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.

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.