Whispy so faint
or feign like clouds,
like whispers
of empty voice
filled in breezes
that matter not
until
hitting something
like chimes
whereby hinting of
something more
of substance,
a question
lingers like
what matters
until...
Painting by Konrad Krzyżanowski, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
They-
wanted me to fail-
expected me to-
secretly
suffer.
They
believed him
who spoke in tongues
dripping with alcohol-
venom-
or temptation.
They
assumed some-
thing some-
one else
knowing naked and shorn
They
could never make it through
the frozen nights
of solitude.
They
estimated-
were mistaken and
some, like me, would say
unlucky
betting on the black sheep
betting on the lamb
who is the wolf
you feed-
and the bitten hand
that continues to write through the pain.
Painting by William Sidney Cooper, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
As far away as we
All are
From where we once stood
not long ago
relative
to what sticks and what flies off
Spinning
as we are
oblivious to this
Constant.
Nothing
stays,
nothing is graspable
for one life-
time-
Goes fast and slow
relative
to how our time
is-
perceived.
And still
try we must
to hold on
centripetally
where we now
understand.
Painting by Josephus Laurentius Dyckmans, 'At the Spinning wheel' c. 1845 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
It's a good thing that red lights aren't like red flags-
more commonly seen in hindsight.
Color blindness may be more like
selective hearing.
Why are there so many bright
crimson colors kaleidoscoping
when remembering (him)?
Would those red flags be like;
the ambulance rides, the light coming in
on the sides (gut instinct)
could it be
the blood splatters, bloody hands,
drunken stupors
or the rage, or his cheeks,
the fire-alarm(s)
the sunsets, the stains
or the business bank account
shiny red as a waxed Macintosh apple
(poisoned)...
Not once
an apology,
not black or white-
It seemed neon
not calling me beautiful-anymore
disdain, malice, silence
and absence (even when present),
'Vacancy'
Now I can see
the grey area
are the clouds, air-wind made visible,
attempting to contain-
Believe
they loom, as omens, but do not stop
or look back while perpetually
moving forward,
breaking and forming again and again.
And all colors
are prismatic, it is we that assign
such meanings as
to stop or go.
Painting by Anna Lownes, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Theoretically
if someone showed me
the Future
and said This or That
We both know we'd go with
less pain
We go on
without knowing which is which
The will
yours-
the will see-after
which was worse.
This way
we suffer the same fate.
Painting by Pietro della Vecchia, 'Fortune teller reading the palm of a soldier c. 1626-1678 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Keep going
an hour longer than you think you can...
Strength
is not how heavy the load
or capacity
to measure up
against the weary
whose Joy
dwells in Nothing-
of want
Everything back,
as though undo was a direction
from undone.
When Lost;
the Way, the Hope, the Time,
the trust
the will, the want, the why-
The sun rises its warm cheek
lighting the low flame
of a fresh poppy
bursting through the winter mud.
Anyway the next step,
the next moment
finds me
empty and lighter and
unable to grasp ahold
of any-thing-any-body-any-way
right or left
or stay
strong long enough
to make sense
of Beauty.
Painting by Auguste Allongé (1833-1898), 'A Walk in the Forest' c. 1873 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Distinctly the pad of her hand
the inside of her thumb
tapping like a tambourine
white dust exploding upward
each solid strike
and dare ask
why do you do that Grandma?
She liked wearing an apron,
To make it all smooth and loose
or something like that
she said.
The white powder
was not flour
on my parents' kitchen counter
back then the oven made
TV dinners
better than the microwave.
And as I sift
through the coarse grains
of the collapsed sandcastle
of my own making
where I grew into
adding on and adding on
but built too close
to the tideline-
there was nothing
softer than flakes of carbon and gold
no solid memories endured
the crashing
like white shells
of me.
Painting by Granville Redmond, 'Talk at the beach' c. 1931 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Chest
like vault
or treasure keeper-
holder
as in Heart
or locket, like a lockbox
fitted with skeleton key-
hole-
simply very heavy
and something
sounds
broken
inside.
Unable to lift alone
as pallbearer in the past
I feel the dead weight
familiar remembering
without seeing
This must be why
we bury our dead
in wooden chests such
as these
likewise.
Photo credit: Harris & Ewing, photographer, taken 1925 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
As if I was taken for a ride
without asking for a one-way ticket
wherever not Home
As though it were a nice car
so it meant some safety built-in
As it was
my car
all along
And I let a drunk drive
which explains the carnage
and typical manner
of walking away unscathed
as though blood diluted without alcohol
creates a cushion
in impact-
In fact
the driver always walks away
with a death sentence
that ends
with a sober
period.
Photo credit National Archives at College Park, taken c. 1970 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
The way the sea lion
thrusts its slick body
into the ink stain
cloud of fish-
snagging perhaps one
or two
feels successful-
As does the damsel dragonfly
darting into plumes of gnats
dissipating like dust motes
in the slanted October sun
devouring one at a time
determined to dine until dusks end.
The jumbo jet pierces the jeweled
sky, stirring low sounds and tearing
a hole above
carries bodies
aimlessly, defying time and gravity
yet the traveled disperse
undone.
For just one
the chase was everything
but effort
whereas above,
so below,
there was always more
or less
grace
with a predator
and its prey.
Painting by David de Coninck, titled 'A peacock, turkey, rabbits, and cockerel in a landscape' c. 1659-1701 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
As in
not first
but alternate
a back-up after
A
Designation
of not
Primary
B sides
after-thought-
empty-blanked
there was no time-
paper-music-words
left
to eat.
Painting credit: Édouard VuillardMadame Prosper Emile Weil at her desk circa 1923. Pastel and distemper on paper mounted on board59.5 x 52.5 cm board; 82.5 x 75.5 x 8 cm frameArt Gallery of New South WalesGift of Margaret Olley 1999.
You know
I couldn't sit down
for the longest time-until now
and realized-that meant I was staying.
In shock
in a new Purgatory
between the life not gone
and the one not yet begun.
Of course
change isn't This to That
transition is a stretched out process
that sinks, tears, and wears on the traveler.
Perhaps progress
is just change
that never arrives-per se
or takes a seat...
Painting by Vilhelm Hammershøi, 'Rest' c. 19905 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
October days are merely
dawn passing the dim torch to dusk.
Layering
upon the earthen floor
over our bodies
the elements are intensified
between what lives and what dies
a time
to dwell together
in muted tones.
These October days
all end
with soul dark nights,
crisp as the apparition
that spurns and nudges
one to never be
done.
Photo credited by Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 'Gift of Mrs. Ruthe Feldman in memory of Philip Feldman (M.91.377.52)' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Perched to pounce
on the sheet white page
Ink propels itself
infinite as adrenaline
from fingertips
feeling for details
Not saying
what was a thought
before
Another word placed
Itself
to getting somewhere closer
needing a
tangible witness
to guide.
Painting by August Macke c. 1910, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Widowed.
I know.
Defining the living
differing
from the dead
no more
less is more
time
heals, they say, better
someday, you'll see, after
waking me from my
apathy
Alone
and at times
afraid.
Arachnophobic, he was anyway
weakling for his size
entangled in his own webs
he chose to
attach to hollow branches
before wind wakes
taking down
all trace
of home, snare, trap, nest
I should feel blessed to be free
of all the same hospice
And just this
One
got away alive.
Photo by Uwe Jelting, 2004 CC0, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.
As if it would be the death of me
and I cared little
about solving some riddle or
making some rhyme
like Old MacDonald
whose repetition
entertains only the
two little pigs
That sat in their sty
never wondering why-
the noise.
Getting high on their fermented
gluttonous filth made by
consummation and what has
been long ago
consumed.
Entombed as all of us were
by fences, gates, latitudes and gravity,
pathways are constantly Being made
into muddy ruts.
Here I was
set free to roam further than any oink
carries
on, unleashed
with a song
until death do us part where the grass
is deeper green, the air is sharply clean and there are no
twisted or barbed wires to snare and scare
yet one must tire of standing in muck
wet between the cloven hooves.
No less, it was my dumb luck
to have and to hold
no harm, no farm, no title
no hand.
No bacon was ever made
from pet pigs pacing their pen in purgatory.
Artwork by L. Prang & Co., copyright claimant, Domestic Pig' c. 1874 Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Between Us-Nothing
but Space and Time, grow and shrink
reaching the same light
Now, it is too late
to take it back or let go
so completely gone
Two souls are mated
Being seeks itself alone
there was always More.
Painting by Martin Johnson Heade (1819-1904), 'Flowers of Hope' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Falling comes naturally
as common as fear
another body
knocked down-
Learning how to climb
up to the canopy
out of the arbor awnings
each branch a rung
bell
a ladder
has no top
The horizon awaits this distant gaze
further than
a crow flies
an escape
too far to grasp, too afraid to take
it all in
to begin again
asking...
What is more
No-
body needs to learn
anything except
landing
softly
before rising again
with an icy wind
at knifepoint
only to return
home, rootbound
thirsting
for more.
Artwork by Ellen Thayer Fisher, 'Fall leaves and Acrons' c. 1885 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Tensing, pulling, readiness, and resistance
as much as we can
gather
before -SNAP-
to hold a purpose
no more
holding together
Just
when life recoils, takes cover
inside
and becomes slack
limp before
taut
all comes back
to holding on-
to Nothing
tight.
Photo credit by Oroo, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
I stepped up to the mouth
of the dark hole,
a flicker catching my curious
necessity for heat
as in a fondness for friction
something strong stirs
in this cave
I come to find
as my eyes adjust
not some majestic dragon
as projected upon the moist stone wall
but a shriveled and scarred ogre
unseen to himself and flesh burnt
by the venomous flames uncoiling
from his own sharp tongue
lashing.
The smoke and singe surround every crevice
a decrepid and deathly stench
steams from his chest where
his heart rotted in the darkness
called some body and vacant vessel
vulnerable and afraid
of all the elements
that make
a man.
Photography: Albert Grünwedel (July 31, 1856 – October 28, 1935), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
a moment dis-missed
then and then again
trees fell like bodies
this time dis-appears
as if ours to waste.
Artwork by José Nin y Tudó (1840-1908), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Dry dirt cratering
a doe glides across the yard
eats the fallen fruit.
Artwork by Franz Marc (1880-1916), titled 'Deer at Dusk' dated 1909 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Any-one-of-Us
who have heard
the shattering of a heart,
of a world
fragmented, knows the
intent to deafen each piercing note...
Those of Us
who have struggled with intruding songs and scents,
are stuck in a triggered trap, clamped
between sharp teeth
and resisting no more,
alone.
Some of Us
disagree
with how lovely it is to have lost
than never have had
played a game we did not know.
Intuition, like embers emit no smoke,
but deep connections
lean candle flames without a breeze.
It can be felt,
on fingertips, burnt leaves, ashes-
heat is Life.
Death is a dampening, silent
as in, buried Alive.
And I know
how these memories
refuse departure.
On the ancient land where I now stand-
my story is held momentarily
footprints in the red dirt
alone, cauterized, singed,
and dappled with sunlight.
Fire with fire.
Most of Us
will not get that close
ever again.
None of Us
understand
the heart that burns
and beats without Us
skipping over
tiny details like nails
hammered into the heartwood.
Artwork by: Sigmund Grimm, dated 1520 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Ghosted
by your own spirit,
soul stuck in a purgatory
until the facts are faced,
finally-
what then?
Lucid flesh like
apparition, unheard
and in between
pain and suffering-despair
and the need to
continue to breathe
cradling the heartbeat,
insisting endurance
and through it.
There was no There
there,
carbon copies of conceit,
echoing
'I was here'.
Nothing gained
without loss,
as if grief gave more
than it took
of Us
Distorted shadow figures
have mistaken
me
for empty.
Painting by Sergey Vinogradov, dated before 1938 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
I had a grip.
A naked palm clenched
around,
I had a handle on the thing
softly carrying it with me,
until I noticed
the odd itch of thick blood
sliding down and out
between my fingers.
Holding on too tight
but feeling nothing
of pain or wounds
after barely
holding on so long,
I observed myself
doing it wrong.
After all-
the petals had fallen
behind me
leaving
choices made for me.
No blessings to count,
no scent
to take in-
and it must have been dead
who knows how long...
Dried and brittle
piercing-
This is
how I knew
He loved me not.
Painting by Carolus-Duran, 'Portrait of Lucy Lee Robbins' by Carolus Duran, dated 1884 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Personally,
I found Joy
frequently
in fleeting moments
such as when
the forty finches
fly into the ten-foot-tall
hibiscus
for a breakfast buffet
of aphid ecstasy,
platters sparkling and
moist with dawn dew
while the sun undresses
all the buds and
peels back perfect petals
with warm invitation
as in seduction.
Watching my cat
Goose
standing bipedal and erect,
head cocked and
cackling quite curiously
at the busy borage of birds,
attempting to talk to them.
The finches
feel no fear
seeming to respect
that we were here
first,
fleeing only when full.
Image credit: Poyt448 Peter Woodard, Hibiscus splendens - flower, a rainforest tree or shrub of eastern Australia taken 11/2005 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
As in
gift again.
We all like treats.
Pavlov proved this with his puppies.
What's more? More treats.
And more treats, please.
Gluttony leaves no room
for the famished to breathe,
too much of it all and and and
Consumed consumers consuming
treats that others had or wanted
to have and to hold,
to stack behind the curtain wall
amass
nothing
easily taken away.
The animal obeys
his carnal needs
and remembers.
The human collects
his dull desires
and forgets
we have already had it
All.
Painting by Arthur Heyer (1872-1931), 'Bulldog sound asleep' c. before 1931 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Finally married
that man
Finally
left that man
for good
as soon as I could.
Finally saw
the predator
posing as a lover.
Finally found
myself
a deep dwelling place
far away and finally safe.
Finally
alone again
and feeling-growing
Grace
becomes a knot
untied.
Although
no
freedom
is Final.
Painting by John Singer Sargent, 'Parisian Beggar Girl', dated c. 1880 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
This
hour
Our
His-Hers-For-
ever
lost love
In
(time)
spaces squeezes
warps-distorts-skews
One plus One
is Nothing
if one is taken away.
When divided
remains one
Doesn't matter
place-
holders or containers
for counting
in circles
and talking
more or less
one share
of the pi.
As soon as
circumferences
can be drawn
like conclusions,
no connections
could be made
around
the pull, repulsion,
tension
of
dark matters
held whole and balanced
by the space
between
then and Now.
Image info:
English: About 1,600 light-years away, in a binary star system fondly known as J0806, two dense white dwarf stars orbit each other once every 321 seconds. Interpreting x-ray data from the Chandra Observatory astronomers argue that the stars' already impressively short orbital period is steadily getting shorter as the stars spiral closer together. Even though they are separated by about 80,000 kilometers (the Earth-Moon distance is 400,000 kilometers) the two stars are therefore destined to merge. Depicted in this artist's vision, the death spiral of the remarkable J0806 system is a consequence of Einstein's theory of General Relativity that predicts the white dwarf stars will lose their orbital energy by generating gravity waves. In fact, J0806 could be one of the brightest sources of gravitational waves in our galaxy, directly detectable by future space-based gravity wave instruments.
Dated June 2005
Credit: Tod Strohmayer (GSFC), CXC, NASA - Illustration: Dana Berry (CXC)
I long to be
a book upon
that shelf,
an erect
spine
gazing quietly
Outward
The kind of book
with extra
creamy
blank pages
after
So we can continue
the story
a little past
The End...
Photograph info:
Public Library- the work of Leyton Public Library Service, Church Lane, Leytonstone, London, England, UK, September 1944
Two young female library assistants rearrange and classify books at Leytonstone Public Library, Church Lane
Dated: 1944
You see,
I was the passenger,
I once taught him-a gentleman
always lets his lady in
first-
Anyway,
he must do this
still.
I wonder
when I knew
I wonder if
I was blinded
by a reflection
or the sun.
His profile
blocked
my view
of the ocean at sunset
this warm evening
after treating me
to join him at one of the
places
He drinks and dines
regularly.
His shades on, left elbow propped outside
his Jeep window,
a lit cigarette in hand
and typical
scowl on his face.
I was the one
that broke the silence,
usually,
he broke promises,
always.
My voice cracked through the granulated air,
I'm supposed to make a list
of 100 things
I like about myself.
Turning to me
abruptly
he laughed heartedly
It's hard- I said humbly.
I bet, he mumbled
awkwardly
while looking far away.
After another silence
grew thick
My moles, I even listed them-
Name some-
thing
you like about me?
He did not respond
Until
taking a deep drag and
flicking his ash,
with emphasis
I like your mole too...
In the backdrop behind him,
the horizon cast dying rays
of violent pink and orange-gold
Truimphant
over all
marking this blissful moment
of Beauty
missed
by one.
Artist: Gaston Bussière (1862-1928), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
My husband rolls over
onto his other hip.
His leaden arm
felling like a cut tree,
his hot deep breath
stews with Tequila
She holds her breath
trying to remain quiet
staring at the ceiling fan,
the young bartender
in our bed,
instead of sleeping by
her young son, sacrifices
the old proud man, brutish
seems safe enough
strangely his snore
bothers her less
than the cat growling
at her naked blistered feet
exposed.
I lie awake dreamless,
the window open, crickets, an owl,
trees readjusting their leaves,
Whispering
I am unsettled
knowing how easily
he sleeps,
how easily his breath,
comes and goes.
A moth trapped inside the porch light cover,
slams the sides
meets a natural death, resisting
remembering
how the attraction made him feel alive
instead of finite, fraudulent,
inebriated, flammable
blame and denial
she agreed with him
always.
I turn over
thinking, warning
Be careful of open flames.
The canvas bled
the day we wed
all color
draining
the ocean
as a witness
softly eroding
the world under (our) toes
the rain holds its breath
heaven knows
white noise
soothes,
sometimes crashing, breaking-
promises, hearts
sharp words into mulched glass
Barefoot
I am
slipping away
and alone at the altar
Only a silhouette
before the sun
blinding me
as the man of my dreams
Sandman, Shadowman
roll back into
the fog bank offshore
Off the shelf
broken sand dollars
lie still and stacked
unspent
only I notice the omen
among the flowers
and painted pictures and poses,
as if
a ring
holds on
to promises
or runs
thin
and over diluted...
Only cycles remain.
I left the return
of Spring.
He was gone,
long before
the painting
finished.
Photo credit: me of me
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
