The Dialogue. (poeTry)

by: a.paige

and the dialogue grows

the irreconcilable, uncontrollable creature knows

when another voice calls out

everyone screams out

for everyone else to tame

the beast that had awakened their fear

but who is left to hear?

the ongoing conversations leave me with

a funny feeling, hinting

all voices converge at some point. ’tis time

“we are here, we are here,” we chant till nine

then fly to the moon and back, wishing

that heaven listened, even as the stars glisten

but who is there to hear?

Sardines.

*****
Copyright, Amicatonic. All rights
reserved. All content of this blog
are property of the artist, inc. all
writings, artworks, & photos,
unless otherwise noted.
Pls. be considerate & ask for
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credit to owner/creator,
Amica Paige.

*****

If you open a can of sardines, there are mothers and children there. But the phallic man is hungry and loves his fish and game. He forces his way through fame with his arms and jeans, and devours elephants and whales in his suit and tie. He sheds blood, except his, and lusts for the rush of adrenaline. His currency are folks and beasts dispensable and meek as fish. He craves the flesh of the young and the female, but her mind and heart are inseparable from her hips and much stronger than he could ever be—yet, she has suffered greatly. For if you look long enough in this ravaged land, half the children are men, and the other half—most of them are hunted, along with the unicorns and dolphins. Will the boys heed a mother’s call or only be sons to their Father? We wish all sons of earth would hear the cries of their daughters. But unlike dogs, most men are mere testosterones and phalli. Worse than the swine they savor, their savage hands slaughter lambs and bleed the land for glory. Still, we’d like to believe that the womb is later joined by her true lovers and reunited with her real sons and daughters at the sea beyond this. For now, she continues to fight for the fate of earth and weep for the rape of it.

A little bit of sunshine {poeTry}

by: a.paige

a little bit of sunshine–

is it all we need

to coax a flower down a muddy field?

does it make a difference

that a gem is hidden in a rotting heap,

or that a bowl of rice appear

in tiny hands that multiply, then drop, like flies–

has our world really become a better place for it? 

still, we try...

the kind words tossed 'tween me and you

like icing, are they enticing?–

that we'd treat each other nice this way around...

the genuine smiles and joys devoid of sound,

do they really resound

much louder than all the rounds

of applause and rubbing faces, or kissing asses?

or are we just beguiled and disoriented, as we switch our ups and downs...

but we rebound...

when we're soaked in piss, knee-deep in shit

does a bit of sunshine really lift

all the gook off our slimy pits?

a warm hello, a hug goodbye...

do these make up for what makes us cry?

a gentle kiss for all our griefs

to lighten up our load–

does it convince our leaden souls again to bleed,

despite our sins? and, yet, we breathe...

Forgive they say, at least, to dispel despair

i raise a toast, instead, and say, "inhale

the air and swish a wand... invisible...

magic is invincible... a quip, a cup

of wits... words intrigue, you know.

amuse a funny bone, create a song

cajole the mind, bewitch with poems

to right the wrongs... to tame the beast, 

this terrible and beautiful thing we live...

so what if a rose has thorns?

or if sticks and stones

should break our bones,

as we stagger without the swagger, all broken and bewildered–

must the spirit succumb?

lest it lingers and ingest the seas and drown...

but to span the time and survive its scorn! –no need to be reborn...

the tides, the full moon brings–

might wash ashore the filth, the lies, we'll see...

should we shine a bit of light then

to disarm our fears?

we can only try, we can only try

to convince our souls...

alight.

Caterwaul. (poeTry)

by amica paige


Caterwaul.
Peter, Paul.
The two bobcats
quarrel like cats.
They howl and screech
and throw guitar riffs.
They make a shrill noise,
they wail and cry-
you'd think that The Beatles
hung out with the preachers.
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
Ringo, where's George?-you're the star,
was he baptized?
Maybe the preachers
listen to the Beabeetles
as they chastise
the human mice.

Caterwaul,
Peter, Paul.
Nocturnal cats,
cool as bats.
No, Mr. Bale,
you can't join in.
Dark nights ascend.
We need Bruce Wayne
to save mankind,
and Alfred left.
But you just can't keep
a Christian down.
Put on the Beatles
as you watch the preachers.
Dark knights rise...
Caterwaul.
Peter, Paul.

Decrepitate.

Decrepitate. Define it, you say, being a person of youth. Well, may I say that I've trodden the sands of time, marching through my childhood years-hopping, skipping, dashing, involving some fists at times, sometimes sobbing...all the way to manhood, braving its tides, to taste and savor all of life's nectars, including matters of the heart, which can prick one's soul with a thousand needles, and that's just for starters, an endless appetizer, if you will. Because should you delve into the heart's affairs more deeply, you'd soon find out that the heart has swords for teeth; it cuts and grinds as sharply as it exalts in exceeding and inexplicable ways one can hardly believe sometimes. And if you fear a thing called love, as others may call it, which I rather refer to by its very act—of care, compassion, or affection—you might not want to go there, that is if you expect your beneficiaries to reciprocate all that you extend. But you might miss something so simple, yet so profoundly significant at once, should you skip over it.

I, however, am in my third act, traipsing on this stage called life. I've seen a thousand moons and witnessed stars shine and recede into oblivion, if not first immediately ushered out by the depths of time, which spares no one, like stars that merely fizzle right after birth. I've climbed the highest peaks, each attempt maims so severely at times, one falls in the deepest valleys with such dismemberments unheard of in still callow, incubated minds, and you ask me to define decrepitate. I've bathed in the sun's radiance and roasted in it all the same; its luminance stings, like salt to a worm in a slow burn. If I crackle when I roast in fire, I can't possibly hear the sound of my anguish, as I languish inside, can I? So, you tell me—do I crackle and pop when you see me roast in fire? I've seen and heard of unnumbered souls, both young and old, suffer unspeakable torment. Deprived of any means of protection, they are powerless, and their lives are all they have until their blood is shed by savages. By the way, did you see it too—the endangered species on the news last week? The harmless rhinos do naught but roam the fields in peace, unsuspecting of predators, and still, they're poached and bled to death for their quaint horns. Such horror reminds me of the pink dolphins and human nature, and makes me wonder which animal is the real beast on earth.

You ask a decrepit man to define 'decrepitate'. I say, stop searching too hard for meaning in mere words. Look and observe around you instead. Perhaps you'd discover something, if there be any road worth traversing, a wave worth riding, or a meaning to derive from life at all. Then tell me what you find. Hear me now, go on. Live.

Wonder...wander... What's your story?

I'm a not a fatalist. I do believe in willpower and magic and hope...for a better place and justice. I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play...while we try to survive the best way we can—some of us in yachts and castles, and others beneath bridges...in tunnels...or on benches, and still others stuck between walls in the middle. And still others...the helpless ones imprisoned in silent rooms...who are silenced by those who are drunk and deluded with power, like God...

Hunger...

I just cannot think positive away the demons at play. But I can help keep human garbage at bay and pick up my share the best way I can, and maybe tune in and lend an ear to see the inaudible, invisible cries...that I, too, might understand their pain...that I might extend a hand or walk a mile...perhaps. And when that still isn't enough, I hope for a better place.

Will power's persistence in this befuddling existence—that is magic. And only because of love, without which what other means must we employ our ultimate will? Where did we get it from—this love?—who instilled it in us humans? I used to think I knew so well, but the wind changes course... Now I only think about it too, sometimes. But I, like you, won't know the end of the story until I get there. Until then, I must keep going and live this thing...this role...this play...on this stage, and not waste so much time thinking about the director...since the time given us is short.

Yet I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play. But don't hate me. I'm just a realist, not an enemy. I am not against you, just maybe your ideals sometimes. Meanwhile, I still smile and look up at the sky, whenever I'm not tripping on and picking up garbage.

J.R.R. Tolkien said: "Those who wander are not always lost".

And so, I wonder sometimes.

In Good Company (poeTry)

by amica paige



Funny, this business of reputation is,
what tireless mental exertion it consists!
Endless weighing, forever peeping
adding, removing, and calculating
to ensure the company of the best societies
exhibiting just the finest qualities, or so it seems
on the surface at least.
In trying your best to avoid the basest--
those blatant banalities--such vulgar entities
you keep some at arms length,
less they tweet and mention your name,
thus making you vulnerable
to risky associations and immaterial organizations.
No, you don't want to be seen
by those similarly obsessed with,
or whose passions are devoted rather,
to this massive social scene.
But as followers, they're quite safe,
those mere entities attempting to connect,
Just don't reciprocate.
Or others will see
the associations you make.

Reflection. (poeTry)

by amica paige



I don't know what happened,
but I know how you feel.
Like looking in a mirror...
you're human.
And I am man.

Happy is he...

***Written in June 2010
by amica paige







Somebody once said that the happiest man is the saddest man; just take away what he is happy about.
And that the saddest man is the happiest man, if you give him just the thing he asks for.
But from the angry man, stay away. He’d either kill you or die trying.
Don’t ask me who said them.

Oxymoron (poeTry)

by amica paige



A doubtful believer
and a hopeful skeptic.
A skeptical supporter
and a faithful cynic.
A cynical optimist
and a cheerful pessimist.
A philanthropist who hates
a misanthropist that cares.

I am an oxymoron,
a walking contradiction.
A lowly narcissist
and a godly sinner.

Like the lame that walked
and the doubting Thomas.
In seeing he believed,
like the blind that saw.
But blessed are those
who believed, but did not see
said the Man who lived
to die and give
the dead a life.

Killing Unicorns is killing dolphins is killing innocent lives

Killing gentle dolphins for bait is just like slaughtering horses and feeding them to pigs to fatten them up for our consumption. It's just so WRONG. These fishermen don't think about the damage they are causing to the region's ecosystem. Whatever happened to the plain old cast-your-net to catch the fish that you massively consume. Greed and ignorance surely go hand in hand. And these twits commit this evil act because nobody's stopping them. I hope that the smarter people in that region step up immediately to stop this heinous crime. Or does the government there find catfish extremely irresistible too?—I don't even want to know. It would also be horrible to imagine what bait the twits will resort to next should they ever run out of the unsuspecting creatures in the future. Click on the following image released by the INPA for the full story from the Associated Press.

Movies to watch, if you haven't yet

DOUBT and SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE will shake your comfy Sunday cushion with such rousing intensity, while leaving you woozy enough to shake it with the slumdogs should you stay tuned-in through the credits. Definitely not the best movie options for those looking for mere flippancy in films to frolic through a couple of hours with their buds.

Society's Elite concisely sums them up...
On Doubt: "When a film is based on a priest being accused of child molestation, you won’t find much to laugh at."
On Slumdog: "From seeing his mom killed to sleeping in piles of garbage to watching his older brother become a thug, Malik’s life is played out in the film showing that there is hope even in the darkest times."

Happy-Go-Lucky

For one to still manage to cheerily chant “Ding-dong, dilly-dilly, da-da, hu-hu” as a chiropractor rearranges your bones is positively ever so slightly happier than the rest of us sordid creatures going about our seemingly mundane lives. Or you’re just a silly grown-up. But for this 30-year-old elementary school teacher, her days are as easy as flapping her arms with a bunch of bird masks donning children, raucously squawking like birds, and pretending to fly. And this lady “trampolines”.

“Happy-Go-Lucky” is a curious and surprisingly engaging ride with a perpetually happy lady who consciously takes on her days with a bowl of cherries. Seriously, the lady wears little yellow bird earrings in some scenes. At first, you might doubt Poppy’s integrity and take her for a naïve nutcase who giggles incessantly through her jolly whims and over her own remarks. Unlike most of who she encounters, she finds her jokes and most things in life funny and doesn’t hesitate to show her gaiety in any situation.

The opening scene immediately paints Poppy’s character, superbly played by Sally Hawkins. You see her easygoing face ride her bike through town, browse through a book store, and attempt a repartee with a morose man behind the register whose facial expression clearly says that he can’t be bothered unless you’re purchasing something. After repeatedly failing to stir any type of response from him at all, she finally heads for the exit door chuckling and muttering still to the man what he clearly doesn’t care for, to be happy. Yet, she shows neither the slightest sign of humiliation nor irritation of the man’s blatant rudeness. Next, she finds her bicycle stolen. But when open-jawed with surprise, she merely musters a slight reaction of grief over not having had a chance to say goodbye to her beloved two-cycle. And as you follow her around, you want to shake, smack, or strangle her relentlessly blithe and bubbly persona for her light, almost feeble, approach on things, unless you have had a drink or two with her and her more normal, flat-mate, Zoe, coolly played by Alexis Zegerman.

Then, something bizarre happens. In an indeterminate turn of events and as if the earliest scenes have all been a pretense to mislead you entirely, Poppy suddenly grows on you. You’re baited, hooked, and reeled in, though oddly. The more time you spend with this chirpy chic, the more disconcertingly endearing she becomes as you get to know her. Actually, you can blame this uneasy change of heart on the bicycle thief, whoever he was. Better yet, blame it on the director’s cunning for laying the plot right were he did.

Now that Poppy’s without her bicycle, she decides to take driving lessons. This is where the conflict starts and where the story really begins. Without this particular incident, the film would be nothing more than just a bland sequence of the tedium of life even for the most optimistic person, which certainly wouldn’t appeal very much to us, voyeurs, though Poppy’s outfits and shoes are certainly cool enough to feast on.

Scott, the relentlessly glum and grumpy driving instructor, is a walking, breathing epitome of anger and intolerance trapped in a middle-aged man’s body dressed in an 80’s garb and all repressed in a continuously ticking time bomb of massive hatred that could blow any moment at the slightest provocation. And it does one sunny day, when Scott gets aroused with rage over Poppy’s new beau. Prior this finale, he takes the ever so jovial teacher through her driving sessions a few Saturdays, during which Poppy definitely gets more than just driving lessons, but also an earful or two of Scott’s long list of grievances and lifelong neuroses about people, the world, Poppy’s boots, and ultimately, her character as he deems it.

Though Poppy’s unswerving cheerfulness could be quite irksome and seem unbearably shallow and surreal to a more cynical, critical, expectant, and impatient audience, serious moments become more discernable, poignant, and revealing against the kind of inexhaustible optimism like Poppy’s. Apparently, the more she smiles her way through life, the bleaker the opposing characters around her seem to be. It’s the classic light and dark juxtaposition. And yet, you see her deeper aspects. Her depth, resilience, and sincere compassion for people lying just underneath her smiley skin only get clearer.

Simultaneously subtle and sublime, this is one of the best films I’ve seen thus far. It is witty, well paced, down-to-earth, authentic, and an enormously effective experiment on the highest forms of human emotions—love, compassion, anger, and hatred—that move us and affect the way we interact with each other, and on whether or not we learn from our experiences, good or bad. As Zoe simply put, “Well, you make your own luck in life, don’t you?” Surely, it’s the choices we make that make us who we are. But Mike Leigh isn’t preachy about life matters, although one of the main characters in the film most certainly is. Instead, Leigh shows us by presenting these personalities, their situations, and surrounding elements in a light and natural way, though the effect is ironically forceful, and leaves us to our own conclusions. He offers us twisted ironies. But then, we are left contemplating if our perspectives are the ones twisted. Don’t get fooled by Poppy’s and the others’ seemingly one-dimensional, stereotypical characters, because there’s more angles to them than what Leigh would have you perceive initially.

Though this film might not stop you from cursing and spitting at the most obnoxious person next to you, it might make you want to take a breather before you lash out like Scott under provocation. Eddie Marsan’s powerful portrayal of the immensely disturbed and demented man Scott, reminds us about the ugly wretchedness that anger and intolerance can turn a person into. The added bonus of watching this film is that it can make for a very inexpensive therapy, if you’re willing to face the threatening truth about life, which is sometimes thorn-ridden, unfortunately. But Poppy chooses to see and smell the roses, without ignoring her wounds. Eventually, she encounters love without desperately seeking it. And that is something beautiful and inspiring. If we could only all get to a mindset like Poppy’s and drift through life with her optimism and not “miss the boat completely...”

If you’re looking for a formulated Hollywood box-office movie full of bang served in a huge bubble of empty laughter, loud action, exaggerated drama, and excessive sex that pervades today’s movies and TV shows, this is definitely the wrong flick for your DVD collection. Otherwise, your movie collection just wouldn’t be right without this smart film. And for additional enlightenment by the director, Mike Leigh, and the main casts, Sally Hawkins (Poppy), Alexis Zegerman (Zoe), and Eddie Marsan (Scott), feast on Happy-Go-Lucky’s Bonus Features.

Hilarity highlights:
The Flamenco Teacher’s outburst: “Your boyfriend…betrays you with a 22 yr. old bitch. You want to kill him. You want to cut off his balls. He’s such a bastard. I hate him!”
Scott’s “En-ra-ha” chant
Scott’s first outburst: “Poppy! Let’s go! We’re on a bend! Now, let’s go!”
Scott’s 2nd outburst: “En-ra-ha!!!”

Baffling Disparity: Hunger and Obesity

Photos from dailykos.com

"This photograph, also taken in Sudan, won the 1994 Pulitzer Prize for South African photographer Kevin Carter, who subsequently committed suicide.", and

"A well nourished Sudanese man steals maize from a starving child during a food distribution at the Medecins Sans Frontieres feeding centre in Ajiep, southern Sudan. by Tom Stoddart."

Meanwhile, according to bettertimes.cc,

"The incidence of childhood obesity is rapidly rising throughout the world. The obesity epidemic is especially evident in industrialized nations where many people live sedentary lives and eat more convenience foods, which are typically high in calories and low in nutritional value. In just two decades, the prevalence of overweight doubled for U.S. children ages 6 to 11 — and tripled for American teenagers. The annual National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention found that about one-third of U.S. children are overweight or at risk of becoming overweight. In total, about 25 million U.S. children and adolescents are overweight or nearly overweight."

Starvation, apathy, greed, and gluttony at its worst. I'm at a loss for words.

Truth or Dare (poeTry)

by amica paige



Truth or Dare
Aren't you scared?
What have you had to bear
that you refuse to bare?
You've been warned not to swear
but you didn't stop to care
Now, off--you have to peel
the mask that you wear
and your assumed identity--
you must completely tear!

Nervous?
Are you tugging yet at your hair?
Take a heave!--a breath of fresh air!
--is good, for you really are so rare!
Ignore their glares and stares
So grand really are your wares
when you dare for truth and bare
all that you've had to bear...
Of what should you be scared?
--when, in Truth, nothing's spared.

The Mir'r Sees You (poeTry)

by amica paige



Who do you see
when you look in the mir'r?

Do you see the voices?

To them - do you listen?
Do you crave to serve them

and be all that they want?

It's a shame. It's a real shame.
For the mir'r sees you

and all that you could be

all wrapped up in fear

and held hostage by voices

who's trampled your child.

Quite Alright (poeTry)

by amica paige



I'm quite alright
til I'm next to you
Then I start looking
at what you do

Work (poeTry)

by amica paige



What do we work so hard for?
The attention we long for?
So what of rejection?
Do we get dejected
for not feeling accepted
that we endlessly engage
in great exertion
simply for
a fifteen minute retention
of our flighty attention
for each other?

I Kid You Not (poeTry)

by amica paige



Who am I kidding?Certainly not myself.

You? Definitely not.

You who'd fall for
anything you hear
and live by
the next person's standards,
especially if
they make your eyes glimmer
with blind admiration,
as they prance about
in their glittered clothes
while you watch in the distance
in obscurity.