A cool breeze hits a sweaty brow

Too busy to look up
tethered with tension
down my leaden limbs
tiny things gathered
and amassed
yet-so easily dissipated, blown away

Here, first, things first-
someone's last chance
blows by
why
ask
any-
more
?


Painting by Jean-François Millet [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Loch Smith

Before sunrise on this particular morning
I came to see-
quite unmistakably-
right in front of me
a gaping fallstreak hole
hanging wide open, saying high.

The cat and I,
our curiosity got the best of us
and I suppose
I teetered too close to the edges
which tend to be
slippery slopes of padded History-
also called Epiphanies-
and well,
I fell in or out of sorts,
tumbling through a tunnel
my vision blurred briefly-
white.
We can see-

the mountains lining the dappled plain,
the plane piercing the wall of clouds
intermittent keyholes
blink like red EXIT signs in bright blue blips
appearing further away than they seem-

And although it may all appear
as this lucid dream at dawn
-since the hole has long closed-
I was simply unable to resist peeking out,
fell up, skipped in and
if you've wondered where I have been
before the first light.


Photo By Kittelschürze (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons

Simple sunset sought

This is not life-it is living
hot for a time
wet for a while
until salt only remains...

the ocean swallows us
wholeheartedly we wait at
her ledge at sundown
remixing our urge to merge

in gold lights flecks flicker
a flame bathed in warmth
dazzling its prisms by hint
of change for photophores


Photo credit: By United States Navy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sea pansy

As though it were a secret
not sacred-Life-as we know-
the hen and the egg,
brood and crew who hold,
the container or contained, which is
the moving mover, and divine bringer
trinity minus unity in duality
is our singularity, or DNA say
phosphorus or essence
expressed in bioluminescence
appears as blue because it is
alive on the surface,
It is obvious hope floats
after the sun has sunk in.




 Painting by By Franz Arthur Bischoff (American Eagle Fine Arts, Benicia, California) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Totem poll

The final straw of September twenty-
ninths slit of smirking Black Moon-
the Indians have hung onto summer
with the same tenacity as their water dances
around the fire-I feel-
too long, feathered, and hot.
Sweltering shaded shelters there are none,
and I am white, weak and wrong,
along native latitudinal lines
not strong enough to weather
this Fall-
the pressure is too high to let go.

It makes me want to tear off my clothes
and immerse this blue skin in the sixty-three degrees
Pacific ocean
pacific specifically
calm
cool
collected.
................
September is succumbing to
October who strikes us sober.
Chill.
Breaths like poetry help acclimate me
in worlds like Autumn.





By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Luciferins

Burst babies
thought Up
by condensed concentration
Stardust dynamo
make more meaning
while you're Out there
Gold has become worthless...

What will we inherit
or will we let it rest,
and settle Down
under pressure
pushing and pulling at the same time
is nothing,
stretching and squeezing time,
we do this,
pliably trapped inside a movement

We float-we spin-we suspend
judgement-no-Light-
weight-less
we wait until it works out

a match made in phosphorescent phantasie
we are dynamic
charismatic we create
we panic
knowing
THIS


Artwork by Mihály Zichy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Absorbing Autumn

Is it morbid to smell October
under Septembers fallen leaves,
dripping eaves?

I prefer not to be buried-thank you-
but I admit, it reminds me of a familiar place,
the earth Rising
and all...

Whereas when you see the sky
Falling
all over the place and filling in
with charcoal over blue with hefty white-
for contrast-
at last,
Relief.

Is it autumnal to wonder-
would it be better to biodegrade
or evaporate?

I am happiest under rain
when the leaves are crimson.



J. M. W. Turner [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
"Rain, Steam and Speed - The Great Western Railway; the painting depicts an early locomotive of the Great Western Railway crossing the River Thames on Brunel's recently completed Maidenhead Railway Bridge.The painting is also credited for allowing a glimpse of the Romantic strife within Turner and his contemporaries over the issue of the technological advancement during the Industrial Revolution"

To Those Who Prose-

It is best to stay away from prose-
you may squint-if so inclined

It takes a few words to get to the heart
blame the onion

O how it makes many squirm
to live like a libertine-openly

If you must, take a deep breath
before diving in-
the wind is strong-

if you catch my drift

umbrellas are for sissy's

It is how proper prose
becomes-to sharp to handle,
inverted, in brief
                   
                    taking side-steps
where precise ought to be...

It is useful to let your mind wander
alone.



Image of painting:  'At the Writing Table' National Gallery of Art-American 18th Century (1790) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Astir (Haiku)

Before the first rain

the Poets all woke and spoke

of their sense of smell

Painting by Apollinary Vasnetsov [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bountiful ball

The harvest moon is up
and my stomach does not growl.
There is churning in the earth,
the reaper is due-

But none look when he arrives.

There is the usual warm glow
where a sinister mood once brewed.

Alas, there is no warmth or desire-
I am no longer hungry.
The moon goes on along
shining orange and strong...

at least the grass is getting greener.

Stress test

Can you tell it's right if you hold it up to the light?
Do you know if it is better than good
if it can be completely understood?
Is it the ideal size-target market wise?
Does it truly sound like all the others that abound?
Is it flammable, is it like the animal
in us-
indigenous?
Is it harmonious or relevant, erroneous and malevolent?
Does it make you dance in some clandestine way
Does it have something significant to say?
Then-
is it worthy
to be called poetry?



Painting by Marie Spartali Stillman, Love Sonnets (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Silent H

If I tried to hide something from you,

would you know?

Would you become suspicious,

or let it go?

If I no longer listened to your voice-

don't you think it would be by choice?

If I argued with everything you said,

wouldn't this make our conversations dead?

If I began sneaking around,

would you begin peaking around?

If I were stockpiling and recycling secrets-

would it whet your whistle to relax your own rules-

Let's

pretend we are still fools...

If I keep playing the oblivious game,

would you keep dealing villainous blame

Excuses?

Nothing is fair in love and truces;

someone's got to give

and someone's going to live

Honestly.

Painting by Delphin Enjolras [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Half-wit Habitat

They came to me too,
just like you, the birds and the water,
serenity instead of sheep.

Yet the insistent migration,
predictably precisely on
Time,
became
beyond mesmerising.

Understanding holding your breath,
sonar is like sleep talk, let me translate,
Chosen few.

Including the enduring frigate flyer
over vast continents of saltwater-
suspended
with nary a place to land and nest.

A rare sight does not make it fantasy,
pteridactyls still soar
for weeks and weakly
catch flying fish in the skyway,
Survivor skills.

Flocks and pods abound,
we in the middle-straddled here
gasping for air, too bloated to fly
and in one eye,
masterminds
one half at a time.
Meanwhile, we Sleep
grazing.




Painting by François Boucher, Arion on the dolphin, (1748) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Plan B

All had gone according to Plan-It was confirmed.
Who made the Plan?
The one with the most Experience.
If they were experienced, why make a plan?
Things don't always go-
according to Plan,
even if it has been done (before).
Is this a new ending?
It is only the beginning.
We must Start over.
In the end...
(pursuant).


Drawing By John Bunyan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Full Title: A Plan of the Road From the City of Destruction to the Celestial City, Adapted to The Pilgrim's Progress, 1821.

Rhymes with Bucket

As an echo gargles the ells
Is that All
                 I've got
given it  _  All-
-pulled back, squint in-
        -tensed up-
Un-wound,
I begin to see specifically
out of line
drops
in
the bucket...
...
..
.
By the way: (I lost sight of mine
I, me-I, me, mine
and All those
hollow no's)

Enough is Enough
to go around
for each of us plus
it's All superfluous.

Half-full, half-baked,
half-witi-schism-
wrung wry
and completely empty I be,
sufficiently still sere here
unilaterally.


Image By FOTO:Fortepan — ID 92566:  Adományozó/Donor : Unknown. [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Land-locked (West verse-us East)

There was never a poem
not about we
There was no ocean
to be sensed
in the fog settling
pre-dawn
There could never be
beauty
without poetry
There is no way to say
we lived this way
without touching words today
looking brackish as they be.

There was never a poem not about we

There was no ocean to be sensed 

(in the fog settling pre-dawn)

There could never be beauty 

(without poetry)

There is no way to say 

(we lived this way)

without touching words (today)-

(looking) brackish as they be. 

Painting by Winslow Homer, Looking out to Sea (c. 1881) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Petty theft

It is inappropriate to boast about the broad, beautiful,
waxen new wrap around the money tree-
the broadening face sized lime leaves of the ivy...

because this is ordinary
and the evil trumpet dies down dispersing
crimson cornet flutes on the concrete too, liberally.

It is disturbing to think of the wasted ink, tendrils of creepers
tangled in lines suffocating acumen. And then, under the awning;
languid is the light with her stole of dull emeralds

It was just all right.



Image By (Photo) (c)2007 Derek Ramsey (Ram-Man) (Self-photographed) [GFDL 1.2 (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.

No need for alarm

At 5 am I have already lost it.
And though it is quiet
still never came...

I feel strong coming on
and blunt edges fading away,
the light is too heavy to lift...

I leave it be-
as though I could pause the suns rise
and unsee what lies today

Ahead of time and out of tune-
Too late
to say anything new...



Photo credit By kallerna (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Forthright

The T
with its crosshairs
feathered with aech
and too
are used as wings
in a word-Truth-
with you in the middle.
The angels arrow
hits the squinted bullseye,
stuck in a black hole lie.




Painting by Giovanni Baglione, The Divine Eros defeats the earthly Eros (c.1602), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sign language

Early,
I learned to yell with horses,
assert my stubborn will with weight
and quiet hands-
neigh.

Nay-
I remember not getting anywhere
faster than a cheetah, as
likewise, the robin flees before the race
we all jump the gun-alert and
early.

A wild child-yet unbroke
and the mustang duo, run like there is no
Lands End-
Let us pretend too,
hills only roll gently
circling round the plain...

Flowers sway and manes fly,
entangling tendrils and thrills-
with that type of wind
that blows her name-Gale
fast and hard.

I have found where thunder settles
down and grazes.

And did I ride bareback-
harness-less-Yes.
I confess,
I stole many horses
with my bare hands
rhetorically.

A bit and bridle, only
belong here,
reined in poetry
as this is memory
Now
ad Again.

I think of signs,
like lightening
and stalled horses
and understand
plain screams,
and freedom.


Photo By National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior. Katie Theule, photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Drought & doubt (Haiku)

Greening of the grass-
fruitless as the conifer,
ripe for a reason.



Photo By Rosendahl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Eve(ning) (Haiku)

Under bamboo ribs

the Fall; leaves expose yellow gold

slanted shadows lie.

Attributed to Kanō Eitoku (狩野永徳) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In other wor(l)ds (Haiku)

Sat-com: men build rockets
to penetrate atmosphere
beyond metaphor.


Photo By U.S. Air Force [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Color transfusion

September, said the sky
stirring the air into a bitter frenzy.
With tension
teeth bared, her clouds growl while
making steel eyes squint back
for clarity between greys.

A breath of earth seeking rain.

Pastels all put away,
slate carries excess white,
backing black and blue up-
on sun less days.
The sky fell into our lap,
sobbing at her reflection.

Autumn yellow goes red
where the seasons bled
(out).




Painting by Johan Christian Dahl [Public domain], Cloud Study over flat landscape (1837) via Wikimedia Commons.

Rememberance

I see myself
in the thicket-as a little girl
with a gleam in her eye
and beat in her step...

She skips along the wooden planks
deep inside the Olympic rainforest-
well ahead of the rest.

She hums
and notices her small feet-
Left...
Left...
Left-                 Right-
Left-
(and nothing but gingerbread left...)

Sing the Song, they pled,
their wise eyes smiling wide
and iron-shod feet shuffling
a long...

"'Twas in Yokohama,
I met this-black mamba-"

No, no, no-Not wrong!
use the words I taught you,
my grandfather groaned.

"'Twas in Yokohama, I met this hot mama
selling radishes, octopus, 
rice and dried squid..."

What was her name,
the other old GI Joe requested-

"Her name was Suzuki,
she was a sharp looking cookie
and she was built like
Brick Chicken House!"

The old men giggled gaily
at the little memory
of their recondite life, that day they
Left the wife
lost in translation
under tropical reverie
the next generation, skipping
a long...

"Chick-a-dee, chik-a-doo
chick-ah-ku, chikaku"



Photo By Unknown or not provided (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Conifer seedling arising from charred Timberland (post clear cut) Olympic National Timberland.

Lackluster

You will know
                           by the light
and somehow     confidence flickers...

They all said This-let the light
guide you
Briskly.

It is just
when the winds pick-up
and the leaves begin to dance
                                       a show
of envy-
in longing for the limelight
Strewn
and Plain.
Watch and listen,
                            while the scenery changes.
Tears beget laughter-
                                  save your breath,
you will need to hold it
                                   yourself.
Without a word-

Do not seek
just go.

It is near.




Painting by Shigeru Aoki (青木繁) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Looking up (Haiku)

I had known flowers

intimately before now

noticing the trees

Painting by Bertha Wegmann [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Penumbra

shafts of shadow shrink
silhouetted slants shut
downward dimming,
the greedy gleam absorbs
its shade overbearing obfuscation
mimicking migraines on maps...
veins strained, pupils peel back
in drumming dilation-
the ground groans
under the wait
of light.




Painting By George Elbert Burr (Herbert F. Johnson Museum of Art) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Twenty-six characters

Have I repeated myself?
            Yes, to excess.
If it is any consolation,
that too
            has been done.
And if this were a real poem-
            it would be a brush painted kanji-
symbolically inexplicable
            by its symbiotic smooth strokes.
It is flow.

So seriously, let us not pretend
            emphasis-a stress-is an echo-as an anaphora
Although,
            the lines look the same,
they are not along the same lines
bound by words
imitating poetry
that is never new-
but you knew This
I have painted it before.



Image from decalrocket.com

Rage is rabid

Rage is the creature with fangs
that cannot conceal those points
And snarls soft lips to show
not all poetry is Pleasant-but Passionate

And acute or cuspidate,
sparks spit fire from its place
that abstains mutation,
that ignites others-enflamed.

Insolence-I've heard its
verbal lashings, intentional trashing-
yet always with a lisp
as a magnanimous sycophant.



1st Pub.d 9/2/16.

Painting by Edvard Munch, Vampire, 1895 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

No Vacancy

I can no longer afford to submit-
this is why I Quit.
Does that mean I've given up?
I could not stop if I tried-
ok, I lied...
You see, these fees have broken
my wishbone.
I suppose I could try to borrow-
until tomorrow,
but I'd still be short the change
in dignity
Please do no take pity, I plead-
I have none left...
So, I have forsaken all
charitable contributions to self
I am finished offering solutions
of contentment
and reason-
there are more than enough
poetic substitutions and literary institutions
with closed doors to open minds and empty pockets-
except(ing) donations.



1st Pub.d 9/2/16.

Painting by By Anna Lea Merritt (1844‑1930) (Art Renewal Center) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Joy of Aging

Bubbles should be saved

for old age

after we have learned about 

Physics and seen many 

circles in life

when we have learned 

what Hope tends to do

when it hits matter

It would be something

to look up to.

Image By Brocken Inaglory (Own work Transferred from en.wikipedia) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Blue earth, Red sun

Earth will end on a Sunday.

The sun will have had its best days behind...

The moon, long retired, makes wax figurines.

So we are all stars.

Nothing disappears without direction,

even inside itself.

Concentrate.

The ethereal essence is growing without us.

Earth, like a sponge, porous

we take it all in until full

dripping with light.

And just like deja vu, we knew

Earth will end on a Sunday.

Drawing (pen, ink, graphite) by William Blake [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. The great red dragon and the woman clothed with the sun.

Sleeping suburbia

Suburban street night lights

show collarless cats on the dusky prowl

for others and Friday night laughter, squeals,

leak out over the rooftops.

Venus loosens her belt

of lavender lingerie.

It is called, Good Evening.

A front door closes, somewhere

down the block-moan and thud,

then a dog speaks up,

in protest or jest.

Kerrr-clunK, kerrr-clunK,

rolls a skateboard by my

bedroom window where my

bed is against the window.

I see a silhouette where

the belly of the open rose

is quietly collecting dew.

Beauty sleeping bloom.

Cast in the far corner

on my white walls, the moon-

light speaks, near the door

-Beckoning-

for more room fortnight.

Photo Unknown (not given) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Speed wobbles

Racing past

one gets the landscape

by an Impression-ist wrist

At the window, the color box spilt

noting the puffs on the palette

pushing by, running in streams

the mouth waters, dipping brushes, the tongue wiggles

if I could reach out, put my hand in

this water colored river, grasping

gasping for shape, I'd find only

orange

I’m afraid

to hold, still life

that poses as natural

representations of still-yet this is also

dead and buried plaster in acrylic

and the fiber bleeds, canvas cracks

like us, as personal whims

which color where

wafting pass a blended note

complimentary, nice to the eye

you catch mid-air, a mood, a tone

holding it there, while it is thrust forward

continuously, ever

taking souvenirs

wherever you go, grabbing

blades in the wind

at the expanse,

taking it all together

in-

distinct

as rain on glass

racing past.

Image by Georges Seurat, 1882 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pivot point: 11/1919

          

            ∞

Eclipsing theories it occurred Earthly,

by a twinkling of doubt-

might light penetrate that too?

Witnessed few-by degrees

scales of truth, by fractions-

a test, a hypothesis to rest

a wish we may, a wish we might

see if Einstein was right that daynight.

             ∞

Bending starlight towards the artists eyes

the heavy lenses have been adjusted.

Ephemeral epiphanies, yes these

have energy, fields that carry

to open spaces, finds minds,

where dark-grey-is shady mass

is recognized in its likeness, eye to eye

in poetry. Compression.

              ∞

Encompasses only Here

the ever widening, infinitely expanding

dynamic astrological points

of view, growing still

under the weak weight

of the world by volume,

softened by moving the arc light

finding its center.

Image credit By NASA on The Commons (Apollo 12 view of Solar Eclipse) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Nightvision

Silver sliver slit of moon

acts archaic atop adorned academies, antiquity

of old ordained, ornate, obstinate, and now obtuse

proclivities, profusely posing purporting professorship,

impelled into impervious impatient improprieties.

Notions by night, nearly now, it's too near novice to notice.

We will wait while the world wakes wearily,

today, teach the truth, telling tales, trusting stories to-

gether, gathering, groaning, gaining girth and gravity as we go

up right, up-tight, up early, up-side-down, unnoticed, in parity, and undulate.

Caught, covered by coal clouds carpeting the charisma

blue-black-blinking-bringing-back

wisps of white words which purple pink

disappear during daylight,

alone little line left

hanging on the hazy horizon, humidity hovers heavily

upon us.

Image By Long, William J. (William Joseph), 1867-1952 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Graphing exponential poetry

Poetry is a verb, actually

like making math.

Word problems are like poems-

not the answers,

that would be equating

sentences with results,

or pseudo-solutions

as situationally contingent

on truth, theoretically philosophy.

Those theorems,

like theories (of everything)

contain figurative

symbols to represent

flatly for us

a two-dimensional space, so we can grasp

a ratio reliant deeply

on equivalent symmetry

or isonomy

for all,

unequivocally.

Arithmetically synonymous

to finding n

with figuring out

the answers-sans numerals

by visualizing potential

probabilities

physic-all-

y

testing x

:for scalability

and (un)limited (un) confidential correspondence

or N/A on

.

Image By Joshi1983 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Description: English: Volumetric visualization of a fractal function f(x,y,z) where the cut of z=0 graphs the Mandelbrot fractal and the cut of z=1 graphs the Juliaset fractal. The final iteration counts were mapped to opacity levels and colours. The shadow effect is made by tracing rays back to a vanishing point and using the opacity level along the traced ray to determine how well lit each point should be.

Knocked-up

The propagation of our species

is analogous to the activity in the LHC.

You see,

an Adam thrusting through the dark tube

on the Eve of infinitesimal exploration,

leaves a trace (of some Thing).

It happens,

plottable and expiated, it could be done.

Two come together, indelibly scribed. Trinity or Unity.

Isolated in Chronotope,

making love in concaves

and shattering parts of the hole.

Smashing and grabbing at mortality

x times y we try to replicate.

Positively propelled into new states

that gyrate around an unstable nuclei,

the family, in particular combination.

Metamorphosis and catharsis,

a process, or detonation.

Another explosion of selfsame stuff-

making matter most notably, arrayed-

                      contradictory to the dynamic display.  

Image of painting by Chemical Heritage Foundation [Public domain or CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.