trails

Vengeance makes a map

old wives tails and medicine

man show now how X

crosses paths never worn away.

Image Title "After the battle Company G 32nd United States Infantry' c. 1898 in [Public domain].

Spring palette

Some nights such as these

in Spring

the crispest ones forebode

dramatic scenes and

will only be appeased

with warm words, the genteel kind

unlike those dark corridors linking

hollow rooms to alternate realities

and how easily

we may be misplaced inside,

one sees clearly-

Poetry possessed the palace,

the chorus charmed themselves

considering changes

are made in continuity,
contemplating,

harmonium found itself

outside sound and dancing

in full color in the deepest
dark.

Painting by Henri Le Sidaner, 'Small table in evening dusk' c. 1921 [Public domain].

Prince of charms

I see him clearly behind the wall
furtively tending to the ritual
of opening wounds
while he wields his favorite knife
which resembles a bottle of Tequila
and he stabs himself
repeatedly
with audible barbs-
the kind that go in and you cannot
pull them out
you must pull them through.

And when I forced a look at him,
I saw the glimmering round shield,
blood spattered red cheeks,
his brow beaded with sweat from lifting
the load so long, carrying it wrong,
he ached, he moved in pain.

And the artillery unleashed
with words flying like arrows
and feelings popping like brittle
burning wood while smoke
circled his buried head
and instead of his precious blade,
he pulled out a small smile-
sweetly
in his shining armor,
while looking away from the glare
he managed to mumble-
you know I love you. 

I was never sure
who he was aiming at.



Image credited by UVM Libraries Digital Initiative 'Sword_sharpener_practicing_his_trade', published asa postcard c. 1909 in Public Domain. 

Settle in

Gathered all

I could manage

to ex-press-

an in-audible

scream

that left the bereft-

ness expended
under foot.

See

me

as I never was.

I am only

Now

as can be

good enough
to reach.

Not a word would match

the fiery-ness,

not a wet thought lying

around to ignite

the waxed wick
convinced in ambiance.

Shivered at the losses

when the blood concentrates

on the speed it needs
to lose groud, to blur
the lines.

It was always time

and matter to dwindle the days
back into a neat stack.

Meanwhile,

my toes curl

atop a thin sole

inside the shoes I have outgrown
I am misshapen.

One day

I will feel

the temperature of the earth

and find it

just right
where I happen to Be.

Painting by Lucien Pissarro, c. 1900 in [Public domain].

Respiration; Exhale

Late afternoon, predusk
Crystal beads balance in between blades 
And I wonder how the dew does
Survive the day, 
Like me.

All the change and energy
exhausted.

Exhaled more than I took in.
Eyelids spread wide
I steal the last flakes of golden sun
And hold my breath
Because it's all I know I can do
and besides 
(myself)
my heart is simply too heavy
To lift this evening.

Painting by Henri-Edmond Cross, 'The farm, evening' c. 1893 [Public domain].

Respiration; Inhale

He said we are doing it wrong.
None of us take in enough.
Honestly.
As if this regulation
Was anything more than an expression of self-
deprecation
Whereby,
The Universe must be
Breathing us in instead of the other way around.
As if all were not made
in exchange
for what was needed most.
As if any-one was not worthy
of inhale.
I follow sounds with reasons.
It was said
We should only speak in exhale,
which blows treble
Over the top of a quiet rustle
A cacophony
Unanswered
Baseless breathing refused to unlatch
The belly of burden, to remember
To breathe.



Painting by Thomas Cole, 'View of the Round Top in the Catskill Mountains' c. 1827 [Public domain].

Buried alive

My heart thumps
apeish pounding
and I try to keep my fangs
tucked in.
Wired and winded
together, denial was the
black matter
we refused to identify.
Barbaric as it Be,
pacing ourselves
in our cages, deepening the ruts,
muddy we get
stuck
unable to climb out
of our graves.


Painting by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, 'Mountain Forest Path' c. 1919 [Public domain].

Namely

Archer is a good name for a poet.
Only someone intent on honing their craft
could sharpen any word,
with pro-
found in-difference that whispers
copper pennies of investment.

Whistling in the air,
important and pointed,
as it whirs across a perfect arc
the branches dance back
strobing light through
space.

There was infinite,
what did it all mean?
There were names of things,
there was the aim of
Things
and there was connection
with the target of meaning
Eros, all was Love.

 Archer is a pseudonym
for Anonymous, as far as arrows go.

Photograph taken by Julia Margaret Cameron of Lionel Tennyson with bow and arrow [Public domain].

Monkey bars

Vacillation in the non-
sense
of getting out of your
own damn head-skull,
not all oohs and aahs.

Fidgets and itches, twitches
pangs signal the need to flee
for your Life

But trapped-
as we are
to-gether-against
the wall closing doors
pushing on the pain-
body, as a name does
Nothing

to rectify, identify,
but objectifies, justifies,
the lies and immersion
in madness, a persistence
in
Obstinance

won't let go, cannot make
either one
unknow the chosen
words.

Painting by Evelyn De Morgan, 'The Gilded Cage' c. 1919 [Public domain].