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Dr. Baron Joseph A. Uphoff, H.E

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Member Since: Nov, 2008

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The Metaphor Of A Calender
by Dr. Baron Joseph A. Uphoff, H.E
Rated "G" by the Author.
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This is a Surrealist Prose Poem


Time had a palace in which were stored

all the ways of perceiving duration.  Standing

in the garden, the master wanted to match

places to agreements.  At the height of this

experience, the emptiness arrived to watch

 

a shadow meet a corner.  The diffuse line,

lasting briefly, wandered onward into the ink

 

where the language changed from black to

the colors glowing, related to the scene yet,

in history, distant and untransformed like the

raving in the vinyl.  Needles moving back

 

and forth brought the image to life, and new

 

spirits required the discernment.  An

authentic person was following after

somebody else, the great celebrity sitting

on the couch.  Looking at each other, there

was no recognition.  Neither was a duplicate

 

of the other, and lengths of eternity separated

 

the origins from which they were developing a

devout relation to the clerk and recorder

who ran the machine with the inmost gears

and leverage.  Impressive as an ability to

 

slow the world down and heat things up, the beat

wandered in speculation to explore alternate

tributaries and the synchronization of marks

with signs.  Ring fragments and remnants

of other alignments were scattered among the

pebbles in the gravel that defined the archaic

nature of high, mountain roads.  Waves,

 

under the branch clibing out of the pines, created

 

a hum in the pliant tires as the wheels where

going around, as the tread was searching for

a grip, floating on the water, serenely.

 

Firendship calculated a ride upon the boat;

the ripples in the orange were grinding

dust that painted the water making it unreal

and slightly flushed as the sun was mending the

clouds, making them real, forcing change.

 

Splendor crept into each repple; it became

 

a universe isolated by the ridge. The contour

was displaced from ancient pressure, before

the storms.  It was a coincidence, by

 

dismay, as the colors fell over to spatter against

the slope of the mountain, but it was meant to

be only a joke.  The stain was not

tolerable, caused screams into the dark air

beneath the phrases of the moon coinciding with

 

the spirits in the halls.  Stretching the length,

 

wholly burnished, the glass was pacing the

wildness of the pictures hanging for a short

while to commemorate a trivial event, observed

and illustrated as a practice of relativistic

coordination.  The subject began to decline

as it became obsolete, slabs within

others, buried and invisible yet functioning

to operate countless links.  There was no

way to move a thought without erasing

 

the mesh and the entire sequence.  Not funny,

 

the festival bowed to end the journals

of the ancestors.  These were stored and

conveyed toward an accurate,

natural decision in times to come.



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Reviewed by Ed Matlack
...traveling through time this does remind me of...now that I am hooked on ur poetry/prose etc, u got to post more...thank you for this experience...e
Reviewed by Edwin Hurdle
This is excellent work,take care

Edwin
Reviewed by Bobbi Duffy
much to think about and an excellent metaphor for a calendar. time moves on whether we want it to or not.

bobbi duffy
Reviewed by Erin Kelly-Moen
Exquisite metaphor(s), and so much more, regarding time tallying, Joseph A. Uphoff.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
Reviewed by Karen Palumbo
Much more aking to a journey through life's realm, with all the many ups and downs that go along. A wonderful journey expressed well...

Be always safe,
Karen
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