Ask the Sky Why

To lie
on your back
defeated
and speak your pieces
vehemently
as rain
at the ever listening sky

You know
this broad shoulder
of horizon
can take more
than your loaded gun
and spinning
chambers
as if a game
of Russian Roulette
would elicit a thunderous
STOP!

Threats empty
as a cloudless sapphire
catching light
and glaring
in its reflection
of you.

Life at this angle
in this volume
comes back
to us
in the same way
we know
every word has been heard
before you opened your mouth
and took
it all
in
as unnoticed
breath.



Painting by Francis Job Short (1857-1945), 'Sea and Sky at Seaford' in Public domain.

I am-phibian

A line in the sky
caught my eye

the barbed hook
of crescent moon

took no time
pulling my chin up

and out
of my element

and taking my breath
outside
the warm body

weightless
I can only wait
for lightness
to break

through
a comforting zone

at terminal velocity
relevant
only to the speed of
dreams and nightmares

piercing through
this illusion

of you
waking up
or falling down
but always catching

a peek
under the surface.



Painting by Lionel Walden, 'Twilight, Evening Star and Crescent Moon' c. 1925 in Public domain.

The sun sets

The way we flock to the shoreline
for the small chance
to catch a green flash
between blinks

-is the same
as knowing the sun will set
and yet
it will only get dark.

It reminded me
of this Red Sea
swelling and sinking
between you and me
making that rosy glow
more ominous
than optimistic.

We keep a trained eye
on each other
from our respective
ground
unable to make out details
like friend or foe,

you just know
outlines
the bend of the horizon
and how the melting shadows
run together.

The way we hope
and take chances
for a ride,
reminds me
of the underlying breeze
caused by our spinning worlds
neither pushing nor pulling
but settles
for warm bodies watching
until The End.



Painting by James Richard Marquis (1833-1855), 'Man o War and buoy at sunset' in  Public domain.

Baby rock

A daughter is the only true conversation
that never ends...

Domesticated means kept
for companionship
by necessity.

Friend-
ships sail easily in a passing breeze.

Love spins
the Earth,
holding us close
to the core
or heart
of matter

like all of these
intangible connections
that bind
our words to the spine.

Once upon a time
we were here
mattering to one another

collecting the loose fragments
that spin off
and calling them stars.


Artwork credited by NASA/JPL-Caltech / Public domain.

Go Fourth

The fire works
while clutching the cool stem
of rose colored glass
gleaning the glaring
moonlight into amber
crystalized tears
petrified
bead

kaleidoscope shaped pins
spin
colors that streak
high, piercing this purple sky
while the clouds bend low
to gather and take in-
side themselves whole
sound waves
to blind and echo
by distortion
and distance

like thunder,
like lightning,
like electricity,
like this short life

as in
sparks
that leave only traces
of sulfur
in a sense

bonded and bound
by this friction
as if it were
a release.


Painting by Thomas Fearnley (1802-1842), A Terrace in Moonlight' c. 1834 , in Public domain.

Fear, Walls, and Fiery Tales

I stepped up
to the mouth of the cave
my chest plated-
the flickering light
sparking
my curious compulsion
for heat.

Come to find
not some majestic dragon
as projected upon a dirt wall
but an angry ogre
whose tongue sparks
and lashes out like
new flames.

The smoke
thick and decrepit,
his heart rots within
while his rosy cheeks,
black lips and eyes a glow
at me.
Despite this
I know, I am safe.

He will never leave
his inner rage

for the stronger
light of day.
And I could feel the heat
from behind
beckoning me back
to a place without...



Artwork by Francisco Goya y Lucientes (1746-1828), 'Seated Giant' circa 1818, in Public Domain. 

Fire Rite

He lit all of my gasoline
and boasted,
This is jet fuel baby,
I burn it all.

It was reckless of me
to expose my reserve tank
within such close proximity
to predictable ignition.

Not even a triangular flag
waves a nauseous warning
over fanned flames,
choked up
only to be licked with sharp tongues.

The day burns its long wick
down to the bare wax molded
mannequin of myself
who whispers Empty

in the end,

when the fire finally consumes itself
he calls it,
Raw Power as combustion
can be counted upon
inevitably
given enough
desire
to fill the stone curb well

with ashes.



Painting by Nikolai Astrup, 'Midsummer eve bonfire' c. 1915 in Public domain.

Word Problems

The following lines are not my own, they are quotes which serve as railcars running along a track of thought...

Pain is inevitable,
Suffering is optional.
Our suffering is the problem,
the answer is waking up.
Hope is a waking dream.
I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope for the wrong thing.
Whatever satisfies the soul is Truth.
Three things cannot be long hidden;
the sun, the moon, and the Truth.
The cause is hidden; the effect is visible to all.
When you have seen beyond yourself,
then you may find
peace of mind is waiting there.
Just keep in mind, the more we value things
outside of our control, the less control we have.
Holding on is believing there is only past;
letting go is knowing that there is a future.
Without desire there is stillness,
and the world settles by itself.

***
(Attributions in order by line:
1-4 Buddhist texts
5 Aristotle
6 & 7 T.S. Eliot
8 Walt Whitman
9 & 10 Buddhist saying
11 Ovid
12-14 George Harrison
15 & 16 Epictetus
17 & 18 Daphne Rose Kingma
19 & 20 Lao Tzu



Painting by Francesco Rustici (1610-1625), Allegory of Wisdom and Prudence' in Public domain.

Veins

Rivers run
clock-wise
gathered seconds from
Hidden Springs
one way
gaining distance in
Time and Space
accommodates
this swelling of our souls,

after so many miles
consumed and minerals made
we carry all these
these accumulations
around
the middle
counter-clockwise

where all the numbered faces
count
on the moon
to turn cheek
and the Rivers rise
with mouths
full of asteroids.



Painting by Gertrud Staats, dated before 1938 in Public domain.

branches

This is not love.
We can be certain.

These arms may connect us
or reach
away
yet-
only a knot
knows what was
once there.

And I have started to lose feeling
after clenching so long
the words or a similar
breeze to bring me closer
to you.

Instead I hang
precariously
numb.

A heartwood drains
down my
whitened clasped hand

an indistinct ring-
ing in the ears
is calling for Us
to let go of dead weight
before the wood
turns to bone

without love
there was no way to tell
how high we were
there was no way
we should be certain
to survive the fall.



Painting by Charles Reginald Aston, between 1852-1908 in Public Domain.

Amy never finished her wine

It was in the dregs,
like literal coffee grounds
where the future could be red
and read
as follows;

Two sides
are always connected
somewhere in between
heads and tails,
his and hers,
love and hate
and living and dying
is your Prophecy.

When picking sides
it is safe to presume
that both are sharp enough
to draw blood

and switchblades
thrust open
hearts of flesh and palms
close into fist balls
tossed at those within arms reach.

A residue that stains,
the names of things,
the unswallowable future,
the absence of anything
consumable, the thirst
for pain is a craving
for love and hate.

Desire
of our own destruction
is still desire,
making it
Big
never makes anything smaller.
Having it all
is the same as not imagining
more.

It all becomes the same
sharp point,
*"this is how you switch the blade,
you always hurt the ones you love,"
perhaps passion points us
toward the pain
of never knowing
when we are finished.

*Lyric written by Amy Winehouse

Painting by Jan Davidsz. de Heem (1606-1683), 'Still life with fruit and wine' c. 1642 in Public domain.

Hot Spring

Well, we can depend
on the constant flow
of water out of the spigot

In these modern times
nails lined with dirt
hold nothing
together

And so few knew
cleansing could be so
bone-chilling,
the cold C
sterilizes me
still
leaving
a residue of salt
inside the deepest wounds

For hope was on the other side

The H begins at the same
temperature
If we wait
sometimes longer than others,
immersed in it,
the degree of Hope rises
from tip to tip,
from pipe to vein

Although, we all know
one drop
was never enough
to remove the stains
or replenish the well
completely
and for good

it was always our turn
of the faucet,
our choice
from which side
to draw
out from some hidden
seeming eternal source.



Artwork by Károly Patkó (1895-1941), 'Woman washing herself' c. 1931 in Public domain.

A duel purpose

I try to hold my balance on the
edge of this blade
whose hilt is in your firm grasp
and our history of incidental equipoise
clumsily
refuses to align-

would not any line
a muttering muse utter
true up to,
assist or desist us en guard
such strife-like loves twist on life
when the incision has been made

deeper, for us
while trying to maintain a sharp sense
of the point that tips
scales and armor
by design and intent

to inflict and to cradle conflict,
to penetrate and promptly
turn away-saying nothing
about the warm blood spilt
and simmering on the cool concrete
where we once made connection.


Painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904) 'Duel after a masquerade ball', c. 1859 in Public domain.

Graves and Beds

Often times
of late
I sense I am
two steps,
three ridges back and
one unburnt bridge away
from living the prophecy
being held for me
in some place
I am afraid
to go out of the cave
without any possessions
fear seems rational
but staying
inside while the earth crumbles
around me
ends
one way
eventually
the choice is made
for and by us
evenhandedly
all or nothing
for better
or worse
flowers lie.

Painting by Calude Monet, 'Rounded flower bed', c. 1876 in Public Domain. 

Sundialing

Under the darkness
I wait for daylight
and it slowly drains
all energies made
over-this-night.

I find myself
empty and long
for the warm light
to wane
or die
back down
knowing this
way we live is insane
and making it not so different
from this sentence.

The years blend by lumens
and erase all traces
of anticipation
for another
night
to escape
for day to come,
for the light that never
dawned upon me...

unrisen and incapable
of my occasional
need to know
what a future holds
without hands.


Painting by 'German Master' unknown, Still Life with skull, sundial, wax jack' c. 1620 in Public Domain. 

The life of a spark

Just beneath the skin of surface
something darker
traveled through
like a current
can only be felt
in volume.

Right outside of the visual range
a source of heat
like an explosion of light
ignited
all that could be flammable
was taken asunder.

What lurks like intuition
our own shadow seems detached,
aloof and cool to the touch.
An absence only felt
as nothing
that could be caught.


Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-190) , 'Campfire, Adirondacks', c. 1892 in Public Domain. 

May Grey II

After so many May days
that curtain the skies with a fine marine haze
only breaking up under the heat of midday
donning a robe of satin blue wash
without any white spots
there was nothing more to be done

On other thick
midweek days, the same sky
holds up
a solid grey smoke screen
sprinkling into something
like too much timelessness.

Today the sky tosses
shadows and demands
attention with
thick padded clouds which
loom and tromp and roam and all
seem to know each of our names
and where we live precisely
by our current shape.

This high wind
has brought a wash of relief,
like warm atmosphere
even while
things were still moving
I felt still...

and kept getting my focus
pulled into the deep sky
and mesmerized
by the outlines,
the shifting journeys of these
mammoths
made of magnetic mist
I am drawn
into.

The harder I focus
and try to hold these empty gatherings
in my mind, tracing as they were racing
past, suddenly,
as if met with resistance,
and shyly they all slow
to an amble
and stall directly overhead.

And all that seems given
in the world
for closer observation
is made up
of grey matter
upon further reflection
I think the cloud sees me blue
while it seems white.





Painting by John Constable (1776-1837), c. 1821 in Public domain.

My Valentine

Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.

Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear

and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-

a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out

but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-

clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.


Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.

Cut Thrice

Three times I have watched
the queen palm trees
on the estate on the hilltop
trimmed into tiny tufts
atop slender reeds
to slight
for jeweled crowns
and I cannot recall
how long I have lived
in this same spot
where rings are added
and removed.



Photo by Dozen monkeii, 'Barcelon Palm Trees' taken 1/2016 in Public Domain.

Hollowed out heart

I unsheath the telescoping rod
from the vein in my left arm
connecting my ring finger
to the heart
and pierce the stale air
of dwelling in this too-small space
atop the low mountain ridge,
I scream, a hawk echoes me and
I determine to open it up,
as a surgeon might do,
and bleed out the rest of the
swollen lust built up
from impossible dreams
and so many bruised misentries
stain like scar tissue,
there is no feeling in this area
that the immune system
is ill-equipped to treat

As the resistance is overkill,
homeostasis is not a residential zone.
The needle-tip inserts alternate forms
of nourishment and necessity,
only meant to keep the heart
beating me up and down
like a closed fist
striking empty chambers.


Painting by Hans Dahl (1849-1937) 'On the mountaintop' date unknown, in Public Domain. 

Laundering

Where does one begin
to unpack the suitcase of grief?

While it may be nice to throw it all away,
or donate these shreds,
I find it impossible to imagine
never
wearing those favorite jeans again,
the perfect bra, the stained shirt,
the holy sleeping attire-

I have no desire
to wash and fold and put away
for the 235th time
these obligatory articles.

I sense that grief starts with the smell
held between the threads
and remember distinctly
the quilt my grandmother made me
that fell apart
completely-
like family...

Long gone,
I ponder the scraps
and marvel a few moments
at all the layers we carry
and feel a sudden need
to give the shirt off my back

only to see
how I was made
myself again
woven with only
the softest flesh.



Painting by Aristarkh Lentulov (1882-1943) 'During the laundry', c. 1910, Public domain.

Orchestra

As we aim to silence the pain
which we are fairly allotted
by birth-right

a deafening calm consumes us
while focused on the pleasures
overdue to us
in the treble.

Signals cease to lift
the alarm lever,
if we don't
move
our lips

to speak
to the self
in the language of the body.

Before translation
the strangeness deters our curiosity
about how one thing may become another
and make melodies
by note, by color, by shade, by immersion,

there is understanding
needs to be met
and lyrics to listen to
while we move

this way and that
away from where it hurts most
toward what we know
says nothing
about us.



Painting by Wilhelm Carl August Zimmer (1853-1937) / Public domain.

Upon further refraction

The dark parts are never totally absent
but make counter balance
while the wave-
lengths of light
lure us to the edges
of our material domains.

And tenacious as
we are, discover
how pointed
the arrow of time
must be-in order
to pierce the shield
we forge between
then and now,

somehow
All
observations become skewed
and miss their tiny targets
more often
than not.

All the while,
the incessant beating
heart, clock, hands only
amplify this glaring
temptation to shatter
our own gently built
crystalline structures

aligned and angled
just so-

objects prevent the light
from penetration
into the facets
that make us so
Reflective.

In retrospect,
the gradient
is held dependent
to a degree,
only to consider its own color
cast on the walls
and splashed across the floor
in the time it takes
to name
something never
There.


Photo credited by Kelvinsong / CC0, 'Prism tribeam' taken 2012 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Scab(bard)

What must be done,
the human dilemma,
in life, in love,
two hands
for beginners
two eyes
for choices...

And yet,
the serrated edge
makes its intentional cuts,
back and forth, metronomic
and chronically
applying increasing pressure
while deepening-

Well,
we all know about old wounds
and the salt cure,
yet often preferred,
the tourniquet
methodically
seems to slow things down
when placed snuggly
over our mouths.



Photo credited by: Poliphilo / CC0, 'The Knife Grinder' taken 2015 in Public Domain. 

Kaleidoscope of Spring

Together, we once called them
'worms with wings'.
I thought of this
as my marriage died,tortuously
in the same way
it dawned upon me while
watching the 'Morning Cloak'
try to right itself
in the amber evening sun.

I had tossed the big black butterfly
outside on the patio concrete
after finding him
splayed flat, unmoving
on the kitchen floor
next to the smiling cat's
empty food bowl.

I was late serving dinner,
he offered his own.

That was many hours before
or many, many days
by butterfly time.
Stunned, I noticed, here he
miraculously
survived-only to be now
devoured piecemeal
by an army of ants.

A group of caterpillars
is also called an army.
A swarm of butterflies
is also a kaleidoscope.

His shredded wings
did not deter
the fight-
I couldn't watch.
I could not look away
at this dying symbol of change
reminding me,
sometimes
there is nothing we can do
to save another.



Artwork by Edward Mason Eggleston (1882-1941), 'A day in June' c. 1932 in Public Domain.

elasticity/density

The anticipated fog
steamrolls over
terrestrial things
in ways worthy
of emulating.

Clearing in manhole
windows, a glint of caught
starlight hints at the presence
of an eternal watchful
vigil by the moon cast.

Slow and muffled comes the
hollow sound, conjured by a presence
stirring the air.

Straining to hear
a muse muttering
your name as if it were
pronounced in the echo
of Nobody.


Painting by John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836-1893), 'A Moonlit Evening' c. 1880 in Public Domain. 

Innocent

I should be content 
knowing nobody
could love him
like I do.

True enough
to have witnessed
the changing self
d r a w  o u t l i n e s
of desires
longer than
arms reach.

The center feels like a heart
compressed,
echoes collapse and
the chest pushes a thought
into wearied exile

only one 
caress could suspend
the pursuit 
to trace folds of grey matters
inside out. 

Make dreams
a solace somewhere
whispered images may be
seen tangible in a way, 
a drift made by you
moving through this life
dropping leaves

in a scent,
how I know myself. 



Painting by George Lawrence Bullied (1858-1933), 'The Love Letter' c. 1911 in Public Domain.

Gesture

It is the same way we see heat
emanation, only by the rippling
of reality,
an oasis awaits further down the road.

Despite the distance we cover,
no matter how we adjust our focus
crisp lines singe into smoke
relaxing
feeling and senses
a source.

Desire is emanated
from the soul to the eye
that traces the shapeliness of
bodies around
a naked blur
which softly invites a gaze.

The way wind is welcome
where still
waiting for change
of pace moves no bodies
weighted with apathy.

The world spins, arrows fly,
hope floats, love kills, babies die,
the decrepit are reborn, the gates are locked,
gravity suspends its permanence
for a second
witness.

See how it feels...

Arid and parched
a body becomes
never reaching
for what cannot be held.



Image taken in Death Valley taken August 1982 by Roger 469 in Public Domain. 

Short-sighted

En route
observe by taking in
filters
your immediate surroundings,
eyes touching face coverings,
nothing could effectively hide
what is done
inside
is being done by undoing,
by implementing more restrictions
moving
others to do the same.

We stay
inside,
like obedient house-pets
longing for fresh air
hanging our heads
out the window
we notice
how it smells
like something new.

Pacing ourselves
replaces racing toward the End where
no meetings will take place-
in person
there is less
to get, less we can do, less available, less security,
less was nevermore than just enough.

What goes around
in circles
gets smaller, our circles ellipse
until we end
up
with no points
of contact.

We leave the blanks
instead of filling our barrels with ammunition,
from six feet away
we look the same underneath
our personal protection,
mortal and our skin feels too thin.

We covered our bases
and dirt floors
until the rug unraveled
leaving the looming
predictions
dyed without a pattern.



Photograph credit: Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer, 1941 in Public domain.

Long-view

It gets worse,
or gets better.

Both
chaos and entropy
like cause and reaction
entwined for grounding
the current state.

There is no potential spark
where nothing is conductive.

This way,
we are all safe,
they say this is the only way
to survive
to sacrifice
our freedoms for fear.

What if...
the same question
was posed
If what...?

Layers of complexity are added for mystery;
Gloves, face masks, hats, sunglasses, shaggy hair, alcohol cologne, we have all become suspect(s).
To Be
Watched, traced, recorded, counted, slotted, allotted 1 per person, our fair shares tanked, our borrowed time was revoked, to be copied, pasted and erased.
Mankind does one through five:
Social Divorce, Marital sentences, home tutoring, web meeting, happy hours at home, time ambles a long dark path out of the woods, there are stones to throw and rocks to kick down the road.


Painting by Edward Mitchell Banister (1828-1901), 'Woman walking down path' c. 1882 in Public Domain.

Recipe

I used to write about food.
After that night
we had that first
big below-the-belt fight
and you challenged me
to make it-
writing,
a submission.

I took the shriveled passion-fruit
and placed them on the kitchen table.
Admiring the small brown cluster
with the tip of my pen
I finely drew out
a likeness
that read-
pink, tender, more seeds than pulp
and nearly dry
inside.

I made something
delicious and tart.

Anyway,
that is how and where the disease
began simmering,
one organ after another
changing tune in time.
It was then-remember-
I renamed
myself, mostly taking away
nourishment,
and then adding a healthy dose
of humility
garnished with a twist of fate.

The paper folded,
and I was told
you may have to wing it
from here.

It is wise to always start
by pre-heating the oven
and a word of warning,
it often makes too much
so I suggest
mixing in small batches,
or halving...

Love,
you will like making this
too-
Ease back in,
cook until the juices run clear,
take small frequent bites,
use salt for wounds sparingly,
smell before tasting,
don't look at the date,
trust your senses,
and know-
most ingredients
may be substituted
in a pinch.

Although
practice makes no promises,
it only becomes sustenance
if you can make it
again and again.







Painting by Peter Jacob Horemans (1700-1776), Still life c. 1774 in Public domain.

Never mind

There was something important
I was supposed to be doing
with my life
right now
instead
I look for
a purpose
and find myself
in your gaze
living the way we once did
one more time
it felt different despite how
intimately we held onto
memories
of the way some feelings
make us forget
ourselves.



Painting by Boris Grigoriev (1886-1939), 'Woman in a green dress' c. 1926 / Public domain.

Two steps

You are ahead of me.
I have your back
in sight
while dutifully following
your lead I am left
wondering how far behind
I will be left
looking for your steps
and contemplate your hurried
gait-

Need you sprint
in such fits and starts?

My heart gets louder
the further I am
from the life
I chase.

I can picture your intense
forward focus
and broad shoulders
pushing through
the warning signs.

It becomes easy to forget
you are not alone
without shadows for solace
without trepidation
for what lies
around the bend
and without a sense of where
and why we started
this journey
together.

You win.
I will take my time
and keep going without a
wasted scent.
The finish line
was not my destination
anyway
we will be tied
in the End.


Painting by Giovanni Boldini (1842-1931), 'The Summer Stroll' in Public Domain. 

Bad hair day

He just came to bed.
The clock is wrong.
I am late
for nothing
so I get up before the alarm
and there is a notification
waiting for me
about a suspicious charge
to approve via Texting Y or N.
The internet is not working,
the wifi dissipated
my money evaporated.

My new husband
drinks, thirsting for his further demise.
My daughter starved herself
famished for failure.
My son avoided the real world
where the day breaks
optimism down into an icy rain
while the wind is whipping up
a bad batch
of loose and split ends.




Painting by Edgar Degas (1834-1917), 'Nackte beim Kämmen' in Public Domain. 

Spark-ling

For the small moment
You did it,
rekindled the small boy scout fire,
Had fun, for a time,
Were occupied
Stoked and prodded.

Handy to have more than wood to burn.
It was not enough to last
Through the cold night.
The steam and smoke billows and blows out.
The rain sidles in with heavy
Clouded feet.
Light becomes heavy
And I reminisce over
That time we shared this manmade heat without duty
Or blame,
Was love.

Togetherness said nothing
To explain or justify its purpose
Save
Sharing the warmth emitted from
One another.

My cheeks redden for other reasons
Than blood boiling laced with whiskey

See, we don't see
The same
Pleasure or Pain
Under heat, inside pressure, cold edges and sharp sounds
like sticks piled inside the stone hearth,
a resonance is echoed in our porous bones.

There is a classical tune
Evoking
Times past and a comfort
that stays
Lost in our presence.



Painting by John George Brown (1831-1913) 'Camp in Vermont' c. 1879 in Public Domain. 

Erasure

There was a line

on the shore that clear day

We both knew

where to stand

Once

the tide came to meet us

in the middle of taking in

both sides, the ways of life

varied as the grains

all touching one another

in such a clutching way

that the differences and space

only demarcate

the same

Way

these lines cross.

Painting by Sydney Starr, 'On the Shore' c. 1900 in Public Domain. 

Hatchling

An open invitation,
gilt in possibility
lures the timid beast from its musty cavern

The cacophy of air rushing around the
least resistant, matters are pushed and pulled upon
Certainties, tossed about

Potentials

The sudden hail defies the timid pleas
to unfold and stretch into
a solid lain beam of radiant heat

How could the mortal help himself anymore:
Gather, hunt, peck and reorder survival skills
Such as Love and Hate

Coming down

In various degrees of murder and rebirth
Springs forth
Colorful codes saturated with noise
and clashing heads with tails

The now bleeding ink pools
and blurs your name
craddled under ashen light,
limp and holding onto remorse
absorbed into pulp and grain limbs.

The sky showed no where
Safe
Welcoming
these evolutions
without debate thy will has been
done.

Spring inflates its toll
on the feral sheltered soul
Whose i's have been gouged out in disbelief,
and now blinded by the most elemental
Considerations.

The beast grows
weary and anxious
trying to stand upright
under these conditions,
dissuasion and doom
overshadows the occasion
to fear or be feared.



Artwork by William Blake, 'The great red dragon and the beast from the Sea' c. 1805 in Public Domain. 

Sprung from shallow graves

See, so busy not
Doing, having not enough
work to kill the Time

                           Space grows between Us
                           All ways of masonry wall
                           builders Handiwork

Stepping on our souls
Shaky grounds cause pause,
no mans land turning Over

                           'Til awoken from
                            Trenches such like ruts we run
                            down the clock counting.



Painting by Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840, 'The Cemetery' c. 1825 in Public domain.

Hades hand-basket

One basket for All
Eggs, incubating too much
heat with Entropy

And it could happen,
And it did
Worse than we
Suspected it
Could

Do-
No more
Harm or foulness
than the
Fear hath
Undone.



Painting by Alice Pike Barney (1857-1931), 'Girl with basket' c. 1888 in Public domain.

Aerodynamics outside Elsewhere

It had happened before
certainly,
not All
at the same time.

This time
a first
Spring
vital statistics
lost interests,
attentions drifted away
from their gliding paths.

The sky dictated
directions and we employed
Free will.
At all costs
we are trying
Time
sheltering in square spaces
and speculating about the sudden
impending darkness, the doom
and the emptiness filling corners
while hands draw curtains
and blinds squint like eye-lids
in thin masks
wanting only
Elsewhere.

For once,
the calls all came down
from above. Over-
ruled our old ways.

The birds sang out
consonants, whole
notes hailing hard
lyrics none had heard
before but had been said
meaning suddenly something
anything, anymore,
save a Poets smooth
translation of such dead languages
avian, barbarian utterances
fallen on deaf ears
so many years
we stood under oblivious
and missing
the calls.

There was no place else to go,
to look, to escape, to buy, to barter, to sell,
to tell, to exaggerate, to hide, to collect,
to get, to juggle, to balance, to plan, to invest,
to pad our feet
by adding more Pyrite in the veins
connecting our heart to our soles.

Blood is always on the move.

We look down
and out-side-gazes
away from each other
avoidant, accursed
shielded and sheltered
under the same temperamental
Spring sky
whereby
a feathered friend cocks
his head and chooses
a listener to teach
one good birdsong.



Image description: Birds in flight, St. George Island, Alaska, USFWS, dated 12/04 in Public Domain. 

Wildflower Mix

Nobody notices
the wildflowers I planted
up on the steep hill-side
amongst the chaos
and they are just seeds
It is Spring
after all,
but these are for me.

There was no way to tell
what would come up
where
and yet the rain, like blame
settles on a place,

soon enough
colors come out
like memories lured by
a scent, the way pollen
is heavy and imposing
making an occasion
to rise.

Between weeds, the butterflies weave
and I dig a fine line
between reaping and sowing,
the towhees wings graze by me
and I hear Hope
spoken in a voice that sounds
close to my own.

It was clear,
a good day to plant the seeds.
For this was the time to change
the natural course of things
as if by hand
we could sense
the Possibilty.

"I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance."
-e. e. cummings

Painting by Sergey Vinogradov (1869-1938), 'Still life with wildflowers' date unknown in Public Domain. 

Time's Up

The witching hour grown heavy
with its customary anticipation,
takes its tiny minute hand
to tap gently, persistently
on my sleeping body
causing the cat to stir,
purr and stretch
Time
into manifest destinies
with whispers of sound
like padded feet
passing under doors.
Air is moving all around
us making vertigo
an entrance.

The body is moved
by the mind.
A cauldron steams and hisses
acrid blackness
and while all the other
heavily burdened bodies
are tucked deep down
in the sand,
weighted by breath
and erased by tide,
an inside voice
gives rise to words
that lie
in the subconscious
and spell
Magic
with only the thinnest lucid air.

This hour
witch made
alone
disappear
as fast as you passed through
the fear of flying Time.

Macbeth Act IV Scene I

FIRST WITCH

Round about the cauldron go;

In the poison’d entrails throw;

Toad, that under cold stone

Days and nights has thirty-one

Swelt’red venom sleeping got,

Boil thou first i’ th’ charmed pot.

THREE WITCHES

Double, double, toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

SECOND WITCH

Fillet of a fenny snake,

In the cauldron boil and bake;

Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,

Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,

For a charm of pow’rful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

THREE WITCHES

Double, double, toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

THIRD WITCH

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,

Witch’s mummy, maw and gulf

Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,

Root of hemlock digg’d i’ th’ dark,

Liver of blaspheming Jew,

Gall of goat, and slips of yew

Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,

Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,

Finger of birth-strangled babe

Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,

Make the gruel thick and slab.

Add thereto a tiger’s chawdron,

For th’ ingredience of our cau’dron.

THREE WITCHES

Double, double, toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

SECOND WITCH

Cool it with a baboon’s blood,

Then the charm is firm and good.

Enter Hecat and the other three Witches.

HECAT

O, well done! I commend your pains,

And every one shall share i’ th’ gains.

And now about the cauldron sing,

Like elves and fairies in a ring,

Enchanting all that you put in.

Music and a song: “Black spirits, etc.”

Exit Hecat.

SECOND WITCH

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.

Knocking.

Open, locks,

Whoever knocks!

Enter Macbeth.

MACBETH

How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?

What is’t you do?

ALL WITCHES

A deed without a name.

MACBETH

I conjure you, by that which you profess

(How e’er you come to know it), answer me:

Though you untie the winds, and let them fight

Against the churches; though the yesty waves

Confound and swallow navigation up;

Though bladed corn be lodg’d, and trees blown down;

Though castles topple on their warders’ heads;

Though palaces and pyramids do slope

Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure

Of nature’s germains tumble all together,

Even till destruction sicken; answer me

To what I ask you.

---

MACBETH

Infected be the air whereon they ride,

And damn’d all those that trust them! I did hear

The galloping of horse. Who was’t came by?

Copyright ©2005-2019 by PlayShakespeare.com.
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Copyright ©2005-2019 by PlayShakespeare.com.
Visit http://www.playshakespeare.com/license for details.

Painting by E.R. Hughes, 'A Witch' c. 1902 in Public Domain. 

Foretelling

The tower of Babel crumbled
close to Heavens Gate
under the weight of words
being tossed across
crooked beams of Meaning,
colliding with brute force
like wrecking balls or
oblong Egos
characters fell
one by one.

The virus spread viciously
devouring breathless bodies
whose lungs collapsed
in fevered white surrender
making trespassers doubt
ownership.
Perhaps by taking flight,
the wingless mammals
mistook their own shadows for
Angels
of Mercy.

Maybe, like Icharus
we flew too close to the sun
singeing and singing our victory
songs. Hymns and hers
breaking the speed of light.
He resurfaces atop the rubble
of Babel
only spread his sickly self destructive
wings around the globe
suffocating us with immortal
whims and wicked winds.

None would dare say
aloud
it sounded like
lightning
a curse
or zero in zero chance
our earthly eyes
would adjust to this light.




Artwork by Sergey Solomko (1855-1928) 'Icarus' Dream' in Public Domain. 

Reflection

A daughter is a distorted mirror
Image
of her mother
in a different light-

She reflects tiny scratches
caused by sharp objects
hurled at the surface
not hard enough
to break this concentration
of silhouette
and deformity of depth.

Only an Impression
too light
to stay in one body
fills the frame
out toward its beveled edges.

And all that cannot be contained
by Image is Imagination.

The daughter does not recognize
Herself
as better than
as more than
a mother could bear.

A swift movement of time blurs
the point
when the daughter draws her sword,
and the mother caps her pen.


Image credit: By Marcantonio Raidmondi (1480-1534), 'Justice personified' Engraving circa 1515-1525 in Public Domain.