©Umansky 2012
Posted in poems | Tagged internet, prose poem, science-based | Leave a Comment »
Posted in poems | Tagged american sonnet; internet; self-portrait | Leave a Comment »
The Drip
“Drip for me; I’m here. I’m waiting for you. He rubs his head against its silver shine. He rubs his head along her shiny, glossy hair. He rubs his body along her cool, white skin. Please, he pleads. He’s waiting for her watery love.
I watch him stare up at her silver face. His body twists and turns in her porcelain arms. (Is he crying? Is he broken-hearted?) He calls out to her. There is no reply. I feel for him. She will not be coming for him. The train has passed. He howls and throws himself down along the floor. His dark grey stripes, his small pink nose, his long white whiskers, all echo with a small bit of grief. I wish I could know what he thinks of his situation. I have broken his heart.
(Does he know what I have done with the plumber?)
The Fish Wife
This must be how the Fish-Wife feels, thinks the cat, when her beloved has been swept away by life’s delightful bait. She must wait, amongst the waves for him. She must cry her salt-tears and weave her seaweed song. How does she find the strength not to catapult herself out of the waters, out above the sea, to walk on her own fins and find her beloved? The mind is stronger than the body, thinks the cat. She plays this same game. She has hope.
The Kiss
I pick him up, wrap his soft stomach in my arms. His small cat-head rests on my shoulder. I’m sorry, I say¸ we were getting ants and I had the faucet fixed. I put him down. He rubs his head against my leg, then stretches his body up along the kitchen cabinet until he is standing up on his hind legs. I still love you¸ I imagine him saying. I place him on my bed. I put last night’s pajamas around him and his eyes slowly close. He’s purring. He’s happy. He’s dreaming of the bathtub faucet’s kiss. He moans. He’s entering the first circle of grief.
© Umansky 2012
Posted in poems | Tagged grief; cat; imagery; fish; bathtub; fantasy, prose poem | 1 Comment »
In the would-be version, a hero, an enduring symbol, or a brazen-patriotism is needed. Our words would fertilize the land and our breath would act as a blood-bank for the future of lore. If there is no Good vs.Evil, then there’d be no actual confirmation for greatness. We’d have, but our own small hearts to listen to.
There is a fear of contradicting.
As the story goes, the dynamo
provides what he sees fit. The percreta feeds
one life to the next. I want to be that.
I want you, to be nourished.
I want a shifting of place in your chest.
The real danger is sport.
The most romanticized sport: Love.
And I want something to rally about
when coming to shove. The believing is pure-like: you do,
you don’t, you do,
you don’t, you do, you don’t, you
have the final whistle,
the final call, the final sip.
Pull yourself together. This is more powerful than myth.
© Umansky 2012
Posted in poems | Tagged future; lore; love; sport; game; battle; | Leave a Comment »
© Umansky 2012
Posted in poems | Tagged computer, data, digital, future, integers, machines, past, science, technology, tercets | Leave a Comment »
Posted in poems | Tagged future; data; list; technology, time; science; technology; humans | Leave a Comment »
Luster,
came away in one of those not-so ways& I want that Luster, here. Back. Keep your handling to your hands. You’ll mind me if I want you to mind me & I don’t want your minding … now or….yet….
If I say it won’t be, do you think that it won’t be because I say it that it won’t be because I am a Lady? I can be all close-like,
all wet-legged & bellering. (& is that luster coming away or my way?) because I’m not one of those women but I can stand the things I can stand & I’m trying to whet this. I’m not saying it’s not puzzling, but I can go where I want. No one’s got me. I’ve got it all inside this, here. I am playing my instrument & recording every tune.
©Umansky 2012
Posted in poems | Tagged faulkner, luster, prose poems | Leave a Comment »
for the humans who might play computers in the upcoming American Crossword Puzzle Tournament
We are mince-meat. The day is past where humans reign supreme. The Doctor is in and he will fill the page without logic; without reason. We all play the game: reading the prompts, counting the letters, thinking of the correlations and the permutations.
Some play the game differently. We recognize patterns. (and I don’t mean window curtains or tabletops). We have knowledge and experience in lieu of calculations and statistics though, a shift in gears can produce a high-speed roadway for the human mind. We don’t need to be charged, unlike our opponents.
We get the joke; it’s funny.
The machines are beating us with our own language – with their fancy programs and their implanted intelligence. Where they are taking us? Gone are the days of pencil and pen, (forget about fingers and digits). They are adaptable, and we, we are creatures of habit. They are resilient while we age poorly. They spot matches *like that* and our synapses just spaz. They say The Good Doctor will “kill the field,” as in level out the playing field, as in KILL THE HUMANS!
What Will Would Shortz Do? (WWWSD?)
Give up and die? We must go forth into that dark night and carry our heads high and walk even if we are weary, and think, even if we are parched and thin. We must be a-w-a-r-e in these electric times…
The hurdle is in the extension of cord versus cord. Spine verses Wire. We can build the strength of body and brain. All they’ve got is little men with little fingers furiously typing code encrypted with artificial humor. We’ve got the life inside us.
© Umansky 2012
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After putting away the 75 seeds, he felt harbored yet chilled. In the after-part, the Collection was secure. It was made tight and finely made. Nested and nestled in their perma-frostings. He knew, with his turn of the key, each seed would heed the Call of the Wild. There would be no more controlling; no more sun to answer. Each was a fugitive for their own justice, now. They sat in the thick and plotted. Others, turned their backs.
A light went on. First, the Marigolds and the Dandelions entered the Boiler Room. Then, the Cloves, followed by the Thymes and Parsleys. The Wheats and the Barleys joined limbs and cuddled next to the Yams and the Rutabagas. As they stepped through the crowd, they could see, in the distance, the local soils alongside the African Oaks. A catcall was heard, in the direction of the Squash. (She snickered and took a seat in the front). Two by two, they entered. Two by two, they took off their histories of space and time. They were tired. All of that depositing and classifying; sifting and labeling. They longed for the temperate but got the raw. Then, a scuffle was heard. Old Bran organized a meeting at the third black box to the left with Hickory, Marjoram, and Maize.
Let’s keep the humans out of it, said Squash, A flood is coming.
And the news spread to Mustard, then to Clover, then to Chick and Lima who went round back and whispered it to Soy, who then whispered it to Wildflower and with a snap of her hand, turned out the light. They were happy in their vaults. Happily mingling in the cold. They held banquets; drank vodka. (Sometimes, they did the polka.) They were ready to marry. Ready to go forth and prosper for when the world fell to her knees, they’d be ready to harvest a new one.
© 2012 Umansky
Posted in poems | Tagged science; seeds; fantastic; magic realism; doomsday; vault; poetry; | Leave a Comment »
Women have restrictions. Boundaries. It’s nothing new. We startle. We unnerve the opposite sex. We put our own kind on edge. We can anticipate your every move –especially in chess.
Don’t be flashy. Put away the Dior, Zsa Zsa.
(Tut-tut. You should know better, girls.)
Women make their own moves now. We roll the dice. We move the pieces. We finish first. We take care of ourselves. We say when. We say how, but there are rules:
Watch those thumbs. You can’t unbutton anymore than the top and second buttons in a dress shirt. (You wouldn’t want that ample cleavage turning on your opponent’s knight and asking your rook for an after-dinner drink at Chez Lancelot.)
No one really smells like roses. Watch the body odor, and the perfume. We don’t want the pheromones taking charge. Chess is a game of strategy and precision.
Lastly, don’t be gauche. Pretend you’re back in Tolstoy’s day – you wouldn’t want to be distracted on your move. Be coordinated in mind and outfit. Your jewelry must be in line with your garb. (You wouldn’t want the judges giving you the boot, right?)
Be ordinary. Put the bling away. The game’s been played since 600 AD. Times might change, but the game is always the same.
© Umansky 2012
Follow @lady_brontePosted in poems | Tagged chess, feminism, game, poem, rules, time, women | Leave a Comment »
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