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.