The shortest love story ever written

Sometimes I picture
Us,
sitting down,
                       shoulder to shoulder
and looking down
at an open book-
reading the same lines
but not understanding
each others words
So I will point
                        to a picture
Instead,
you smile
while I cry.


Painting by Pierre Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), 'Couple reading' c. before 1919 in Public Domain. 

Forgot to tell me

We get just One
-Go
at It,
Oh, and you get less than
10
decades
to try to get better-
Why
tell you Now
 to mince words
or splice genes-
I mean,
This is Us,
the One and only
One must focus
on the Prize-
it is wise to use it
All
Now,
I suggest
you rest on those laurels
Later,
when there is Time
that does not matter
or count
Anymore or Less.
I guess
I needed
to read
This
before it slipped my
Mind
for good.




Painting by Karl Bryullov (1755-1852), 'Sventlana at fortune-telling', c. 1836 located in the Nizhny Novrogod State Art Museum in the Public Domain.

Succinctly

I apologize

for taking so long-in words

To find the missing

Artist: Salvator Rosa (1615-1673) 'Diogenes searching for an honest man'-), c. 17th century in Public Domain.

crisis

Crisis:

(“a decisive point in the progress of a disease, 

that change which indicates recovery or death” Latin

also from krei-root (to seive), krinein, to separate to 

distinguish to discriminate-Greek)

jolted me awake, outside myself

only to find myself-upright-

reflecting inside squinting

the first S of this ultimate

silence in a feminine sunrise,

and savoring the final T

of the next fiery sunset,

                       this too shall pass, 

green flash-

I spin, and reel and feel

too thin, out of alignment,

this mis-a-line-meant

Crisis 

            was coming,
bones were showing

and there was much to do

about what cannot be undone

in one revolution
nor by
            coming back
to room temperature.

Painting by Ross Turner (1847-1915), "Sunset, Cape Ann, Mass.' c. 1861-1897) in Public Domain.

Window Shopping

Down the narrow store aisle
shelves bulging with merchandise
resembling a hoarders hallway
but here, things are brightly lit

my fingers move lightly across the tops
of changing objects
like piano keys.

Pausing a moment,
felt like holding a note
I stalled in the lane and was
nudged from behind,
my bag shrugged off my shoulder
snapping me
out of kaleidoscope vision-

I craned my neck
backward to acknowledge
someone-apologize-but-no one was
in the aisle with me.

I continued along, slightly unsettled,
when I was then most certainly pushed
by another consumer of wares
in another aisle
on the other side
of the store
of my body.
I did not bother to look,
nobody was there.
It was easy enough to ignore.

He had been waiting in the car.
He found me,
he wore an misfit smile.

He touched me for the first time in
five years,
intentionally
down my spine
reaching all the way
into the realm of dreams
softly.

Quickly and deeply
under flourescent lights,
he told me how he fell
in love
before
and wanted to tell me
what he saw, then, recently,
but I wouldn't understand
nor could I heft its weight.

Cradling a rectangle mirror in his palm
the images he saw
expanded and contracted
at will-with a pinch and pull,
until it all grew too large
and thin and had to shatter
into shards across his feet.

His grip had been too tight.

Through a screen,
it was a dream
I see, I said
like privacy glass.

Nothing was hidden here
or there,
it was simply harder to find.
If only the advertisements
were to scale,
the distance could be measured
between desire and death
marked down
with a red tag.

Marriage is easier to get into than out of.
It is easier to get stuff than give it away.

There is nothing new
nothing I want to buy,
I said at his head facing
his phone-without looking up,
he offered,
You can order anything you like online.

I stood in line with a metal box of pranks
in hand,
You found something, he finally observed
the waiting.
Who is that for?
Me. I'm the only one I know who falls for
these things-
even when I know how they work.
I'll buy it, he said.


Image credited by New York Public Library, no date, no source info given. In Public Domain. 

The page of gathering places

Chin jutted level with the horizon line,

arms clasped around thin elbows which palms

cradle against the abdomen, the body becomes

a sensual veil, loosens its threads, the carpet of moss

appreciates the spaces across smooth rocks such as

She-

And I hear her voluptuous sigh

giving weight to attraction,

attention and focus upon

the tiniest moon

as though the stars were an entourage

of criticism-

She begins again, stainless in the mud,

I inquire as to what is bothering her,

what matters more than

rocks and trees-

She beheld a single sheet of white paper

which explained her glow,

scratch that she noted and tore

it into thin strips

but would not say another word edgewise.

I knew I would piece it all back together

when she smiled, opened her shoulders,

spread her wings and sang

like a mocking-bird.

There were too many notes, index cards

and pages coming back, 

returned to sender and un-

deliverable-

Yet we agreed

on something so stark

standing on different patches

of land and future, undoubtedly

paper was better than plastic.

Painting by Poul Friis Nybo (1869-1929), 'Reading Woman' c. 1929 in Public Domain. 

The beaten path

Curses
lain across footfalls
shadowing
the marked path

Treacherous crags
protrude guilty edges
into skin
under brittle nails

The way weather exposes
the external
and tries to wash away
shine with light

Circling eternally,
erosions never cease
such as this
degradation of morality.

The darkest parts
are tethered to these heavy
steps
Taken

for fugitive
methods of moving gifts.

A body spent is
a blessing saved
for another way.
High noon

obscured only our difference
by degrees,

illusory of our self-images,
and how much distance

must be made
to be come
one with a same
destination.

Too late
to take back
steps.

Any other way
could not have been
more direct.


Photo credit: Carol Highsmith, taken 2015 in Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado, USA. 

Assemblage

It was a group photo
taken of a womans' twenty
assorted pets

on and around a green
velvet couch,
all facing forward.

In order
to capture it,
one had to be there.

But anyone can easily put 

together what happened
after
        the click.


Painting by Rufus Hathaway (1770-1822), 'Lady with her pets', c. 1790 in Public Domain.

Nasty Bird Woman

Nasty woman.

Mean spirited old bird. 

She knew she was evil

and she tried 

to contain her corrosive

spirit, 

blanketed in righteous robes

of recycled plastic number seven,

which frayed at all the visible edges.

Rough is not equal to sharp.

For the safety of her loved ones

she played Nice,

but her costume did not fit

anymore.

She was swollen, frumpy

in her misery, her resentments

festered like puss,

she reeked of infection

and abhored the

good scents

like innocence.

The green oozes out

leaving a slimy stain

where she once stood

her ground,

she makes it sound

like she is stuck

in her own trap.

A trap is a trap

when open.

Witches always walk

high and mighty

as if they were born

for power,

mistaking strength for malice.

Weight was all she could do

well,

I found myself 

standing over her well,

peering down 

into the depths of her Hell

which widens like a sinkhole 

swallowing all solid ground

and livlihood in her proximity.

My nose shrinks.

It smells rotten. 

Literally,

those that profess they possess;

intelligence, honesty and tidiness

are ignorant of the obviously sloppy lies 

they leave everywhere 

like litter-

who left this here?

There is a fine left to pay.

It will be collected,

any-witch-way.

Lastly,

How in Hell

does she sleep?

Champagne and Mexican pills.
Her flute overfills
bubbling over
the limit.

Artwork by George Romney, 'Tom Hayley' in Public Domain (date unknown). 

To: Night, There will be no words

Moon shimmer atop the sea
                              Take me
Into your crested,
              Closing, wet black
Mind-
          If I
Stand here,
                   listening to your
gentle snore, rhythmic as
                     White noise
No one voice
Rises up

High moon,
                    Mid-nite, we stand
edge to edge, like the
                    Folded note
I tried to sing
                   To you, like serenade
I made a solid
                        Offer,
of my devotion
                        Hereby

Anchor leaden legs
that sway and stay
in Place
              seemingly,
ceaselessly churning in places
                              vast, liquid,
Beckoning as foreign skin,
sucking in
                  the air between
Us,          as a magnet may
Be attracted

The Other
shore
is out there,
We stand here
and just Believe
We must.



Painting by Winslow Homer, "Moonlight' c. 1874 in Public Domain. 

King of Sandcastles

All the little boys begin
by feeling the power
of costume and cape

learning man versus
nature-
good guys and bad guys

until one day
the costume
becomes a uniform,
clean lines
disappear and
superheroes
become firemen

capable of brazen acts
of valor.

Before the selflessness,
all the little princes
are pranksters,
putting a single grain of sand
inside the oyster shell,
into the monks shoe,

and these became pearls,
of course
time
refined
things.

Little girl, I was called
Firestarter,
and practiced the title
often on bridges.

I have never seen the Sandman
in my sleep,
but in my wake
I feel the sand
filling me in-
side.

Apropos of the ritual 
I chose
to be buried alive
after I say
I do
wish
to be cut by pearls
into innumerable
and indistinguishable
pieces of myself

made up
of ashes and rust
as it must be
my nature.

I must confess,
the arsonist
admired his work
while I wed

the King of Sandcastles
before the tide rushed in.



Photo credit: Galveston Island Sandcastle, Texas, taken July 2011 in Public Domain.

Greener grasses

Pre-fixed upon how

the rooster breaks his silence

atop a fence post.

Painting by Ada Thilen (1852-1933) 'Rooster and chicken', in [Public domain].

Found art

Another day rolls by
                             and I
along with it
                             incubate.

I try
to focus
on a
single
spoke
           in the blur of spin
one catches
                    light,
and squeezes
it
into
sound
            high above
the audible range
            one carries a note,
and belts out
                      lashing with it,
create, wait, create, wait, create, wait
                      bare-backed
swinging both ways,

naturally
and only
                     through the gait
                     known distinctly
as your
body
and work
as an address.
                     
A watch swings alongside
reminding me of the beat.

It is time to hibernate.

I count the cat's eyes
           staggered and lining up
in the middle of the street
until the glare
broke
into poetic little pieces
like litter.





Artwork by Robert Delaunay [Public domain], 'The Tower and the Wheel' c. 1912-1913, located in the Museum of Modern Art.

Slang-ing rocks

It's like
they were trying to keep up with the Jones'

Who are They? 
Like the Kardashians?

Okay, no. It's more like 
a bad case of the Me Too's!

The MeToo movement? Who
did what to you?!

No, no. It was all 
about the iWant-

Want what?

A Tesla, an Apple watch, a DNA Test, 
a viral video-

You do not.

No, of course not.
I live for the struggle. 

Your expressions
literally, make no sense to me-

Nonsense! I just hit the side of a barn
like two birds fleeing the hurled stone!

The Jones' barn?

Spot on. 




Image from Missouri History Museum, photographer unknown, dated circa 1901 in Public Domain.

Witness whiteness

Who is watching?

I feel-

Enough.
It was
-not needed
              any more
Love
         you sooo much
rains    candy,
Sugar name drop not

Justify
Too

it is complicated,
intricate, entanglement-
through
close contact-
intertwined
and inevitable.

You see. You do.
You are-I am too.

Kiss me
Aloud
if you can

in this tension
of Presently,

Let me
             land-

(softly) Held,
holding

your gazing heart
that embers
                    Into

Ashen skin
before

All of This
living in sin
bore witness
To.

Finally,
just

what do you wish
to be called?


Painting by Franz Dvorak, c. 1927 in [Public domain].

hand-eye (Hi-Q)

Helpless is not-for 

All Beings in need, a hand

points, name, friend or foe. 

Painting by Parmigianino, 'Portrait of Fransesco Mazzola' 16th century in [Public domain].

Assets minus liabilities

It causes a sharp pain
in my chest
to witness
the kitten perched
on the edge of the
couch
watching television-
while the people
are occupied
with other screens

It pangs my stomach
thinking about
the income of
a Poet
who wastes not
a scent or moment
to dwell
upon
the wealth of
interruptions
like pangs
spine shriveling-
the Book won't come
Out
I shout, Inside
voices affirm
the lame excuse-

Not saying

the churning sense
of burning
ears or pants,

Love has been simmering
on the back of the stove
while I wove a couple of loose ends
and made a sweater
without a head-hole,

Thus
confirming my ineptitude
and such
as feeling the need
to Escape
the bleeding clutches
of Loved ones closest
to touch,
the spot
which widens where
no treasure is ever safe
keeping.

The kitten purrs
from this place
smiling
finally
noticing me
watching him
stretch
and grow.


Artwork: By John William Godward, 'Idleness', c. 1900 in [Public domain].

'cat purring' from Wikipedia:
"Although true purring is exclusive to felids and viverrids, other animals such as raccoons produce purr-like vocalization. Animals that produce purr-like sounds include mongoose, bears, badgers, foxes, hyaenas, rabbits, squirrels, guinea pigs, tapirs, ring-tailed lemurs, and gorillas while eating. Animals purr for a variety of reasons including to express happiness, or fear and as a defense mechanism. It has also been shown that cats purr to manage pain and soothe themselves. Purring is a soft buzzing sound, similar to a rolled 'r' with a fundamental frequency of around 25 Hz. This sound occurs with noticeable vibrations on the surface of the body, varies in a rhythmic pattern during breathing and occurs continuously during inhalation and exhalation. The intensity and length of the purr can also vary depending on the level of arousal of the animal."

Blue blood

The heaviest ink
a writer bleeds
are a Mothers Eulogy
and the vows
etched for Matrimony.

These marks,
deeper than tattoo
annotate and commemorate
an expression of Life and Risk
All
Love to Lose.

We may say
nothing aloud
that sounds like what
It is
to trap butterflies
with a lariat.


Artwork credited by W.T. Benda, cover of Life magazine September 1923 in [Public domain].

Beading

The wind breaks
promises

and I storm off
in bitter retreat,

sucking out the sour
isolation...

And the shoreline
waves
recognizing its relationship
with the timeline

inevitable as the tides turn
over

Revealing
what has been there
and who is dancing at the edge
unafraid
of falling in

for a pearl.

It comes in waves;
pain, sleep, sound, this feeling
the crashing is closer

becoming brackish
tumultuous and turbid for a trace
of gold
in every full glass
we see through

The warm breeze
blew away
our differences.

How easily mist
the rising and falling
of all things

may be made
more
than solid or whole,
as in part

of us
is always drowning

and becoming
one and the same.


Painting by Władysław Wankie (1860-1925) 'Fisherwomen on the shore', [Public domain].

Duck, duck, & Goose

I see you ducking & hiding

as if this could keep you safe

of course, most enjoy a good game

of hide & seek-

except when there is no-

body looking

for you

the pain sets in,

nesting in the corners

where you have stashed secrets.

Fleeing from danger

is both fight & flight

instead of planting ones

self in the belief of growth & resilience

where you are

is never where you choose to be

there is disregard

for the hidden

wanting to be found

under a shroud of a woven

textiles you gathered,

that felt like encryption,

yet your secrets strobe across

all of our four heads

illuminating the dark valleys

spreading across your scape. 

Painting by Carel Fabritius, 'Hera hiding during the battle between the gods and the giants' c. 1643 in [Public domain].

Our glasses (hourglasses)

I read in front of them.
I was reading anyway.
They never read.
Even behind my back.

I waited to be sure.
I was never sure
I waited too long.

Liars, thieves, and cheaters
are three of a kind.
I had them all
in hand,
and made a row of bushes
with the tangled vines
for Privacy.

Alone with ourselves
imposes ego as though
we should learn
from mistakes.

The golden rule
is soft, diamonds are forever
handed down
and the rain, perpetually
planting seeds.

The fine print, or return policy
for such a random act
sounds like wind strangled
in narrow channels
but is your paper receipt.

I figured it out
wrong but somehow came to
the correct conclusion
all the same.

There is a kind of
influence, with open palms
that holds no harm
to heat but crystallizes
in salt.

As far as
we can see,
All is in front of us,
there was no plain day
that would be lived this way.



Painting by John Dickson Batten, 'The garden of Adonis' c. 1887 in [Public domain].

And In the Fourth Place

*1st*
Nice guys do not race.
Finishing is not the End
All-Be Told to Run.
*2nd*
It may be You have
Anxiety from lack of
Things to want-not Now.
*3rd*
Enstranglement is
too desirous of a Thing
that breathes not-Life.
*4th*
You got what you want
in the past tense, now what more
does Tension require?




Painting by Louis-Marie Austissier (1772-1830), 'Lady with Basket filled with fruits', c. 1814 in Public Domain. 

Stages of Petrification

 Out of our cradle

endlessly rocking

so soothing to suck and swing,

we be, Wives to the House

we working women

with clean fingernails.

Rural and dirty, illiterate, failed to be-

come organized and erected,

built and projected by chart.

Fortunate: Educate the ‘poor’,

Entitle the ‘rich’ by degrees and adding zeros

we carry on, pound for pound.

In War

Peace. Conflict. Stability. Conflict.

War, Again. The sequel.

Work harder, work longer, work smarter, weave your

World Wide Webs

Catch the drift and save it for later.

Faith

Science

Tradition

Armed men have arrested the development

of reach, nucleic re-armament fires up

and we women make mud pies

with what we have.

Grow food, “make” food, “buy” food

and storage for later.

Trees to homes to paper planes,

Origamic Plastic Pyramids

surmounting slag on landfill,

a slippery slope, a slide-show.

Bare feet babies scramble to fill shoes

made from recycled tires

and the miles

felt without insoles.

It is too late to change courses.

Adapt. Improve. De(con)struct. It was all made

for you

to find a swing of things, how high

may be gotten before

going all the way around

giving blood

blisters from holding our chains

too tight.

Image of photo By Nikater (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Petrified Forest.

A simile smiles

A close-up of a crater with concentric tiers
denoting depth
except light years away
                            -it was not taken today
Resembling rings signalling ages in decades
of diurnal decay-
A natural atmosphere for well-being.
                            Change occurs in tears,
eternal and sometimes with a why.



Image By NASA/Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory/Carnegie Institution of Washington [Public domain], Rachmaninoff crater via Wikimedia Commons.

Blue faces of things

On that very day,
in another Place,
it was more than
a later hour-

the heavy things
balancing on edges
would finally come down
creating a gentle breeze
over Here

and the nose would pick-up
and strong sense of Elsewhere,
only meaning
there was Poetry
being read in corners.

From the lips,
this music dips between
inkling and imagination
like a murmuration,
how things gather in ceremony

for harmony's sake.
And yet,
all the anonymity allowed
a tiny voice
to move through
this heavy Time,

passing on the thought of
levitation and how it was
never up to us
to do anything about the
thinning air out There.




Painting by Harriet Backer (1845-1932), c. 1883, in Public Domain.

Solid ground

The earth is severely sere here.

The mud has alligatored,

the clay refuses to mix.

October, at the end of Fall,
the ground is cracking open
as if fault lies everywhere,
lies, blaming saints, spirits
and the howling or screaming
of wind through narrow channels
gives way to funneled expression,
dust devils and whistling

which
severs connections
and strains the crust, curling up
at the corners

The baselessness of these terra firma's
now below sea level
seem deprived of all
but the wound salt.

And while we stretch out
in our gravel beds
the ocean spreads
its legs, the rivers open slender arms and
canyons yawn, too tired to carry more
and have already
spent all
the time
in the world.

In need of nutrients and lubricants,
and seconds,
we wait for the weather to change
it's mind and stay the way it was
predicted to be by date.

Terrestrial we talk of air and water
as if we did al-
right
with fire.

We have no choice but to dig our ruts
and pace ourselves
to death.




Painting by Arthur Streeton (1867-1943), date unknown, in [Public domain].

Data and Dust

Be real.
Do you see yourself-
or is that too close to
the source
of your own breath, body
and a-scent
afloat
and uncontainable-

Yet you try.

What do you mean
by that, when you say
portrayal in lieu of betrayal?

Whose idea was it?

Could we share this notion
like an opinion?

Whose line is this one
with no name before the semi-
colon?

This audience participates
and encourages
the foot-notations.

Closed quotes leave no
space for interpretation.

Where have all the dial tones gone?
Open lines have all been taken
for granted.

If we pretend we appreciate
the little things,
will all the bigs things
call our bluff for the
precarious positions
we attempt to balance
all our collected hopes
upon and continuously
adjust our appearance for
others real life,

meanwhile,
erosion is always itself,
revealing.





Painting by Odilon Redon, c. 1696  [Public domain].

Forts

Broken down, the All
was noplace, collectively
rather-scattering
That there is no longer
meaning
there is no there there
no such thing as a moral hunter
there will never be
a thing
that is
wholly itself alone
and shatter-proof. 
There was nothing to see
that would help us
recognize entanglement
as a knot to be undone. 




Artwork by Salvador Rosa (1615-1673) in Public Domain. 

Over hear

I know it looks like
that
but things aren't always as
they appear,
Projection like protection
is from another layer,
a down souljacket, feathered
to deflect harsh elements
that pour in mammalian pores
poor us,
it is not like smell
is a choice, or to touch and not
feel they all are
trying to seem and seeming to try
but not really
the application of.
Polished is not
unblemished but accented
by the distinct lilt of singed seals
in the air, where a voice trembles
as it is shattering the still morning air
by spidering the panes at connecting
angles, a jade of view
wearing purple dawn under 

muffling mists.
What to where,
is unpredictable
with wisdom or sense,
like accessory,
essentially we look away
and close our ears
to shelter the self
under the breath.





Painting by Eugene de Blaas (1843-1941), 'The Eavesdropper' in [Public domain].

Unfinished forms

The turned ankle
at this angle
a jaw line, the hip
parabola evocative of
obtuse angles and petals-
or leaves could be open
to holding light in colors

the movement blends
on the page, the note
hangs on the sheet-

precarious-
ly awaiting harmony
of echoes like blur and hum
where sound escapes crashing
into narrow canals, omitting any
consonants collected in the
folded corners

melt and fade under the sun
goldenrods spearing silver weeds-
maybe shadows will go there
and settle in

to stretching the fibers
into a conversation with object
and subject
interrupted by
chime and shape
to fit in

the picture would never

what it was
only what could be.





Image by John Singer Sargent, Study of Mme Gautreau c. 1884 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Listing ships

Had I been listless,

Done. Nothing To Do

for lack of wood pulp, or would

and pulp,

for want not to float upon 

facades, skirt on edges, to not

feel the marginalia and rip rap

hit the sides,

holding back

the body,

there would still be 

an attachment to enough rope

to go around.

Without implementation,

rudders, or other such

contraptions

to head our aim, ply and slog,

drifting

is all that is done right.

To go on 

observing instead of 

commanding, holding 

on to the rails

with fingertips and first

knuckles only, lightly

the self adjusts

trading winds

until all seems leveled

up, like glass or calm

glimmers that dance,

smoothly this rock

glides underneath 

carrying its own weight

violent and jealous

of the flotilla holding up-

right for a fragment of time.

There was nothing left

To Do. 

Painting by J. M. W. Turner, 'Rough sea with wreckage' (c.1840-45) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Post

After moving
around
this much
it is fair to suspect
that it takes more than
             one year
before we feel a place
is our dwelling.

After loving
two liars
too long
it would be cruel to conclude
that white promises were
                                purely made,
or that honor does not fade
                               when exposed.

After giving away
our time
so freely,
it is common to become consumed
by generosity and lacking
                              surplus or seconds,
starvation is written on the bones
of the donor.

After writing
all of these
                   words never read,
there is learning
                    in letting them all go
and watching them
come back together
                    long after
they have sunk
in, disappearing from sight
and causing a subtle
                                  displacement
After all.




Painting by Mary Cassatt, 'Young woman in a black and green bonnet looking down', c. 1890 in [Public domain].

Plywood windows

If I could wear soft and loose clothes
every day
                and be taken seriously,
forgetting for a moment
that comfort is for lesser creatures,
I would be less ill
                              at ease
and more sensitive to
zippers and seams.

I lost a drinking habit years ago
and found every thing
                                    sharper with age,
which does not clot the
bleeding, or numb the
site                     I remember I last had it
with me,
my cups are bone dry since this thirst
has all
but evaporated
making the air thicker around me.

If I found a diamond encased
in every silver lining,
                  carbon acting under the pressure
                  of those that have convinced me
                  to forgive
                  in these conditions
                  with sparkles on top,
I would have tasted love
                  on the rocks,
and choked on the hardest facets.

Time is our only personal property.

In-kind, community property
has foreclosed upon the pearl gates.
These lips have been boarded up
to deter any passer by's
                                       from dwelling.

It may not be safe
to live this way
without proper uniforms,
window dressings
and with naked wrists,
lacking a steady leg to pivot upon       
                             in order to see things
as they are
and find slighted contentment
enough of a shelter and shield
from monsoons and bad moons rising
every weak day.




Photo credit: Carol M. Highsmith, Kinney County, Texas. 2014 [Public domain].

Re-cited Rite

I have read the Legends
shared around the world
in so many ways
as I have had Sundays

And took notice
today
Nobody is looking
forward
to the second coming,
a sequel
is too much of the same.
None await a haloed savior
to share a repast
this silver evening
under the Hunters Moon.

Faith, as taught to us,
has burnt the crust
of broken bread,
the wine has overflown
its chalice, insatiable desire
the mortal hands quiver
and become stained clasping
the thorned stem too tight,
the feeling is lost.

Though dutifully,
we cradle the spines gently,
as if History could crumble
in our salty psalms
And the words
on the opposing side
of scritta come through,
like the shape of your body
inside its cloak and robe,
alluding to a language shared
in mythos by Ahmen.

And I find another Sunday
to read seven ways
of looking harder at the structures
and steeples
we have built
in order to live with
introspection and novelty
recited inaudibly in tiny volumes
the atonement we create to
consume us in ritual.

It feels right.




Painting by Ambrosius Benson (1495-1550), 'The Mary Magdalen Reading', c. 1520 in Public Domain. 

Pace

Around the mountain
The way to proceed sideways
Looking at the rocks.
*
Loosen the rein
the heavens unlock in gasp
exhaling hail.
*
Each step taken
is a charge
without receipt.
*
Certain of what we
do not want and cannot take
our bags bulge with These.
*
Lighten with laughter
Serum of Sun, what is done
is never complete.



Artist Unknown, 'Pavillions in a mountain landscape' c. 1550 in the Philadelphia Museum of Art [Public domain].

On the cusp

Setting one's sails
toward a life
and geography

we have long sought
becomes legacy

Maybe on Mondays
the horizon is too far away
to project any other color
but grey.

Anchoring ourselves
against the skylight
to the hours of shrinking shadows
where we are finding
bending light
a production
there was stillness to be
stolen, every now and then
dangling

the arc of our residence
may only be seen from great distances

and the greatest home
feels like there is nowhere else
to go.




Painting by Elioth Gruner, 'Fristy Sunrise', c. 1917 [Public domain].

Time will never Tell

With these hands
I have cradled the past.
With these hands
I have buried memories.
With these hands,
still-lined with life,
callused by death,
I grasp air in my palm
and feel it trapped there
squirming in a fist.

With these hands
I held my babies-once, long ago-
now forbidden to touch
With the same such tender care.

With these hands
I sealed my ancestors in dirt
now sealed away from all five senses.

With these hands,
I make words
that lose their matter while gaining typeface.
I multiply my meaning only to divide
by the given definition of what it is
To pen or poem.

With these hands,
I scratch the wet shoreline,
I was here
With these hands.
I open my palms
erasing my place

just in Time.


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