White

Unopened mail on the counter,

a meal half eaten

sits on the table,

fork frozen in position

of the last bite.

A world abandoned

mid-sentence,

poems left unfinished.

Stuff collected, acquired

through toil

deserted and gathering dust.

Natural disaster,

a miracle...

Survival clothed only 

in freedom.

This is how endings

begin.

There is an empty room

warmed only by

a fevered body,

thankful for clear breath-

sunlight pushing through

the weary and spent rage

of storm.

Nothing more.

Nothing less. 

Artwork by Kazimir Malevich, 'White on white' c. 1918 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Justice

It is only with calloused hands

that the heavy body

can claw and leverage the self

upward on the thorny vine

of a life

without wince and whine

ascending to reach the fruit or bloom

the famished soul craves.

Strength is only followed by ache

and ease meets us 

like the close breeze of angel wings

when we are certainly alone

to endure 

and prevail despite difficulties,

in spite of opportunities.

Facing this,

finding a certain grace

that heals

and feels

righteous-

just us. 

Artwork by Fyodor Bruni, 1820s or 1830s, 'A boy climbing the rock' (drawing for "Brazen Serpent" via Wikimedia Commons, in Public Domain. 

Feather weather

Before I arose

the tangerine sunrise

squeezed its citrus air

through my bedroom window

dripping fresh pulpy nectar 

of a new day onto the corners of my mouth.

A small smile and burst of delicious 

opportunity as wide as the opening sky

filled my treetop nesting place, 

I stretched, feeling light as this crisp air

where wings unfurled 

and carried my delicate body

across the sparkling dew laden fields

light as a feather.

Artwork credit: 'The violet fairy book' (1906), Henry Justice (1860-1941) Internet Archive Book Images, No restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Objectified

The thing about Americans

are all the Things-

So many things,

more and more than ever before

buried in crap, cremated in mishaps.

We make, we take, we earn, we lose, 

we choose the right to have 

to hold-

We fight over 

and over, about

the need, the greed-

we have earned and lost,

another thing tossed. 

The sheer weight and

the wait, a cure and curated-

A new thing, and another thing, 

junk or slang, it is all the rage-

And all the rage, coveted, lust, we must have-

Unsatisfied, insatiable, hunger,

not food, not fast, 

lasts and lasts, plastic and preservative,

a classic, a novel-

ty, a storage bin, or unit, 

a closet, a garage, the tags still on, 

the deal forgotten, the steal justified, 

the hope, the saving for someday 

it might be needed

this thing, that forgotten thing, 

so buy another, smother our small space, 

lie to our face, stashed someplace,

in a cart, on a list, a deal just missed

how these things

clip our wings.

Wealth with strings.

Poverty sings.

Graces never saved faces

nor held our places

in heaven, 

as in hell 

we end up 

only us 

without all the surplus

it comes down to

just detritus and decomposition,

unaccomplished missions

like the unraveling 

of a flag or poem.

Artwork credit:  Bustling with work and activity, "The Wealth of the Nation" by Seymour Fogel is an interpretation of the theme of Social Security. Dated circa 1938 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Gravitas

For every poem

I put here,

there are four more

never shared,

around six never written

and twenty-seven partially thought out.

For every word

that hits the body like a pointed

icicle, fractured from the eave,

whistling, shattering, dripping in ink

and finally melting into nothing

in the strong daylight of to dos-

there is still, every chance

for a point to form 

itself. And so I just let gravity

weigh the choice-

to keep holding on or simply

let it melt away. 

Painting by Pekka Halonen, 'Rock covered in ice and snow' c. 1911, Finnish National Gallery, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Gilt not guilt

Failure is all the rage

these days.

I have been practicing, and I understand

the rage.

Someone said that melancholy

is tragedy handled well. 

breaking out of your comfort zone

Is the key to freedom from 

the cottage of contentment.

too small for you but everything 

you think you need, 

within arms reach.

How do you know

what you need- Now

Meditate, 

we are advised- Let it go

as if commitment was the culprit.

Break habits, make space and then

Kintsugi.

Same thing as working with what we have. 

Is that the work

that pays 

nothing but costs everything?

Expectations interfere,

and fear is expected.

For the winners-

overcome and overflowing; All

the times we cannot hold onto,

the memories we cannot release

and the future that refuses to arrive.

Setbacks and leg ups, 

there was always more to gain by loss.

Painting by Nikolai Yaroshenko, 'Portrait of a woman' c. 1893 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Nightfall

 

Woken from a deep slumber,

as if my name was spoken

aloud.

Only the spotlight of a honeyed full moon

sings across my shadowed walls.

Heart racing,

as through free falling,

plummeting off of a craggy cliff-face

and remembering 

just now, that the safety net

was only a dream. 

Painting by Tivadar Csontváry Kosztka, 'Full Moon over Taormina' c. 1901 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.