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A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)

one poem, written by two authors


~~~

Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.

From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.

The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value

(written by S.D., a woman)

~~~

(written by N.L., a man)

unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected

the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own

every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing

a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship

all  these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,  
instantaneously compromised

but,

it is upon  the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality

while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:

every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the

princes of principles,
valence and value

that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,

her character

this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky
Valence,
as used in psychology, especially in discussing emotions, means the intrinsic attractiveness (positive valence) of an event, object, or situation.

In chemistry, the valence or valency of an element is a measure of its combining power with other atoms when it forms chemical compounds or molecules.

you decide.

hers, two six sixteen,
his, two seven sixteen,
in the wee hours
 Feb 2016 Tammy M Darby
ruhi
this bruised ballerina forgot how to dance.
            her lithe body a marionette
artfully conducted by threads in her back
   at the nimble fingertips of some perverse desolation
       she moves mechanically
   to its twisted touch.

she is told to somehow turn scars to flight --
    mend wounded wings
             and glide, carelessly soar
      through painted skies and fairy clouds
sweet as a songbird's melody
    reborn, a fresh starling

(listen: she weakly sings)
If Trump is elected President I'm going to get up at six and feed the hens , plant a row of okra come Springtime and grease the tractor that same evening .. Should it be Sanders I'll build cages for Big Boys , go to the lake for a stringer of bluegills and walk barefooted the whole time I'm doing it .. In case it's Clinton I'll be plowing from morning to Noon , stopping for a few figs and a cherry tomato or two ...
If it's Cruz you'll find me picking the blues on a brown guitar , eating Spanish olives like their going out of style , shoring up chicken wire to fend off 'critters' , nipping on Wild Turkey to ease my blisters ....
Copyright February 22 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved

Life goes on ...
To be left behind
Alone
On the shores of one’s life

Deserted
Lost
As the ships of fortune
Roll away beyond reach

To perceive
Even the smallest things
As a source of terror

To shrink
From the very light of day
Yearning for the escapology
Of black night hours

To let roll
Tears of desperation
As one recognises
One is nothing
But a broken being

How strange to be
So isolated
So alone
In this whirlpool
Of *******
Black
Tar

If only describing
The sentiment of inadequacy
Could disable its grip
And free one
From its power

The cold winter months  
Take hold
Of my entire being
As I stare at emptiness within me
Longing for escape

Bruised words spill
Over my page
In tribute to
The crisis hours
7th February 2016
February fell in again and so
I begin again, but
it's always yesterday someday.

Yesterday where I burn and today
they say I will learn,
perversely
yesterday's where I turn to for
some heat
and February beats me again.

I lose it somewhere along each line and
some time sometimes loses me
age has no friends.

See,
I like the feel of good jazz on my skin where
the trumpet blows in
and a good mood can begin, but
yesterday follows,
like a hollow faced stalker and
some time when February comes calling
it seems like it hits me and I'm
always falling.

The way that thing are
I won't fall very far
bent as I am
by the years.

I should be up there reaching for the sky
Douglas Bader knows why
instead, I'm kneeling feeling foolish
praying,
saying things like
forgive me.

God give me strength and at length
I think somebody does.
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