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.

Definitive

Confidence is

the fear of failure

overcome

by intention and action.

Deja vu-

a memory of the future.

Something indistinct.

Yet distinct in an indescribable way.

Presence is a given

taken for granted

even when absent.

Forever and infinity

need time.

Now

never lasts long enough

to say what

It

Is.

Artwork credit: 'A woman pleating her hair', possibly La Cigale. Signed lower right: CAMILLE METRA, in Public domain c. 1890 via Wikimedia Commons.

Pastel 65 x 54 cm. (25 ½ x 21 ¼ in.)

Exhibited: Possibly the Salon of the Sociéte Nationale des Beaux-Arts, Paris, 1895, no. 1528.

Camille Métra exhibited regularly at the Salon of the Sociéte Nationale des Beaux-Arts from 1891 to 1903, using her maiden name before 1895 and exhibiting as Hubbard-Métra after her second marriage. Métra was also a member of the Union of Women Painters and exhibited frequently at their annual exhibition between 1891 and 1911.

Although we know little of her biography, Métra’s extant work reveals a talented artist, working in a late Academic and Art Nouveau style. Active primarily as a pastellist, though also confident with oil painting, Métra seems to have focussed on arcadian subjects, often derived from literary and mythological sources. She was also active as a portraitist, particularly of children. After the death of her first husband in 1892, Métra married the French politician Gustave-Adolphe Hubbard, with the couple divorcing in 1904.

Signed with her maiden name, the present work likely predates Métra’s marriage in 1895. The pastel may be La Cigale, exhibited at the Salon of the Sociéte Nationale des Beaux-Arts in 1894. Drawn from La Fontaine’s fable The Grasshopper and the Ant, the title alludes to the fate of one who (like a grasshopper) ‘sings all summer’ instead of preparing (like an ant) for the hardships of winter. By Métra’s time, La Cigale had become a metaphor for the beautiful bohème who lives with no thought for the future. A popular artistic subject in the late 19th century, La Cigale was typically depicted as a young brunette set against a verdant backdrop of foliage, usually with a musical instrument though not always so. Whatever the case, with her flowing tresses and emerging from a dense forest of vegetation, Métra’s young woman is an archetypal Art Nouveau subject.

It's a Cine

August evening at the drive in.

Early 80's, sky matching the push up

ice cream staining my cheeks.

Sweet strawberry sherbet sunset.

I am on the swings, the playground 

near the concessions and bathrooms

while the adults drink and smoke

In their cars, laughter, squeals, guitar solos and mustard.

Adjusting the speakers and seats, 

blankets and munchies.

And we all wait for darkness 

when the movies begin.

2 for 1-

I don't remember the titles

But that time and place-

a strong sense of it 

returns in brief flashes.

Like a meaningless memory-

but Now again

waiting for the dark 

and something entertaining to begin. 

Painting by Édouard Vuillard - Lulu, sur la balançoire dans le parc.jpg| Édouard Vuillard  Lulu, sur la balançoire dans le parc]Exécuté vers 1932 (in Public Domain).