Two sides

It is common to accuse the right or left lobe

for your logical or creative stumble,

when, in reality, these two dimensions of self,

the brain divided, may be called Past & Future,

or memory and planning.

People still get stuck.

The human skull does not seal the two sides

as one mind, until around age thirty.

Conveniently, it is also easy to divide

All people into two types;

Those that arrive early and those that are chronically late.

I will wait

until now comes

together.

♠

The frigate and dolphin sleep

one lobe at a time as they both traverse across

mirroring vast expanses of blue. 

‘Biologists’, we call them,

all conclude that They, the bird and the aquatic mammal

do not communicate in the same way,

Exactly.

Have you ever thought about someone you knew,

historically, and then

seen them somewhere

presently,

out of nowhere?

This is not called ‘coincidence',
It is pronounced eloquence. 

Photo of 'Bottlenose' By claudia14 [CC0 or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Roost her

Wake up, it said, Wake up, sharply

it snapped,

and it was still not in focus.

Rap, rap, rap, tapping, with the tip of the finger

slapping the face of the stoic timepiece.

Do you see-it pointed. I know-all I could muster out

by feeble lungs and tight lipped projections.

Don’t say I did not tell you so-it did not say

this time.

What have you been doing-the prod grew hotter-

All this time

On the other hand, a second time,

I remember planning.

That is not doing.

It is undoing and a voiding and be

holden-Too long, it melts or turns bad.

You never told me that, I told it.

You cannot let go so soon-
if you give up the only thing

that is yours, what will you be left with, 

it asks of me.

Generous, life has given and taken.
Will there be enough time to finish?

No. That was not the point of it all.

Didn’t you notice that endings are all the same,

it mused from the other side. 

It noticed the out lines, the greys, the bones and shade, similarly,

How can you sleep at such a time when dreams are dying off

at such a rapid rate like honey bees and polar bears.

How can you hide your head in plain daylight?

It was too bright and distracting to look up around,

garish and nightmarish, blinding.

Are they all zombies?

It is terrifying.

It is the same direction, to a point

out of focus
until it has been heard from inside. 

Artwork By Kalki (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Finger prints

Fingers fly across the keys as wings would

cut through cloud space,

wishing everyone was watching

this dialectical mastery in the dicing

of an apple pip up, cubed,

without drawing a drop

of blood.

Beads swell and dangle daunting disconnection

of liquid self, wrung inside out.

Friction finds itself most magnetic

just under the tips

tapped dry.

The raised ink stains the held note.

Painting by Giovanni Battista Naldini (c. 1563-65) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Magnetic fields

The air holds warmth in sealed packets

and ships them to living bodies

whom linger idyllically,

overdressed in gaudy allure,

pink jasmine sprays its lusty plumes

overhead the woven flower wreath

making this crown Joyous.

The mustard yellow fields are lit.

Local poppies have all stuck their spindly necks

out tall, above the scruff and common

gullible daisies.

Petals spark fields of amber glow, 

strong in orange and

merely mocking 

the white weak sun.

There was green hope all over the hills

-After All-

Winter wouldn’t stay fixated on grey

forever. Tasted the difference between 

yellow earth and blue sky-together

And It was good, 

And it was all green

left by the sugary dew

drawn to each other

in the new Spring atmosphere. 

Painting by Granville Redmond, Coastal wildflowers (1912), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Electra en route

The skydiver sits with legs dangling

over some hazy sepia city, where white boulders

are really single-family houses.

The words in the sky-

The only open space-

mention the management of

Trust and Risk.

From the profile

I recognize the Roman nose and swollen lower jaw,

puffed up bottom lip.

The head is tucked in a leather helmet or bonnet

and thick black gloves meant for big jobs such as 

holding on. The figure is slumped over, looks down.

I note how long it has been yet despite the gap 

easily identified as the Pioneer Amelia Earhart;

whose good fortune in men and time

required no planning of retirement,

whose fate turned ill at forty-one,

whose security was not welded to stocks or

bonded to breed,

whose figure seems compatible

in that alien atmosphere,

who was never buried

whose sealed lips, stony gaze,

Pause one to wonder what she sees

in the shadowtrees painted below,

does this sky have depth perception,

or recognize

the Miss Appropriation, the mixed media,

the teetering between jump and fall,

I tear out

the full page newspaper advertisement

and fold it back into a paper plane. 

"You haven't seen a tree until you have seen its shadow from the sky."-Amelia Earhart

Amelia Mary Earhart was born on July 24th in 1897, she disappeared in her plane Electra and was declared dead on January 5th, 1939. 

1st photo of Amelia and her husband George Putnam taken 1931, By International News Photos (eBay front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

2nd photo By San Diego Air & Space Museum Archives [No restrictions or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Incantation of Sprung

The ringing had to have been

the resistance of air in being dissected

with a rugged swung scythe.

A crude way to make matters worse.

Should we speak up

so breath can chime in and tune on its own
accord to T for truths, sinews,
or sing along so we know

where we were going
when it is over?

Souls dissipate most visibly
when the sun is a mere

ten degrees above the arc at the end of All

and they blush as they come
into vulgar exposure.

The vertiginous extension of body

feels its mineral composition,

just as the mountain has long since
gathered here and crumbled there

under the broom of wind and whistling.

The wait is the same atomic gravitas

so we make music on its shoulders,

conjuring notes we hope will

carry,
raining colors in a natural spring

Forward marching over the detritus
of the Others
calcified fragments, ground in silt and 
carried by such quick sand.

To hear and to be heard over the years

something so sharply.

Watercolor by Karl Bodmer (1836) Assinboin in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ahold of things

Floating on fingers

moments away from slipping or suffocating.

It is not safe yet, meaning has not been found.

There is much sleeping left, 

I am wet behind the ears.

The head feels the body catapulting and spinning 

on this solid mud earth.

Sinking in unsound.

The ringing of the ellipse, 

the thunder touched the letters as I type,

con-forming to thought.

What solace could be made 

with such furious fingers?

Latently the violence in man will awaken.

Grasping for notes and singeing the ends 

in godspeed.

Smoke fills in for music, dancing in swirls

It disappears with the keys.



Painting By Yamashita Shintarō (29 August 1881 to 11 April 1966) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Teach her

There was something of a

learning curve

that resembled the arc of an eyebrow

hoisted in intrigue

as though there were more connections

to be made, fine hairs to grow

to bring a-round

complete insight

from the pupils center.


Art by Alphonse Legros c. 1949 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Moving her lips

Distracted by a flicker, brutishly I burrowed

under the thickset arboreal pathway, forward through,

not needing a Virgil

Whereby, I found myself subdued and lowered

my angel body, knelt upon the gathering scrag,

with knees upon the well curb, my two soles

Watching my back, I feel the frosty shade

Safer now, I may close my shamed eyes

And I know why others have come too.

I reach right into my hip pocket,

making a tiny discomfit chime,

half-expecting the birds to flap.

I take out the three pennies

used for the i-Ching,

fingering the Nineteen eighty-four first,

it sits in the color of old adobe

streaked in rain grime.

I toss it into the blackness that is not

Empty nor dry

and I wait, waiting, listening, breathing,

hearing nothing...

The next one picks up the red in the sun and

glows facing its prospect of good conduct-

Two thousand and one

sided History, the honest man does not smile

I let it go as impersonal,

It falls quickly

I lean in

this time

and I don’t hear it hit

gulping back it was swallowed hole.

I never wished.

The last one left, I save for a

second thought, more

about splashless wishes

for Change.


Painting by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

“Here”

Raise my hand-Why

would I point to myself

up high?

That is an outdoor activity-

cloud seeding and closing in on where

parchment persists.

Not spoken to, only @

A step back, none needed

knowing any more than No.

Tell me again what Confucius said-

To air is human.


Painting By Paul Louis Martin des Amoignes (1858–1925) (Bonhams) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Origination

American?  Am i canned? Is that what the label reads? You tell me-

This house has tile floors, no plush carpeting -that is the cold hard truth.

I cannot drink soda or alcohol.

My body craves salmon and vegetables;

fruit in the summer, cabbage in the winter.

Potatoes are best not fried.

I don’t have extra fat, or change, or time, or

extra-ordinary investments in status.

I do not own a pet, but a certain grey cat thinks he owns me.

I have been blessed with no religion.

I like water. I am not married. I love the children 

I was fortunate enough to support-unconditionally.

I do not chit-chat or pretend, I do not have a group of Best (Fake) Friends.

I don’t make predictions or apple pie very well, neither of which are really true.

Celebrity is maniacal and silly, 

the practice of politics are dumb diversion tricks, 

making bunnies is easy, that is not magic.

I use mirrors for safety. There is  a dusty one over my 

bedroom vanity. I do not like to make-up my face(s),

although costumes can be fun at a party. 

I do not like parties or gambling.

I am gainfully not an employee,

I make no money and have more than I need. 

Luxury is not the same 'Thing' to me, it is not a tangibility.

Slang, yeah, I find myself speaking in some art, not knowing what it means,

it sounds like beauty and looks Interesting or foreign.

I am not shrinking, I am still growing. I am not afraid of death.

I am just passing through. 

Quietly as can be...

Will I pass port?


Image credit John James Audubon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

When (Hi-Q) Haiku

Is it Now? It is

Not anymore, just checking

It could be any time…




Painting (oil on board) by William Etty (1841) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Aromatic Aura

How fast does smell travel?

Why must we try to identify the source?

What if----like light---

the colors- have not blossomed

yet in us?

The smells  seem too obscure to identify individually,

as in comparing puce or magenta and tastes of rust.

We take in the deep red rose delightfully-

We pull the yellow little weeds sourly-

Sort of sorting…

Is there a clear line where the scent drops off?

As in event horizon,

Sort of, Danny D. would offer.

And scatter or spray,

It works the same way

At the atomic level

What does it Do?

Save face.

The rock has not the same

fears.

Making sense of it,

We had to take it all in-

side.

There was no place safe

to hide from the smell

we all know too well

already.


Painting By Francisco Iturrino (Santander, Spain, 1864 - Cagnes-sur-Mer, France, 1924) Born in Santander, Spain. Dead in Cagnes-sur-Mer, France. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Engine trouble

The man was not just skinny but scraggly.

His mother kept telling him to get a job. He still listened to his mother.

He worked. He worked in an auto-shop learning lubes and fine-tuning-

Until they stopped making them

like they used to.

His father used to 

drink alcohol like a liquor store sprinter. Naturally, he got thirsty too, and drank

and stank the same as his father, his mother would say every day.

Grease or oil, bitter battery acid or brake fluid and gin, 

and all over again, the evolved monkey man

with the sooty stained hands that exclude him from white paper work, shows silver

linings along his brow.

Every now and then he picks up a brush, a ladder, a little girl and moves just a stroke away

from happiness in his days. His mother said she prays for him.

He should have picked up a shovel or an ice pick, manners or a real lady,

but is too weak to make them work

for him.

He falls into a five year hole. 

He comes out in smooth pieces, 

none fit tight and his well-being wont hold water, slipping on surfaces,

He is sees light

And knows he is being saved for another life, another 

day to die, his mother said ladies first when he listened.

The old lady in a broken down car, pulled over on the roadside waves for help, 

it is all white and frozen, steam surrounds her.

The mechanic stops

himself for a moment 

before moving on, 

simply too skinny to spare anything-

a white canvas, waiting for him to return 

the favor.



Painting by Jacob Jordaens, The Satyr and the peasants (1620) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

How the paper crumbles

Tiny tufts of binder paper speckle the ground like bread

crumbs leading to the bulging trash bin.

A blotched tattoo on the outside of the right pinkie,

signal lines filled in and out, a writers stamp.

That far away look is not a place others may go.

Declawed and domesticated, the body observes

and stalks the other.

Taking it all in scraps left over much too much,

nauseated, not needing much more

than nibbles found inside spiral ring cages, 

scratches to self, all

half-fulfilled by my stunted scepter.

Thinking there was more than enough time

to put the ending first, to do the editing in trim tufts,

to say this is my home, this is lace, this belongs

and this is sewn to hold more

meaning, 

to say here is a poem

and poof, it is flown away.


Image By Anonymous [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Buteo regionalis

Buteo regionalis:

Skeeter, he said.

Skeeter eaters, 

                         we were noting the explosion.

No doubt you know the kind,

                          And he’s telling me these 

                          hordes of skeeters

do not eat or attack, they do not even snack.

Now the water skeeters, are blood suckers,

                          Those bite back-

Jesus

Bugs,

he says of the miraculous vampires

that walk or stride on water, yes I confess

                           this is super natural.

Despite my slight Entomophobia

                           I think it might be nice to be plated

                           like the armadillo or rolly-polly bug

or hover just so, like a dragonfly.

The cockroach will survive the apocalypse,

by digging down deeper when the air changes.

We laugh about this, the order of the species.

He is the same guy that made people paste with honey.

An Africanized bee wags its bottom, pointedly, 

                            next to us,

Its head tucked deep into the dripping honeysuckle,

And I cheer-

Bottoms Up,

Honey, I say, I think we are looking at it wrong-

perhaps we are reading the final order upside

                             Down.

Irritated with me, 

                              He finally conceded.

Artwork By Smith, Jessie Willcox, 1863-1935 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: In the Garden) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Recycling poetry

When we are children,
all we take in
is Poetry.
In adolescence
we lean on Prose
without punctuation,
growing longer to gauge the resistance
of rooftops attached to support beams.
It seems maturity makes less time
for more meaning,
the old begin shrinking time
too little to learn anything less
than Poetry.




Painting by Eero Järnefelt, 1895 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Conversion: Haiku(s) 3

To start to learn a

Poem, beginning in love

Ends inside physics.

To try to poem

Muse in music but listen

Particulate-ly.

Make something better

Hang words, draw self, a stick man

The fire needs you.

Image: Edward Steichen, 1921 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Description from wiki: "Steichen was on holiday in Venice in 1921 at the same time as the dancer Isadora Duncan who was on her way to Greece with her dance troupe. With the promise that Steichen would be able to make motion pictures of her dancing on the Acropolis, Isadora persuaded him to accompany her. While she managed to pose for a few photographs at the Parthenon, it was with her pupil and adopted daughter Thérèse that Steichen produced this startling and remarkable image: She was a living reincarnation of a Greek nymph. Once, while photographing the Parthenon, I lost sight of her, but I could hear her. When I asked where she was, she raised her arms in answer. I swung the camera around and photographed her arms against the background of the Erechtheum. And then we went out to a part of the Acropolis behind the Parthenon, and she posed on a rock, against the sky with her Greek garments. The wind pressed the garments tight to her body, and the ends were left flapping and fluttering. They actually crackled. This gave the effect of fire -- 'Wind Fire' (Steichen, A Life in Photography, np)"

Simile like a lady

They say she was like

No metaphor-thus appears

Everywhere. Here. See. 


Art By Daderot (Own work) [Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Skipping sounds

Thrown stones at glass ponds

Reflecting cracks or ripples,

though heard, no echo…

Painting By Józef Chełmoński, Pond in Radziejowice, (1898) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pandora's Jukebox

Unlimited Skips,

offered Pandora’s jukebox,

my father would cringe at the threat

to his precious vinyl.

Alas, the Narrative has changed.

All is story without plot, idle fancies

and frankly, too many flat Stanley’s.

The fear of the Singularity

exceeds all ego. We are working on it.

It was being built with zeros and ones,

We made it already, collectively, our

demise of reality. 

Speculate non-fictive for a moment, 

we could and did, rewrite beginnings and endings, 

bringing us to this very event horizon, 

which dips down in sheer data weight

and plunges into a black hole 

by basic filtering. 

Not a platter disc, or with grooves going down

into a white dwarf rabbits den, 

Then again-Just play with it Sam.

Electric hat tricks, inside sleeves, 

static sings and scratches ears, 

signaling deftness, 

a rough hand and some callous-

manipulation of ideas.

As though alternate forms for information

without any human connection should not short 

out, being illegible. This also computes null

as Equality. Yes and No.

As with All things being equal,

the volume grew, 

we all screamed, hollowing out

room and grew all consuming, 

devouring these data shells up-time

until all transfers

are made complete

in clouds.

How high Unlimited Skips registers 

and subscribes me to this ad-free

subtractive totality, 

breaking records in cycles. 

Painting by Halfdan Egedius, 1896 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Rough drafts

Those screams are breathing
And if this is polishing
it is abrasive.






Artwork by Franciszek Żmurko c. 1896 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Recipe for Primordial Soup

Words

We know

Hold something

Greater than tangibility.

There is no weight, but we feel them

Waiting in us. It is mysterious how they

Manifest themselves as thought

Lines, directions, and energies by focus

And I have tried to gather these threads,

To tread lightly, lilting to myself trying to hear what Paulo Coelho

Whispered once, 'The universe conspires for you', for me,

Then Elliot interrupts and challenges these universal disturbances-i.e.

SILENCE! Shouts Cage with his plump lips, holding full notes In,

And Stein, and Stein, and Stein, and Stein evokes our inner Einstein-Aha! Pre-cisely-
The math of the matter, the matter of math, math matter, the matterless
mathless matter, massless matter, the antimatter-as a mass of totality, see-

Too literal to be unilaterally likable-repetitive is as are (un)retractable. Stet.

Do You-without question-understand the definition? Who knew-

Which one of many contradictory theories 

to listen-too much advice causes root entanglement 

and naturally, chaos unravela such intricate complexities, all

Gathered. Feel! Knots. Grasping for straws and strings 

to locate the (in)tangibility further up the line, at a beginning, 

where it went wrong, where A is for Adam was crossed out, gasp,

the people knelt, Adamant this evening without repast

famished for

an other.


Photo credit:  Archives, Argentina, children eating soup 1938 in [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Per: Fect Reader

Lucky

to have sparked your interest,

already, at first sight

I’d like to lift your chin,

letting my lines leach into your lips.

My fruit, my conception, bursting its peel-

Alas, I have known this thirst we share,

It was none but you, alone

more real to me, together

We both imbibed insatiably, yet emptiness 

abounds until whole words were filled 

in utterly

every open space drowned in white.

Open and sere,

I wish to saturate this dry dirt with

One of our tears

To make something you can use, of utility

To make more time

For thisness in these.

These twirled up murmurs were merely me,

reaching out with invisible waves

for your quiet, distant ear,

And just when I thought

The silence meant

I had nothing to say

To make any better-

You heard every word

Fulfilled

with this.

Painting by William McGregor Paxton (c. 1900) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Not needing Neruda

Tonight I can sleep because of what I wrote, out there and just right.

I may lie here and feel weightless for too few precious moments.

It is because of you, whom I submitted to, stripped down to my soul

To show utter naked truth,

And you did not flinch or cower but glowed at the unknown,

Making more for us both.

This reassures me, we will always have enough

To do- -between us- -You

being the first person who said,

It will be all right, and all ways was. 

By Rembrandt (1654) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two gather a world

They were sloppy and all over the place

But you said they were neat and saw where they were going

Instead of seeing white as work to do,

You saw the space as everything

in a corner of infinite potential

You saw the all books pile up you cared not to read,

you knew there were poems being written you wouldn’t like,

but listened to all the summaries intently

as though these beamings held up the roof.

Needing you to say, I like this view, you did.

And on the Future we stood atop,

not under, Trust

and knew it to be seaworthy,

come a flood,

having sailed and proven so

in worse storms than before.

This is why they call ships She

sails catching wind, why the butterfly

has nothing better to do but change into more,

We can pitch caution

And roll on, we were on track ,

you said this time

let us be wreckless and lucky

like you little lady. 

Painting by Arnold Böcklin, Villa by the Sea (c. 1871-1874) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In which way

The iron clouds pillar up-

appearing as smoke stacks

of weathered industry.

A white hot moon

dims in the distance,

cooling its crusty heel-

by degree-one feels

cool and aloof, like May.

The flowers will soon turn

their heavy heads toward the sky,

and the palm fronds will sail

and sway, catching wind waves-

still, for now, rising lightly...

When it warms up to-day

it May use more than greys

tinged with purple promises

that Summer burns

just over the horizon.

Yet, May bees, I've learned
aren't always knows.

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

Expansion

Moving forward, at the end of the day, and these clichés

were left to remind us what sounds about right,

in-sight-fully (don't look back).

As though we could help it, we were not made

this way, a head, not eating tails of our time.

Before you ask-did I know about this

I have said this before, a little bit of chaos

does so much more for creation, inflation

and more. There is (much) more,

After all, 'A few people laughed, a few people cried',

I hope you lived in an interesting time-

Most were silent and simply watched the wax melt

down the ink dark sky making white caps on mountains.

It is best to listen for the ring mascons make,

since echoes don't travel well without gravity’s hold.

Calling your attention to small matters like the moon

making our weight

neon light, a flashing Open sign.

By NASA/ESA/JHU/R.Sankrit & W.Blair [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
"On October 9, 1604, sky watchers -- including astronomer Johannes Kepler, spotted a "new star" in the western sky, rivaling the brilliance of nearby planets. "Kepler's supernova" was the last exploding supernova seen in our Milky Way galaxy. Observers used only their eyes to study it, because the telescope had not yet been invented. Now, astronomers have utilized NASA's three Great Observatories to analyze the supernova remnant in infrared, optical and X-ray light."

Nightcrawlers

Moonlight dripped wax,

cooled from distance,

now hardened in the corner

of my little eye.

It burns a bit.

It is soft light when I blink...

How grease is easily spread,

superficially diluted in various

concoctions and reeks with a tinge

of petroleum, oh hum-

or pouring out the midnight oil.

I've never smelt a rat alive,

a spiders nest freshly woven, maybe

even minerals misting with moon dust.

The moon always watching her back,

a spy in the sky

she sees it all coming her way.

Meteor-light, star dust,

it was just us, quiet enough.

Painting by Edvard Munch, Moonlight (1893) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Rockhound

What solidified as sedimentary and fragmented by boundaries for lines,

like this and that, then they become--attracted and hot, like activated napalm of Now,

or ancient as molten eruption of self from a grave state and under constant pressure.

Metamorphic under microscope where hopes and isotopes concentrate on concealment

(not ellipse) and atoms abound around encompassing this multi-verse.

Unrehearsed we feel the way around--properties, grasp at solids

to state stability, states of now and later. Conserved and dispersed by magnets

in ideal zero-balance equations, also known as inertia.

Glints are all hints from the sun and moon who toss phosphorous

photons at us and get enmeshed in metal, protruding these signal finds and keeps,

Enlightenment.

Those glimmers sent millions of light years have been,

once upon a time, moving, one of us,

waiting to be seen.

Disturbed in our bio-luminescence, we became

cloaked and blinded by our life-lights. 

Top image of first known lunar meteorite, Allan Hills  81005.
2nd image credit By Daderot (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, residing @ ASU Center for Meteorite Studies. 

Lie Lack

The lilacs in full bloom against the lattice fencing,
biggest by all the grey skies and wet clouds
we had

Dark green metallic leaves long and narrow curl
away from the insistent sun,
now a paling display
in this spectrum
spun towards
Spring.

Those celebrity roses build new spires,
spiders have their scaffolds up,
clovers cover dark dirt over a sheet of pily moss
in cracks, softer for a time, lush was once castover.

Now pollen and fruit gather in groups,
sucking it all in sweet lemon dew
it is the tart, fill those pocket lungs
with rich new air
made just for you, lavishly the last lilac
flake falls.


Painting by Mikhail Vrubel. Lilac 1900 Oil on canvas. 160*177 Tretyakov Gallery via Wikimedia Commons.

a little birdie knows no wordies

Little tawny thrush
why so jumpy? Spring has not sprung.
And you have certainly known before now
the cats that live here-this pride.

Silly sparrow, 'twas all made up
those felines would not know what to do
with you-yet how they do like watching
all the twitching
you do.

Look over here! Cackles rise,
this tweet and grub dash,
fidget and dart,
you cool hearted busy birdy,
on holiday.

The cat sees your ploy-a quick dip
in the fountain-this one couldn't care,
he laughs a hoarse then licks his nails.
Oh, this little bunting
gets behind his pinprick hot holed ears
and says-or chirps-
POTUS, po' po' us, po' us another
wergle fumpus, with yellow belly feathers, like a lilly livered loiterer,
tethered to others, such as the not so rare big-billion-billed cuckoo,
Who, who, who knew-
how to flap in place.

Polly-ana-cracker-barrell-of-monks like these-
Just look at that jittery pulpy face,
ask, just ask, he is fluffed and full of flock
puffy and inflated on a fence takes no flight
path to escape,
the last words were purr-purr
after the cat
finally got his tongue.

Painting by Louis Émile Pinel de Grandchamp [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fits of all-timers disease

You must find it in Here

and protect it when you do.
Fight for it, for now,
if that feels right.

Do not let it wander off...

That should have been enough to know
all we needed
something special left for us-

most certainly we will know it when we see it.

Perhaps other things came first, easier and
stood taller,
in your face,
consuming precious attention, a natural resource
short in so many ways
making us feel we need more,
we feel need and have to have,
what we think we need for others.

Listen, that forgetting feeling,
somethings are slipping,
the way guilt works its oily way
inside to undo forward motion,
or recognized

as the inability to see
likeness anymore
it was lying there
when we passed

over the top,
afraid of depth, holding our breath and
acclimating ourselves,
we forgot what we came in Here for...


Painting by Félix Vallotton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bottoms up

Have you fallen
into a book, a slump,
into bed
too deep
for another to hear your muffled voice trying to climb out?

If so, please let me know, as I have been seeking
low and high for the loose end to grab onto
falling short of finding the eminent source
of your sound-
could I be late-
are you too far
underneath to speak freely?

Well,
we all make choices,
most have moved on.
I have pulled on this rope
without end
wishing and waiting for one more
buried echo-o-o-o-o-o-o...


Painting by Georg Flegel [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.