Wait Capacity

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.

Holding hands

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. 

The Happiness Pursuit

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.

Retreat

 

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.

Final

 

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.

Relativity

 

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)

Voluminous

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

Beauty Mark

 

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.

86 Proof

 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. 

Still life (goes on)

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