The predator on top of his prey

They became civilized
after many ages
and stages of refinement.
They wanted to live longer,
a race with no finish line.
They practiced,
they failed much, succeeded few.
They fought and resisted
they conceded and persisted.
They started
by removing death threats,
like hunger
and

exposure

They experimented
with potions and rhetoric.
They bottled magic
and peddled poisons,
to live
more
and they did.

They lived so long
they forgot their youth,
they jumped to the end,
decrepit at the start
with nothing to grow on.

They followed tradition,
it led them along.
Their bodies decay from security,
hearts get bored with emotion,
their mind aches,
blinded by the reflection.
They never should have lived
this long
this way-
which is why
they prey
on weakness
to make
go away
They
will
be done.
All men.




Image by Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/1498–1543) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

All that you cannot Here

The moment had arrived.
The time was Now.
Eyes squeeze closed,
the trigger was pulled,
the knife broke flesh,
the man awoke in a sweat.
The young woman paces, patting her baby's back,
the baby hurts, nobody knows why.
The homeless one eats steaming bread in the alley smiling,
the dog barks rapidly in anxious fear,
the tiny kitten shivers, hungry and heavy
the car impacts the tree, the glass rains,
the deer scatter,
the mountain lion yawns and stretches out,
the owl daydreams.
The fish choke on fumes,
the bees swarm the carcass,
the malaria army invades the ghost town.
The business man carries confidence in his briefcase, clearly leaking vodka,
the roof leaks into buckets of song.
The sky clears in deaf innately.
The mist makes prisms disband.
The humpbacks pick up the chorus,
the child in pigtails plucks a wild daisy,
the birds steal bloody berries.
The King holds the little prince's hand,
the boy buffs a rock on his shirt for his slingshot,
the hikers reach the mountaintop before the echo,
the historic house collapses,
the family laughs to tears,
the old woman shivers, closing the blinds on her last day.
The man and woman embrace each other.
Eyes fall closed tightly loving
all ways and for ever,
Now,
a quiescence,
a soundlessness found,
any given Time
we are Here to list in.




Image by Anders Zorn, The Embrace c. 1882-83 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Building the Doozer Adobe Dome

Ground has been broken.
It is coming along with callused hands,
bloody knuckles, slimy elbows
and the shoulders
of Atlas.
                                                                Making progress?
Making is a process,
even when done
this way before-
there is a rhythm
in the rhyme.
                                                                To each his own to find.
The ones near the top
are fools gold
bodies that steal the sun.
                                                                You'll need to dig deeper.
When it all caves in
you can hear a faint echo
where labor lost love.
And as you go down,
ear to the earth, grumbles;
but from above, glistening.
Erecting glass towers,
prisms with poise,
                                                                one stone away
                                                                from crystallography.
Yes, we may get buried
                                                                over.
Yet, we must continue
on schedule,
with slotted setbacks
                                                                spaced out.
Rock.              Water.                Bone.
Not to worry,
it all comes out right
when done.
Once all fine points                                 (grains)
                                                                              are settled,
resistance quelled,
the dirt goes back
right
where it flows
best,
                                                                 in order
to rest in peace,
on this sight                                              we will make
it
on
Time.





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

Ritually Custom

'Tis a sensuous tribute to Time

that we caress the Moment,

knowing it curves and gestures

that sink into warm familiar coves,

sucking in all its nectar

as newly brewed.

Again, more, and a gain!

Let us do the steps-

in orderly,

walk with me, mirroring see,

strut through it

then and again

like it is your old house.

Right now, 

exactly like it was

when you remembered what

you came here for.

Tho never was it

the same, all most

re-placed.

Like last Time

bittersweet lingers not long 

enough.

Like seasons and seconds,

more tradition and Time

to do the same.

Plump predictions and ripe fruitions

bursting with Now

smelling like Then

we recognize This

time

as the Rite Time

to harvest

a gain.

Image By Mennonite Church USA Archives (1975 St Catherines Tradition Poster) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Solstice(s)

If the day feels short-

it is because

I skimmed some

off the top

for myself alone-

greedily, while nobody notices

what was never there

to miss.

When the hours stretch

their elastic arms

into

for ever-

ask for seconds

while time

is free.

Image by By Matzei, Winter Solstice 12/2011 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Devil in the Details-From Notes Taken (Haiku)

the moon set on an
idea, and the wind blew
off the words: (List-in).
















Image by By Galileo moon phases [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

a Peace of Christmas morning

Christmas morning,
nearing six,
the moon just retired.
Curled on the corner of the couch,
under the copper lamp light,
books piled on the left arm,
Smokey is nestled on my right,
between outstretched toes,
pads touching mine,
his heavy head propped on my
soul, with a deep sigh,
i am alone
writing
in front of the Christmas tree,
whose moments are numbered-
alee, the chimes try to carol outside
a pine candle cheerfully flickers,
heavy breaths are carried down the hall...
and I remember
how many books I've read this year
and the fathoms I've learned
beyond measure.
I am
more aware-
of myself.
I am getting somewhere-
besides the moral of the story
or simply The End.
I have found peace
and puzzled in pleasure
over moments
with words as pieces,
like these,
gathering beloved dearly
to day.





Image By Lars Jacob for Ristesson [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Reading while waiting the world turns the page

The boy, who is 17, is dragging

a rolling backpack and wearing a red beanie

which covers his sensitive ears that purposefully cusp

thick rectangle glasses held by a strap around the back.

It is Friday, before the Winter break at the local highschool.

I was told the school brought snow to the quad-

and it is sunny, 70 degrees and the ocean is silver on the skyline.

It must not be real snow.

The boy, who is not soon to be a man,

wears running pants, is pigeon toed and shuffles on the sidewalk

sideways as fast as he can drag his backpack and hunched frame along.

He is covered in puffy white foam,

his arms, his butt, his back, like he just jumped out

of the bath, but is trying to get out of himself.

Marching off beat, planting crowded feet down the sidewalk, stomping

I hear-faintly-people scream, Zachary, Zachary, come back here! Zack-get back-

She is late, she is late she's LATE! is all he says

Over and over he chants while rocking himself righteous.

The uniformed school guard is now on his walkie, beeping, Over,

while he smiles wide at him, offering him a treat, but he does not bite

into candy from strangers.

Others come running and reprimanding,

fingers drawn, arms cocked.

She's late, she's late, she's never supposed to be this late!

He flings his words at them,

soaps flies like spit.

He is cursing at her in his way.

But how could she know that there was no snow

They lied, he’ll say.

which is why he was early today

but she was probably going to be late anyway. 

Composed 12/19/15.

Image credit By U.S. Air Force photo/Ken Wright/Released [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

My lips are sealed

Because I liked to kiss the boys,
you used to say.
And from what he saw,
that sounds true.
Lack of will power, I say
don't deny when desire strikes.
No, they did not push my button,
or make it near my neck.
And it wouldn't matter who
happened to be throwing their meat
at me, pelvis, chest, seeking breasts.
Hot syrup breath and drizzling skin,
I'd be right there,
half naked myself, ripe peachy skin
swollen lips and wild half
closed black eyes, my body swinging
to feel itself touch outside.

This is how I know hypnotists are real,
and trances, a quarter a twenty due
to inflation, like the facts, you see.
Those musicians that are reckless
with their radio rape and power
over women, tossing bass under lusty lines
that speak to somewhere primitive.
Women respond in a certain throbbing way
under disco lights cast in dank dungeons.
A charmer and his pungi,
the venom has been imbibed.

Because I like to kiss the boys, he said
which may be true but sounds like conceit
when I profess it was they who kissed me
first. But he wouldn't dance
(too left deceit)
so he could never completely see
if I kissed them back
and I wish
I never did.





Image By UPI (eBay) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Rock Hudson & Julie Andrews 1968 film, Darling Lily.

Right as Rain

Most of us know by now

a lie when offered one.

Sometimes we pretend its shiny

and something marvelously new,

like 'you look beautiful today'.

Well, I'm no idiom, 

but if little white ones cause no pain

a lie can feel good and right as rain.

Since Christmas is coming I have stocked up on pine candles

They all said it was dead.
The marks were obvious signs. The color,
bad news. Nothing could be done.
We knew after consulting with the experts
the day was coming,
but it was out there somewhere, solid and waiting,
until that day became today.

Needles glistened red in the sunrise,
the birds stayed away,
yesterday there were thirty crows
don't tell me a bird brains don't know.

Sure its pusy sap has made a mess,
parking under there a last resort,
but the smell and shade worth the week-
ends raking, complaining, venting,
and meditating on the smells.

The gang was all there prepared
to greet its last day the moment it broke,
move it or lose it, officially tagged
no parking here today.

Neighbors gather around like vultures
just outside the attack lines, the cone zone
pacing, bleary eyed.
And some have wheelbarrows
to take pieces of the carcass for themselves.

The orange man in the boom box
bobs and weaves while he makes
his perfect cuts with moving precision.
A chef on deck asea.

They are operating ruthlessly as I write this,
my son still asleep under its bossom soon
mastectomized. The windows are behind
plywood, in case a limb fights back.

Our mailboxes are gone for the day
Christmas is on its way, deliveries delayed.
This is no time for merry anyway.

Fifty feet tall and forty years of giving breath,
gone in a days work of slaughter and toil.

The crane in the sky screeches
as it chokes off major arteries
as a support staff of the savage surgery.

We were hoping for some empathy,
gloves instead is what we get, a slab for the back,
a souvenir, they said.

I'm hunkered down, don't want to look,
honestly I've never had one this big die on me.
I didn't know my breath would be taken instantly,
from piney oxygen deprivation.

When there's a hole, an empty space
in my skyline, I'll know
those mounds, like shallow graves
will mark the place of a time
where a perfect pine used to grow,
one that I called mine,
and the gnomes called home.



*If you have not read already, Before this Pine is Done was composed in tribute to this same deceased tree now resting in heaps.

Top image credit: By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Do you have the time? (Haiku)

Did you know the world 

was going to end? Ours? Yes, look

into the mirror.

Image By AlfvanBeem, Prague Astronomical Clock (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two Together we Gather

Words arrived when we needed them
to see and say, plea and agree, demanding consistency.

Women sought with their eyes, wide in panorama;

Men relied on touch, sensing these were what feelings felt like.

Fire forged us from animals into sentient shapes.

Sharing knowledge and words, we found each other, 
warm and understanding, under what we stand for.

They will hunt for us, they will gather for us, we will dwell 

Together. To gather round

the fire, together around the light of desire, gathering aglow, 
or rathering not to know what It is 
It defines Us, We Are verbs, an assemblage, a clan, we plan, 
dream of Time, live in the past.

To bring, to arrive, going and going to go.
To gather, to collect, to pick up, two scoop, too yield, to concede, two agree to a degree, too cull, to sort by inference and deduction,

lighter, an objective gathering.

Just sew, we make something new

pucker up, drawn in to each other, folded over and plaited, 
by book and by sea on a fellow ship.

Elementary applications, melting sand transparently, forging steel inherently buried in itself, gleaning with muster,

the speed in which it grows, a group, a gainsay, a mish-mash, an array of We

These and agrees, those oppose those,
Clarity, Consistency and Redundancy 
was never so necessary or honored 
in collective perspective: soundsthesame “WeareOnelappingoverWearenOnestrongertogetherareWenot”

The power of We

                       over the One

Is the difference of disbursement over displacement, 
laying it out, spread thin, barely enough to go a round and around a gain.
This Time for you. This Time for me. We may or may not agree. 
We both name what we see as it is to be true, because we said so. 

This is what I’ve gathered so far.






Image By Mervyn Peake Glass Blowers Gathering (1943) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To set the record straight about that time I fell of the Horner Bridge

I really jumped.
My friends did not go before me.
I was alone, despite any rumors
I may have been pushed.
The ones that love me
hate the gossip.
They like to think I simply slipped,
like one of those slippery memories.
But I was nevertheless aware all the more
of exactly where I stood,
the risk was irrelevant then.

As in suspension bridges,
where there's stretch and taut,
breadth and span,
it contracts beneath
your soles and whimpers under pressure
when you listen in...
I was standing with my arms out there
wide, back arched, chin jutted out, nostrils open
eyes closed and toes clenched
when something said
the more you know 
the more you die inside a little,
so I thought I'd find the middle when
I lept.

Except I lived to tell
I did it, I meant to
land on my purpose
or fail.
Ending the suspense
finally, in this way.
They say falling
I add willfully,
blindly, unafraid
and as it relates to history,
I fell hard
and only for me.

Image By Charlesdrakew, North Stoke Suspension Bridge (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Looking (for a) Glass

I don't need to tell you,
you've already found it.
I don't know how, most people don't
look that hard.
I don't know if I'm happy you did-
which doesn't move me to change
places, here.

I don't mind being stashed
cached in the very dark back,
be-hind-sight
out of the light.
I don't take up too much space-
which is why I haven't been cast out
yet, I'm easy to forget, easy to lose
sight of.

I don't detract from the ones right
in front, pulled out, polished
and put back so pretty-
most often that's not me.

I'm not fine or porcelain, stamped or etched.
I'm not clear but clouded with a chip
where you're likely to put your lip,
yet I still hold water and have dusty hope
built up that someone will reach over
the others for me.

Every time a door opens, I tremble.
I think they can see me too, like you
while I'm lying low, but no,
I'm just a back-up cup.
Overflow, you know when
extreme circumstances make
desperate measures, hot or cold
I will hold.

I don't want anyone else to see
all of these stains inside of me-
the ones you've already seen
and aren't afraid of making more
as you pull me up and take me out
-I pour-
wanting your bloody lips all the more.





Image by Aurélio de Figueiredo (1894) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Done with Do-nation

Dutifully unattached,
with nothing to hold onto
it is faith that floats
when nothing is left, you have done right.
Giving, to give, give it all away and pray,
my wish for you, my everything...
Be just, just keep what you have taken and leave me
alone since I have nothing of value
any more than I will be...
All that I could get, I tried to do for you...
To give, to want the best soley for you,
all that I do it was-
I shouldn't say it
in this way,
but I'm lost and cannot find
the kind
the need...
High and low I looked, sought, and fought
for more, yet there seems to be
none left in store
of what I have no more of
like love,
there's nothing more above,
I've given out more than I had,
none for me but I now can see
from looking down on thee-
Life seems much lighter when your empty.





Image of painting by Edmund Leighton (1895) The Chairty of St. Elizabeth of Hungary [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elementary and Primary

Basically,

these three things;

(by) Blood, (by) Air, and (by) Sea

and their causation with us

we are able feel inertia
in these,from these
most elementary, learn of

likeness, of course-ness, like us, 

matching a certain momentum, 

catching Time in between any of these

molecular miracles, mimicking 

all that we are (not) and more

that we may bear witness

as Being

as Blue

And though, it may seem true, 

temporarily

but truly, beneath all three,

as deep as one could show,

I know and have long said

I would paint them red instead.

Call me color-blind

and paint me white

whatever you do

don't say,

I shouldn't be blue.

Image of painting by József Rippl-Rónai [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

An Affair with the Start

I try not to deny

there are others

who like me

who relish

the intimacy

of sunrise.

But every dark morning to myself

makes me think, over time,

for a few stolen moments

I exist in the world.

That dusky dawning sky sees me there

ruminating as I revel

in its wee hours

most others (dis)miss.

Sleep does not compare

to the sun's awakening;

peeling back the purple sheet,

lightening up

and stirring the ashy cirrus

lit only by our clandestine routine.

It is between us

that watch the sunset, 

contentedly,

winking when the green flash

sparks oohs and ahhhs,

sometimes

called inspiration 

in others.

Yet it tells me, with envy,

our tryst will continue

tomorrow

as soon as 

I rise

for our sub rosa occasion,
the best part of mourning
the day.

Image of painting By T.C. Steele, Sunrise (1847 - 1926) (American) (Artist, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Traffic at the Top of Privledge

It seems to be moving
                                   along quicker now.
I am not switching-indecisiveness
                                   is dangerous.
It's slow enough to look
                                   out the windows
and get a sense of where you are
and all that is out there.

Not where you are going,
                                   but passing through, some seem stalled-
but you're no expert.

That one exit is always jammed
                                   and the line continues to grow-
no matter what time.
They creep, and honk; impatient to arrive.
It does not make it faster
                                        and they act as if already too late
to gather any remaining free gifts, you keep what you reap
(and much more).

It will be nearly over when they arrive.

Everyone who invites themselves knows it
                                                                     is all in their honor.

The new King and Queen of Entitlement will be crowned!
Dunces of Deservitude!

I've never been invited, or dropped in on one of these
                                                                     formal functions
where some super special ones are showered with interest,
and accrue an air of finality and justice in their grandiloquence.

You have passed them.
They are driving their Destinies, exiting
into Karma town, talking on their iWant and
counting all the righteous people ahead of them.





Image by Marjory Collins, Traffic Jam 1943 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Kafkas Bee Stings

To go out on a limb
I dare test the weight
when I say, I understand Kafka this way;
It is not crazy to say there are Samsa's even today.

When I stand below 30 foot blades of grass,
called reeds,
when I brace the arch of my foot upon the burl
at the base of a redwood tree,
when I lean into the onshore wind, steady at 20 plus
while the ocean surges, spilling its seams

it does not unravel me

To know how small we may be
here and now, this and that
as is
can change
will
be-
come

When I see bricks and iron
trying to scrape the sky
I smile wide, and laugh
at our grand endeavors
so easily eroded
back into the dust of us
that never leaves
but collects and dulls,
and lingers in the light.

Now, to an insect, a mote may be a mountain,
and ant hill, the Andes;
one of those places we look up
and are showered in our deluge of naivete.
An innocence that washes away, sheds, refuses
its state, affixed with distorted perceptions
of name, place, size and domain, to roam and dwell.
While it is unnatural, deplorable to many,
to conceptualize that our taxonomy
doesn't belong with the birds.
None of us evolve as eminent as these.

That's what I believe Franz says
when he means, Gregor wakes from his dream,
hating honeyed honesty, preferring analogy
through entomology, so it would most simply seem
when explaining such reproductive things.




Image By Maria Sibylla Merian (1647-1717), Metamorphosis XXIII, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

You take the Wagon, I'll Walk

Call it a compulsion, some do.
A dependence, that's a little strong
for a need that's called a want.
Can't help it, I'm not in control,
something takes over me,
its always right there-I could...
and all these have me consumed.
Obsessed, I don't see it that way,
but others do, see signs, like theirs-
the jaw gives it away.

The blame game is fun too,
it must be that the jeans are too tight.
Sometimes breathing is the hardest thing to do.
If you try to quit, I know desperation, infatuation,
give you a raise you can't refuse.

Stimuli, it is called physiological.
Personality, is embedded, biological, maybe...
and might there be other habituals and rituals
toxic but not intoxicating-tolerance is discouraged.

I don't deny my own flesh and blood
has been sacrificed for my own cause.
It's my body, self-satisfaction and
distractions from your dutiful employment
as a clean-coming human whose sobriety
is always a right when given a choice of
life with poetry, its pain and withdrawal
or an existence without the possibility of significance.

Since its all in my head,
any-which-way,
and there's no shortage of excuses-
I will wrestle with these wily words,
wanting more, needing a fix, hating myself,
hiding and using, manipulating and placating
going broke, being ostracized and advised
until there is no more poetry left anywhere-
or I'll likely overdose on what I've said.





Image of painting by Arthur Nikutowski, The broken wagon, 1852 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Vestigial Flexing

With these tiny words
trickling over my skin,
these pithy lines I draw and scratch,
in my head from tucked deep in bed,
in broad strokes that spasm and spark-
streaking in wisps that leave light trails,
I am comforted and swaddled
by my brittle skin that knows these
are the strands that connect my spirit
to its terminal boundaries.
This is how I speak to me.
I say to hear, I think to find
the same self, tucked in amid
its ways of saying untranslatable
and delectable daunting poetry.

The heavy blanket protects me from
exposure- you cannot see more
than the shape of naked, the outline
is enough for some, sameness...
There is That, This is I, There, There.
I've found just
in another beating heart
that echoes
Thou art That-
Art Thou That?

I wonder, I think
it is warm around you too...
I must be closer to your world in words
or I am sleeping tight inside definitions
sweet dreams, where these words want me
passionately and privately
for their own subversive desires...
I listen intensely and densely rapt-
catching any waves of sound
that may keep me afloat, on the
shiny surface of sonorous daylight
hours, too conscious to care
any more to day.




Image of painting by Alexey Gavrilovich Venetsianov, Sleeping Girl, 1840 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A lone danger

The more I am
alone
the more time
I am alone,
alone, a-lone
a lone
one
I am
late, so late, elated, and finally full,
joyful, full of over-brimming bliss
an energy to explore, a desire to dive down
deeper and intimately drown in my senses,
swallowing all self whole.
I smile at leaving a gaping hole
where the eye
is spotted, leaving it beheaded and indebted
for the fruitful loss of self, rare in its abundance
we never say we like me this way today...
We re-cognitize, recognize our righteousness
doesn't come without cue
We have been wrong
pre-occupied
so long, a good bye, even now
I tremble,
still
a lone
euphoric
one,
only, once-ly
lately
lonely
wanting more
of less.



Image of painting by Paolo Veronese, Muse with a Lyre (c.1561), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Re-gifting: Oh, that old thing (I think I've had that)

When we do things
absent, mindlessly,

sometimes our former selves

sneak out, like this one, 

in this way;

when yesterday, I was wrapping presents

folding and creasing, pressing 

Scotch™ tape on the folds, I noticed
my own grandmother's hands

there-doing all the work,

while I just watched.

Bewildered. Behind.

This happens at the strangest

times...you may find yourself

triggered by a word

or the way we say-

that thing, that way, that

fires memory cannonballs...

And at certain times its a-scent,

an agreement of essence,

we remember thick as a waft.

Namely, a single note that carries a key

and pulls levers of attention coupled with

spinning axles, smooth and in place.

Our brain goes on, rolling with the ripples,

uninterrupted-until going nowhere in places

seeing both others past-you-go-and comes-and

brings you back here

not knowing how
it got there...

It is a gift of now, knowing.

Lost was the life

that went unnoticed by motion memory.

The set was changed, moved around

by your own history. Draped in black,
this mourning-

which is why we cannot deny we trip

over moved memories

that enclose the past

in my presents

while I am not looking,

sometimes I see

my forgotten family.

The order of things

Firsts and Lasts don't make

good companions, They don't know

Who goes, First or Last?

Image By The U.S. Army (Waiting to board, 11/2008) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Was Wishing & Wondering

Knowing you could lie

whenever

wherever you are

what would you say

which way

would you go

if I asked if you think

of me

ever

when away

which is always

when you know

I'm elsewhere too

I think of you

wondering, pondering,

thinking and sinking

stones in a well

sigh, oh well

I cannot tell

what it means on purpose

if I could taste

a stone from your land

would it taste like your cheek

on a warm-blooded day

since we share the sun

wherever

would you lie

with me?

Image By Agriculture And Stock Department, Publicity Branch [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To use when the bunny nose doesn't work

For once!
For me-
For a moment,
For sanity!
For inspiration,
For productivity,
For peace sake!
For a chance-
To have
two
minutes (are minute)...
For crying inside-
(not) To sound cute,
but (no) more interruptions
distractions, diversions,
meaning(less)ful conversations
are (not) welcome when(ever) the whim may
blow your way. You can(not) just pick  up my scent.
and pull me out of your hat when(ever) you
are feeling magical,
For five seconds
of fatuous fame.
I place no blame, but if it's all the same
To You, I have very important stuff
To Do!



Image by By Scott Rheam, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service of Black tailed jackrabbit (lepus californicus)  [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Currency of Time Well Spent

Wavering in want

is wallowing in wait

for something to happen

while the world goes on.

Toiling the time

is the devils presence

when you are wishing

you were

some

one

else

some

where

else

who

saw

You

As

who

you

are

Now

and said,

I've been looking for

You

I've finally found

You

-they'd say.

And I'd see,

no time was wasted,

no time like the present,

when the devil may care. 

Image of painting by Joseph-Désiré Court, 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To: November Re: Remember

Looking back cruelly on the carnage of the calendar-

First, on the day of the dead, let us give birth to new slates traced with prehistoric calcite...erasure.

Secondly, “writing is aid to memory-the sentence…” He said.

Third, Robots writing literature? No twitter bots. Love Letters from Eliza make me grumpy today.

Fourth, Truck didn’t start, need a new starter, makes sense, costs bucks (I don’t have).

Fifth, Close Doors. Open windows. Filtering the light. Breathe the sunshine.

Sixth. Days bleed, the trees drip, my well is going to dry up.

Seventhly- It’s a UFO! A meteor! We are not in control of this universe?! Nope, just the Navy.

Eighth. Washer thrown off kilter (by extra ‘h’), Alex, my repairman, is Russian!

Ninth. Rain. Slow drip. Watch sky, blame clouds for dimming prospects. Real is a cumulus. 

Tenth. Parents 30^th Anniversary… all there is, never after. Under Happily.

Eleventhly, missing grandpa, working with his words, at least we can talk there.

Twelfth, “By denying me the seas”, “By denying me the seas”, “By denying me the seas”

Thirteenth of Friday: City of Love Lost and Lights Out. Oh Paris! You have taught the world of love and heartbreak, you are all made stronger. Love trumps terror over time.

Fourteenth, yardwork, laundry, cooking, cleaning, redundancies, monotonies, shuffle the deck and pick a spade.

Fifteenth. Sunday comes with a warning- of a storm-that never comes. Nap, read await.

Sixteenth, hollow menace in heavy heaps of leaves, branches broken, dunes of needles roll with it.

Seventeenth. Synapses firing bullet points of philosophy and poetry. The dentist drills my daughter.

Eighteenth, Mom’s birthday, ecard, thanks. Unproductive avoidance, errands and cleaning.

Nineteenth, nose in book. Reading. Anything but writing.

Twenty ways of being Social. Sharing is caring and blaring about “selfie”, tasks of wearing masks, wearing the day away.

Twenty-one, Push, fold, draw, brush, sweep, stay; filling the green waste on  (re) cycle.

Twenty-second(s) of rest.

Twenty-third. Mundane Monday, a myriad of myopia.

Twenty-fourth-Army to feed, fill shopping cart for one meal? Making mess.

Twenty-fifth. Appointments, Turkey and Doctor, I get them confused.

Twenty six steps lead to couch, thankfully.

Twenty-seventh. Not working. Nothing’s working. Nobody’s at work.

Twenty-eight days in, November is losing nerve, no more noshing necessary.

Twenty-ninth. Frigidly forgetting. Left frozen and unchosen.

Thirty ways to say this was a November I will now remember, bite by bitter bite.

Image By copy (18th or 19th century) after Joachim von Sandrart (orig. 17th century) (http://www.hampel-auctions.com) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Der November.

2 Eyes 4 Beginners

I have known for a while
but feared looking
at the solid words
etched already,
I feel with my fingers,
it has already been years
since we lived
looking
together.




Image by Philip Hermogenes Calderon (1881) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.