MaggotsX

Creator I must create something so beautiful it makes me cry. Some humans may build buildings, that tear at the heart; other humans, splash their blues and hues on canvas. - wonder if they feel this must. I must make something so beautiful. I have no paints to pull the eyes; I have no bricks to lay on top of each other. I must create something so beautiful, with simple words, all all I have are words and artifice -- never beauty; and all I write: always lies,.. always lies... ugly and still: my heart lies dead, eyes dry. lies I tell myself... someday, the words will come someday, a beautiful thing to fill this hole . some thing so beautiful,.. I will cry at myself MaggotsX @ 2024.04.18

Interpreting the Cento poem "Dead Tree" by MaggotsX through the lens of the current Israeli-Palestinian conflict offers a rich tapestry of symbolic meanings and reflections on the nature of conflict, loss, and the quest for peace. The poem, composed of lines interspersed from various works, provides a poignant commentary on the enduring and cyclical nature of the conflict, the intertwined destinies of the people involved, and the elusive pursuit of a lasting resolution. "Lovely is the world falling asleep" opens the poem on a note of serene beauty, juxtaposing the calm of the natural world against the backdrop of conflict. This serenity is immediately contrasted with the image of a "dead tree," symbolizing both the physical destruction wrought by the conflict and the deeper, existential wounds it inflicts on the landscape and its inhabitants. The dead tree stands as a stark reminder of the losses endured, both human and environmental. The mention of trees "rooted in no-man's land"

Frog Songs There was an almost uncanny silence and yet I hear sad whispers. On moonless nights, it is said, that if you listen closely: wind and rain trace letters respectfully, evoking arias my tongue can no longer sing; cycles end and start again, a pale beauty framed upon a black canvas; from the rushes by the riverbank, they greet him, tiny rain frogs squeak. The smallest things often teach big lessons. When moonlight gilds the tranquil vale, you can hear him singing. MaggotsX (John R. Hampton) @ 11.21.2023 Cento Form: All words and lines from the poetry of Barosus (Edward D. Cates)

an acrostic and so, another late august and i hear a calling: so again, our slim measure of day dies. methodic rhythms, clockworks call out to the dark - sooner oh, sooner. leaves have turned already, i say aloud. an echo sing-songs bleakly, they just don't know it yet - time flies too quickly, more so with age. and i wish i could slow it i write an acrostic. and i cry some - so cathartic MaggotsX @ 08.30.2023

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Sigh, Thing, Sigh In this sigh, some thing so beautiful - beautiful, and this thing above, this ugly second, big and touching; so without, infinite - underneath sigh, again understood without words, thing, some touching words, some thing infinite, beautiful; some short second, sigh, thing so beautiful; thing underneath, thing above sigh again, this so beautiful; so short, this time, so this big, ugly thing - understood beautiful - in time . MaggotsX @ 06.11.2023

Squiggles, Innocence, and Death Quilts "Death: it is a purple quilt corner", I laugh. And looking down to the huge X at my feet, it's hard not to guffaw. It is an ominous quilt to be sure, but still quite a bit like grandma's old faded black & white (Minus snugging warm a mass of graves behind it, of course). "Death: Must be proper, and surely apropos...", I think. When facing death on your grandmother's quilt (especially if it could double as a chessboard), one must reflect long on how one moved oneself through this life. And so looking here, looking there, I found the beginning, of course. "Death, there it is", I chortled, "the Effingham Cross". Nigh-unto the edge of the world (as I like to call the Midwest), here is the town of my birth, but the cross looks a mess - looking down right lopsided, some effin' whirlpool nearby. Sure hope it don't get swallowed. Doh, that's Chicago, of course. "Death: Land of squiggles and weird shapes", I Ha Ha. I did trot ole memory lane:

To Will Thy Skin Metamorphic The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be. - Ralph Waldo Emerson And you call it a beauty mark, but it is not. I watched the bastard break your nose. It was quiet, without a word out of him, but the noise was wretched: a bruise on a rotten apple, squashed in quick with a thumb; an eyeball, mashed red-blue in the socket (and yes, the left one is still blue and quite swollen). Oh Mary, you call it a beauty mark, but it is not. I know it is only because beauty is so important to you: it is who you are; it is who you want to be. I can see the definition of you changing: diaphanous swirls of blue-to-pink; that blue-purple skin holds hard to past confrontation (please, now fade blue-to-pink, to healthy). And you call it a beauty mark, but it is not. I know pink is your color, pink has always been your color. And yes, Mary always your name, though chosen in spite. This skin by now knows father will rage: his