
    created behind the curtains with no avail.
    We have been trained to be anti-interrogative
    as indistinguishable copies are produced
    after years of riding the puppet-masters’ assembly line.
    The curse, it is cast, Ginsberg and Burroughs
    have been ordained into the hush of death
    leaving the one’s unaffected by His hex
    deprived of the all mighty pastel palette of whispers.

    The free minority have had to reconcile with their
    desolated counterparts to make ends meet.
    For the lonely hipster drowning in self-pity,
    the quiet artist seeking intimacy and soul,
    the lunch-time reader turning page after page,
    for the unnamed, self conscious individual
    trying to look forward as a cavalcade of empty nothings
    fall onto his or her plate questioning the machine
    and searching for a remedy to keep that
    stomach full for just one night.
    A remedy you wonder? A solution? An answer?

    All of this in time future and time past we will be.
    We will be the next poets stirring the sleeping world
    with overflowing words like T.S. Elliot,
    we will be the next Albert Einstein
    discovering the corners and awakening
    the crevices of our own flowing minds,
    we will be the next Pope John Paul II,
    Andy Warhol, Barack Obama,
    we will be the next face of hope.
    Release the chains that bind,
    the mind forged manacles, the obligation
    we surrender to social networks.
    The cure for boredom is not picking
    split ends, or aimless channel up and
    channel down on remotes detaching us
    further from society. The cure is jazz,
    Hitchcock and cranial freedom. The cure is us,
    if we choose to be. We can be the cure.

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  • © Jacob L. Steenwyk