Threadbare Thingamajig

My container shows utility,
this for that;
hold this, carry me
like so and so-
Judging, by every day use
where I am thin
I am most transparent
all that you see through me
resists certain obscurity
You can clearly see
the stiff armored patches,
plates stacked precariously
porcelain worn and torn by utensils
in an empty cupboard.
I have no spares for repairs,
no double duty reinforcements
to protect and deflect the pointed
poisoned arrows aimed
at my limited capacity
for containing my
ultimate futility
I guess-
I don't know how this thing works.


Image By Sarah777 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, described as a device for dunking scholars (a.k.a. Thingy Dunker). 

I can see why you thought

I was gone
transformed into the shapes of shadows
of a dancing butterfly against the fence slats
of a vampire bat who changed his shift
or the wolf spider watching the broken winged crow
these were once me on the dark side of noon.

I was here-then there's was none
no empty room in the granulated chute of light
for this forsaken passive body
to occupy or entertain
I remain one
you cannot see, the undertow of echo
Your assumptions have found me
displaced.


Image By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two Folding Positions

Just So-situate

shocking compliment in awe

I juxtapose So-

Image from Tumblr by Alan Garcia 

About It: Up Side Down

                     Know Nothing

                 

              Shows You

        

      Into –It-

  

Reading too much

Image By Muybridge, Eadweard, 1830-1904 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Why we bother to bother with Why (a deepity)

Because we are here now

facing each other,

listening to the music

we are submissive-or brave

Because we stand up and speak aloud

to show another view,

we abort our own conception

by consent-or dissent

Because we fret and dodge regret

ruts are dead set, circuits carry currents

direct, a dexterity of pre-determined design

connected by linear contact-or experience

Because stasis ensures us

and the foreseen guarantees us

safety in numbers, with all the fish in the sea

our place is secured in parsimony

Because Things don’t change, instead We rearrange

our conception, our perception-a deception

based on learned History, founded on prophesy

we perverse possibility-or reverse responsibility

Because the incentive is steep

Regret is shallow

Because the chances are scarce

Retribution is the final reward. 

Image of cover publication "The Masses", c. 1916 By E. Higgins [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Poem inscribed on bottom left corner reads:
Revolution
Anyone can write Revolution-Revolution
is written
By pale young men with the new conven-
tional mind;
Though it causes, indeed, no such havoc 'mid
humankind
As Samson's did when the Philistines were 
smitten.

It is easy to preach-Revolution-Revolution
in pink reviews,
Or flourish a Phrygian cap from the top of a 
steeple;
But if ever it came to an uprising of the people,
How many pale poets would stand in the leaders 
shoes?
-William Rose Benet

The space of my quiet place

I-in this caged space

Sit hidden, beneath bamboo rods overhead

amidst a lush green crowned atria

I volunteer to sit in the birdcage, with the butterflies and song

perched in the open pergola

I-fall into this open space

In my own backyard, behind the garage, now hidden

even further, behind the black holes of my eyelids.

And I feel the sky, it rumbles discontent when a plane

pushes its way through. A crow objects-to something

while a wren gaily chatters to itself and a mockingbird barks back.

The fountain trickles underneath, like a rushing spring

sounding more than it is.

The steady exchange of footsteps coming

crush the grass and shatter the voluminous silence.

I-give in, open up, and see-this space

and flashing bold colors. The filtered sunlight shows

Leaves prancing over the grey slate stones, that try to compete for my gaze.

Bougainvillea pink paper, peeling skin lays

among the spent honeysuckle bottles. Slowly drained,

looking up to the lattice, it’s a vines race to take over this space-

passion fruit, trumpet, creeper and jasmine-

leaves their perfume trail, in the space we mingle, 

cage door always open. 

Downstairs Lairs

There are no basements in California
even so, the ground gasps and trembles
panting
in subversive growing pains, like mine
in a Rack

And I attest, above me, there's no rest
while downstairs I have dwelt
digging deeper,
while building up

Below deck, I amble
in underlying
immersion
Fathomless and zoetic

In my dungeon with my dragons
I learn to expire
and practice breathing fire

Stomping and romping around the moon,
only echoes left from the rite of passage
steps ghosts long to hear, in a heartbeat

Up there, herds and hoards stampeding
and suspend on high chords
holding up the roof by
ceiling the cracks

Beneath it all
buried in a netherworld
with the worms and bugs
the cold wet earth blankets
a dry eye in decay

Musty, misty, sodden and steamy
I will be the first to drown
when it all comes down

I reside below, with no where to grow
sown in subterranean.



Image By Vert (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Holey Trinity: Lie, Cheat & Steal

Lately
I have heard
Every word (not said)

Calling your bluff
Hasn't happened (yet)
Each day, more regret
And yet-you continue
To think I don't know

Stolen moments, my
Trust taken for a ride, Dead
Ends
Await a new pure white
Little lie (by immaculate Mary's men).



Image of painting by Georges de La Tour [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. The Cheat with the Ace of Clubs, 1630-1634.

A golden jackal steals no fleece

A young jackal whose coat

                          shone gold, glistened in the plain

evening embers

raises his canine

                          nose in the air

just as the lion catches wind scent

kit for cat

and both beatific beasts,

                          noble in their respective

domains

                          deferential of each others persona

pride and posse appropriated

or clash

wearing naked constraint

                          acknowledged by the other, unseen

for each aristocratic hair,

stranded

adapted and august all ways.

In the crevices that morph

                           the middle meets them

converging

                          with coats and charms

a prey of allegiance.

In times of treason

the mice sail the ship

while the jackal giggles

and the lion sleeps

shudderlessly.

Composed 9/19/15.
Image By Thomas A. Hermann, NBII [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Side-striped Jackal. 

Parental Guidance Not Suggested

My grandmother told me
                            smoking leads to
                            heroin
I asked if that's how Wonder Woman got her strength.
She told me, women don't do the saving.

My grandfather used to say
                           you must make time,
                           for killing time,
since time flies, times a wastin', times are a changin',
and time heals
all of the time.

My mother said she wouldn't leave
                            the house without
                            her face on.
I asked if she lost her mask.
She told me there are no second impressions.

My stepfather warned me not to follow
                             in his footsteps.
                             They left no impressions
anyway he was right.

My father, I met once.
He said he wasn't sorry.
I never asked, I said.



Image By CBS Television (eBay item Photograph: front and back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Rope a dope

Frayed and delaying fate
unwinding, spinning more
the less is there
strung out, on a thread
unbinding, falling free
of the ties
that binded we
centrifugal source
conceiving inertia
in knots.


Image By Popular Mechanics (Popular Mechanics Magazine, February, 1917) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Rabbit in the Hands

Take this

I relinquish my contents

to you

Trust what's inside

these cupped hands

touching Venus

where it is read

the light rapes.

A rabbit in the hand 

is worth more than a litter in a hat.

Image By anilkuzhikala (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

DeLiberation

Disappear
is a simple enough
request of such a pret-ty little word.

Pass
this test
of strength without kil-ling
this too

Walk
it off, putting thoughts
in some order, neat-ly notice
all the lit-tle things
in the path

        Above
Rise

Sleep
time taken
in an alternate real-ity
vacation and breath

Find
moments, like this
to feel
(me)
Charge
up, forward, through
the r-evolving gates of Dis
                   never
                                              falling
behind

Time
to think
about things
like pret-ty lit-tle words
like 

These.

Composed 9/9/15.

Image By Sonia Sevilla (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Patina's Purples

Remember-
Under the light of dusk,
when our eyes are quiet;
wordless, we watched
pink crests crowning purple clouds
passing by on the pale canvas sky...
Grey grabs all with its notes
taking the lead
.

“I want to see a new color,” she said-

I remember, “but there are none left.” 

Instead

Imagine a new blend, a color made from none of these

I pretend it cannot be seen, but better felt-
inside closed eyes

like blue

or a red
Aura

“A new hue,

another shade made of you.”

“I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror,” 
she confessed.

You ripen while you rest. 

And thus this innocent request

was bestowed.

A complimentary color, 
a gradual gradient 
evaporated and echoing
the tone of dawn

a radiant hinge on the fringe
of the rainbows wheel
angles ajar
prismatic and enigmatic.

Image By Anonymous [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Flammarion Woodcut, c. 1888.

Mi casa es su casa

You dwell in poetry-
A vulnerable Place to linger-
Barbed wire Words on windows
Galvinized steel-for Definition-

Of Places inside, nested under Forest-
In seas of Autonomy-
And to the Horizon
Poetry meets the blurry eye-

Guests-the wandering-
For chance-serendipitous-
The unfolding of another Dimension
Fused within Imagery-

(A mimicry of Emily Dickinson's #466 I dwell in possibility...)
Image by Peleg, Wikimedia Commons, March 2008.

The stuff we're made of

The things that make the People
Gathered by Hunger
and insatiable growls
and Justified, Need
The goods are Good
And stuff matters
The Hunter and The Gatherer
tied at the waste
Harmonize their Note
A Mantra of Meager and Impoverished
and chorus off key-then the dreams shatter
Leaving you Naked-

(This poem is a mimicry of Emily Dickinson's #729, The Props assist the House)
Image By en:User:Smm650 (en:File:General Picture.JPG) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The lessons taut

“Surfing with Jesus”

the sign read

in front of the Pilgrim Church

across from the high school.

Not the Mormon one

across the parking lot

on the other street
with the lemonade stand

and portable orange bibles

towering high.

A teenage boy with earbuds

sits at the bus stop

smoking and snarling

waiting insecurely

to be picked up

or to be saved.

The bell has not yet rung.

Image By Hogyn Lleol at English Wikipedia (Self made by Hogyn Lleol) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Published in the 2017 Magee Park Poets Anthology.

Cause and effect

                                                  (I never meant to be the cause,
                                                    but I know
                                                          I too
                                                                   shall pass)
Because I am here now
because now never was
because I was a mistake
because my children were perfection
because knots can untie
because I have thumbs.
Because we are all smarter
because we learn from the past
because the past is a leash
because we can escape
because we try to avoid death
because hurting is feeling too much
because healing is a miracle enough.
Because nobody will ever know
Why we are here.


Image By not stated (FBI Photos image source) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. FBI Laboratory scientist. 

Finding one self conscious (in a back-pack)

High school can be so cruel,
horrible not to mention
adding a new bright
canary yellow back-pack
cheery to a fault, a tweet assault
and glowing it seems from afar
a beacon, a candle,
or the sun.

She said she wasn't ashamed
before the first day
of sophomore year.
She said she had no fear,
she loved her bright
yellow book bag.

Rich and poor are both so brutish.

I was right,
she said.
They made strange faces
sneered up and down and
around her stylish lemon
fresh attache.
She didn't bend, or bow.
She was stubborn too.
Soon enough, "They all asked
where'd I get it," she smiled
radiantly,
stepping out of the mold
and into her sunny warm self.

Image By Molku (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pre-recorded: The following is not a Live poem

It's not like it used to be...
We used to dream about making robots
do our menial work, not our magical works-
those things only humans can do:
like cry, create
and ideate
ways to make life easier on us
less of us needed
participation nonessential.
(human auto-pilots)
A sweet serenade
became a re-mix, betwixt by
the sound, dubbed for deaf ears.
A vocal scale made smooth
by the synthesizer, equalizer
(humanizer).
An actor feels no butterflies
when he appears on the inside
of the idiot box,
he's no cracker jack.
Legs are not broken on blue-ray
slipped discs, but no risks.
It's bare (bones) entertainment.
Pictures say many things, it's said
about what is no longer true
they cut a slice of time, etched
on mirrored paper.
Once around
the fire, stories were told
yarns knitted
and lore was learned.
This was way before the plague
of plagiarism, words were invented
and tailored to suit.
Reproduce en mass,
a photo, a note, striking a chord
a player piano
knows your tune
pre-recorded originality
plays on repeated loops
serenading us
out of our own mortality.

“Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.”

-Virginia Woolf

Image By New York : Broadway Music Corp., publisher. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, sheet music cover. 

If (Then)

Then it happened to you,
then you knew it too,
then came the little white lies,
then the hate began abating.

Then you decided who is slave and master
then as a victim under wrath of disaster
then the words were the same
then the expected was spoken
then gather the fools
who brandish their philosophy with blunt tools.

If you rely on random winnings,
the future is a loss, a simple toss
of chance, dicey beginnings
are a safer bet, planning for loss
is real, skin and bones, muscles and sinew.

If ever you feel all hope is gone-
If you
manage to keep holding on,
remaining strong in each individual virtue
you
define for yourself, yet don't be too harsh much.
Each second of every minute
is your life, not a race, do not run.
Then if only you can forgive me for all I didn't
and did give you, my only son.

Image of Rudyard Kipling by Elliott & Fry [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The above poem was an exercise in composing a poem utilizing the same last words of each line (feet) from another poem. For this poem, I used Rudyard Kipling's very famous poem “If”.

The fork of desire

Primal hunger pangs taunt
and flaunt past senses.
Penetrating dimensions,
the jaw clenches.
Unrelenting thirst
pinched cheeks; pursing lips
cracked and trembling.
Pining for a sharp tool-
as an axe would wield
extracting the will.
Determined to fulfill
and sate the craving
unabating, excruciating
gnaw and growl
at a plate that is full
and still that dull
pull for more.
All mine-
stuck on the tine
pierced and tenderized,
penetrating and salivating
at the carnal need,
an insatiable greed.
Ravenous utensil by design
the heart, glutted and gored
a small spade, an aspiring apparatus
an ideal instrument of implementing
a stab through the chest.

Delighted and possessed,
past deprived, I digest-
admiring the architecture
of the fiercely savage fork.


Image of cannibal fork from the Bishop Museum in Honolulu, HI by Ergosum88.

An Ode to Ge (Geode)

Just a rock
not smooth but rough
around the non edges of
its intrinsic spheric
nature, structure.

No pebble-but a rock-
that can be concealed in a fist,
hiding inside;
taunting in the turtles way,
tucking, sucking inside
its plated prehistoric shell.

But you can feel this fragment
disintegrate, perish and dissolve;
volcanic cryptocrystalline quartz,
sprinkling its sedimentary exterior
unsentimentaly and silty in my hand.

A rock is a terrestrial fragment made from
dust and sand, compressed and forged,
carrying and holding its inert unstable state,
and insignificant weight,
posing inanimate and dormant.

Lightly, lacking meat in the middle
empty unlike the turtle, hollow,
wallowing in carbonate bubbles.

Listen-inside
as agate bands,
jasper whispers,
and amethysts get kissed...
Stacking up of crystal spears
on corroding foundations;
earth from the inside out.

This little lava rock
life forgets, brushes aside
unless something special is hiding
inside. We, tools, crack
down the middle
to see the little
beauty, chaos, surprise
Lies
inside
a lone little
living stone.



Image from Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain. Pictured interior of amethyst geode.

Emancipation of empathy

The father leaves
the delivery room
unable to wrap his grey brain
around her bloody pain.
The mother knows now
she is alone,
responsible for their survival.

The baby opossum,
smiling and listless,
lays still blinking away flies
from his glassy black eyes.
Rejected by his mother,
he dies alone
in the fresh cut grass.

A mother sits with her grown son,
worry lines her face connecting
the years between them.
Pain wrenches his body,
suffering they endure it side by side;
one will live,
one will die.

Salvation is a single passenger of deliverance
traveling through the tortuous view
arriving as a vicarious vacancy
forgetting and letting the suffering go,
anothers pain, one and the same.


Image By Correggio (Antonio Allegri) (Italy, Parma, circa 1489-1534) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.