Lip sticks and stones

The way my name 

sits in your mouth,

at least, you want it to.

The 'a' hanging an ellipses

on the sound waves.

The rattling of consonance...

And I've been called many other 

names yet I do not feel

identified by this hard ring

as my own. 

But aren't we all 

borrowing a name

and trying it on...

Artwork by Henri Lebasque (French, 1865 - 1937), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Domain of Dwelt

A glance on the rearview,

even when your not supposed to,

Well, I hope it looks like we had 

Fun.

It could be something that develops over time

a certain skill of invisibility-no

Independence.

Maybe I should not have stopped there

for so long, others warned

Keep moving

And I was

Growing into myself

my insides meeting the outside

finding courage

to keep 

Going. 

And often ending up 

at different starting points

same places

different 

Me's.

Lingering, stepping in 

those shoes, I left no 

Traces.

Barefoot, bigger, bountiful

I breathe

better

when I see the full

Sky.

And I think

some places

know you 

Best. 

Artwork by John Reinhard Weguelin (1849-1927), 'The Gardens of Adonis' (c. 1888) in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Prey animal

Riding horses is just nuts and bolts,

you know

if the rider is nuts, the horse bolts. 

it's true.

He knew I loved horses

from the start.

In the end,

maybe it was that 

and not the snake in the bushes,

the elephant in the room,

what hides in plain sight,

what appears intimidating.

As old as time,

Human with beast,

Human with Nature.

Perhaps animals are so content 

because they don't fight their own lives.

Accepting everything 

In a sense

as is.

The slightest shift of weight

changes the direction.

Intention 

is the lead.

Analogy or metaphor

for or against

more or less,

supposedly a poem 

can be both or either...

Fight or Flight-

An awareness that carried us. 

Painting by Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863-1923) 'The Horse’s Bath' c. 1909 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Allostasis

We know that the plastic

takes longer to melt 

as it ages.

slows down-

while perceptive time speeds

up.

Neuroplasticity.

Five years ago, three lifetimes ago

I left that forever life

not before 

taking out the trash,

working for the business

we once owned

and relenting to

sex. Letting go.

Fluid intelligence.

We are not given

more than we can handle

so we carry as much as we can

and drop the rest.

Feeling lighter

we ascend and break

anchors.

Humbition.

The titles, the names, the

labels change

while the contents increase

wisdom.

Hindsight is no longer than foresight.

Intuition allows the

miraculous presence.

Here you are. 

Serendipity.

Momentum contains

moments

necessary

to move on

our life line of

arcs and electricity, current chi,

grounded in this

identity.

The ends feel like beginnings,

there is only one

first time

and many lasts.

Where would we be

without memory

of where we have been.

Karma.

Artwork credit: 'Woman sifting' by François-Alfred Delobbe (1835-1920), in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Right or Left

What can be said about War and Peace

that has not been 

proposed

outside of either 

wedlock-

Or must we choose sides,

such as above or below,

better than, worse than

History-

Have we learned

details, science, faith-

what can be known

from ones experience-

Does wisdom teach 

or listen

or climb

circumstantial scaffolding-

Does unfolding end with

unraveling

undoing

chaos

and atrophy

is that peace-

or pieces 

of ashen passion-

And what we loved

universally

was the desire

for either 

or-

hanging by a thread

that became a noose-

And then, there were no words

after

death do us part

ways...

Artwork by Ilya Repin (1844-1930), 'Barge Haulers on the Volga' c 1870 Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Drizzle

The muse has been muted

while we are both listening

for some reason-

we have both observed;

Profound is not discovery, 

Epiphany is no certain 

understanding-

A stumble or stall may not be accidental at all...

Just as falling drizzle drenches without a drop

so too does silence deafen without a note

left, 

in absence-

There is room for us both

to wonder, to ponder,

what comes next

reason or rhyme,

a poets musing

or the muse leaving a poem

somewhere

in this thin air...

Artwork by Richard Bergh (1858-1919), 'After the sitting' c. 1884 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

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.