Pandora and the Barfly

He buzzed by
Then circled back around and
Hovered,

Swirling and dashing

only more agitated,
making insect demands
before landing- quite hurriedly.

He begged for the 

Fair Maiden to
Open Up, prying and poking

around.
She refused, stalling and countering-

'It depends upon how you carry me'-
she offered and dared.

Relentless in circles,
Fruitless nonetheless no movements
no lift nothing was felt.

She did not even know

Herself
All that was contained
Inside. Why
No smell crept out and still-

Attracting
So many flies, diligent and
short-lived, by Nature.

Light seekers and crap keepers,
Yet none, not a single one, 

nor a swarm
would lift her 

Wait. 

Painting by Édouard Manet (1832-1883),  'Un bar aux Folies-Bergère' c. 1881 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Christmas Presence

 

 

I am here 

Warm blooded

In the icy dawn.

Pink blush to periwinkle blues

Paint the sky

Behind eyelashes,

Barren branches,

Heavy hearts hung high

Not just I 

sigh, exhale

thinking only of 

Others

whose day holds heavy fruit,

Hugs, in deep loss and great gains

ripe and rotten. I

Inhale the sharpness of

Those warm with love and

Those hollow in hopelessness.

Those that have just arrived,

Those that have long left,

Those that remain

In this familiar temperance

I feel

Here. And there

Goes, swift as the hours,

enduring as years

Ends and Begins

all Over and

Again.

 

 

 

Artwork by Hans Makart 1840-1884), 'Abundantia the gifts of the earth' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

E. Pifanny

I was more in

Love with the 

Place than the man.

-I thought-

Humans are complex,

Addicted ones are

Predictable.

I think-

If you are not given

More than you think you can handle-

then how would you know-

How much more

You could...

I figured,

Turning a blind eye

makes you 

Feel more than

hind (in)sight like fore-

shadowing.

I realized,

Loss enhances the value of 

What you have, irreplaceable or

simple, nameable, and not.

Holding on to 

Nothing is free

falling-

Until 

I knew-

Everything

Lands

Home again

Like a name you've never heard, but

Think you know or a place

You've never been and find 

Yourself in

Love.

Painting by William Orpen (1878-1931), 'The Eastern Gown' c. 1906 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Vanities

All fires die

down

from embers to ash

retardant and uniform.

Our face and fingertips

warmed when close

once upon those times of

burning.

This glow, you know

attracts more than

the dark and cold that surround

our rituals.

Smoke follows beauty,

we all know 

while choking

back tears

it escapes and rises above

the flames.

The words were carried,

the intentions swallowed,

the time was wasted

watching and waiting

while warm

sparks blink.

Stoking and smoldering

somewhere inside

the pit 

we all knew these bridges

suspend more than belief. 

Painting by Nikolai Astrup, c. 1909 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

How clear up here

To be free

whether winds

push or pull

To Be sure

one cannot fall...

Further

Delight lies

in the details.

The Raven and the grasshopper

see you seeing them

Alone

and altogether such...

simplicities and cycles

remain

Elemental.

Artwork by Louis Agassiz Fuertes, 'Nightjar in flight' c. 1910-1914 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Office

Like Zoo babies, born in captivity

know no wilderness

exists

Does the fly

high on the fifteenth floor

ignore

the tinted windows

as if a painting

of one dimension

not to mention

alley cats, stray dogs, the homeless

whose living room

is larger

than life-in the city

the concrete jungle is overgrown

with wildlife

wanting to escape

the vast unknowns.

Image credit by Carol M. Highsmith, 'The Transamerica Pyramid is the tallest skyscraper in the San Francisco, California, skyline and one of its most iconic" in Public domain c. 1980-2006, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Time heals

Heavy loads lighten

With deposits and discards

Along the way

The body seems to know

What to do

when cut, shattered, broken

Takes care

of itself, well

Wounds heal, eventually

Even the inside ones

May mend

If treated

Kindly, Rest,

Until ready

to move 

On each step carries

One-One

step further away

From the point

Of impact.

In tact 

You must keep 

walking from Then.

Lighter with Less.

Changed for Good.

Humbled with Life.

Graced by...

Painting by Carl Holsøe, c. 1881-1936 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Blame

Nobody makes quilts

anymore

from scraps-

gathered, smothered

with pieces of

all the left

overs...

Some people don't eat

left

overs

or sugar, or walking creatures, or 

things that taste fishy-

Some say if

you dish it

you should take it

and some say 

No, thank you,

I'm full.

There seems to always be a way

To say, 

It is not right, it is not my-

fault-

lines lie

over there-

I was listening

Under a cover...

almost like, you know-

umbrellas 

were made to shield

the light

by design.

I don't like 

the shelter.

I get rained on-

Instead

I blame myself

for what cannot be 

unheard, retracted

undone

The word(s)

They

Use

They, them, the other

Way, they say 

Faults 

Sleep, for a time...

Painting by Henry Singleton, 'Ariel on a Bat's back' c. 1819 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Inanimate

Weeping willows

shoulder to shoulder,

mid-century Victorians

lean upon one another.

Wired webs woven atop

Holy wood poles high above

jumbo jets roar toward a stop-

on the runway not far off

in the distance

skyscrapers pierce 

the solid grey sky

Nothing minds my glance.

Nothing moves

unless moved

by something outside 

Itself. 

Image credit: 803 WHITAKER STREET, DETAIL OF PORCH, NORTHEAST CORNER - Savannah Victorian Historic District, Bounded by Gwinnett, East Broad, West Broad Street and Anderson Lane, Savannah, Chatham County, GA, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

I see you

Standing outside

Myself

lately, recognizing

point of view

can only be one at a time

I'm in shock, some suggest, surreal, soberly,

listening too much watching

another image 

Of I-not noticing

She is seen. 

Startling

fear of beginnings

bearing endings 

there can be no time

to reflect. 

Painting by Grigory Soroka, 'Reflection in the mirror'c. 1850 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

What Floats

 

Above all

else in the daylight

my favorite sight

or Phenomenon

occurs in the Sky;

Fallstreak holes, lenticular halos atop

tall peaks

and the mighty Mammatus.

I seldom seek

the Why's

As cycles spin

I think I may see them again,

when the Sun's slanted spears

Disrupt

It all-appears 

Darker, more real,

an occurrence

of grounding

without sounding too

Heavy.

Image credited by Alpsdake, in Public Domain (CC0),'Mount Fuji from Mount Ogochi' taken 10/22, 2000 via Wikimedia Commons.

Happily

After all

that Time,

Eighteen years

Ends

Alone 

I can do

what I want

what 

Do I want-when

happiest

Ever-after 

all...

Isn't that

how fairy tales 

End?

Painting by Hermann Koch c. before 1939) in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Sense making

Some-things 
Stirring
But you cannot see It.
Less than wind
must be
that other
Dimension You
Feel but cannot
Touch.

Tension
and tingling, and tummy flips
Come from
There. You can smell
Rain
can't you?
Never-mind,
I think
I have asked before...

Painting by Alexander Helwig Wyant, 'Wind Clouds' c. 1927 via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain.

Beauty mark

What a triumph it is

To truly love something

About your own 

Body.

Before the crash and

Burn,

I remember turning to him

as we drove by

Our ocean,

and posing to him-

Which one of my moles

Do you like the best?

He was smiling

Anyway and said

I love it too...

And I knew

The end.

Painting by August Macke, 'Couple at the garden table' c. 1914, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

That night

Moonlit midnight

Weeping willows whip with winds

Roses rock

thrashing thorns thrust

trash tumbles through the

sin slick stained street...

Suburbia stirs under sleepless sheets.

Chimes clang cacophony choirs

cats cry 

Porch lights pulse on the pale pavement

a piano plays...

Otherwise

Only one oppressed

Woman worries and wonders what will withstand

sirens, storms, shattering and shearing souls,

now and never

Survival so still

Havoc hath had

Infinite intention 

Itself.

Painting by George Bellows, 'Summer Night' c. 1909 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Slate grey

Starting to look like my old self

Or young self

And when I steal a glance

In a random reflection

I have seen

The crazy haired

Listening

Clean slate

Child

That has been there

All along

Long time,

No see-

eyes were always grey.

Seriously-

is that the same 

insides out?

Born that way

They say

It goes that way, life

Mirrors...

What?

Again,

an echo reiterates.

Or so it seems slated,

Starting Over and I

Was Here

As if carved into

A tree.

Painting by Thorolf Holmboe, 'Weeping willows' c. 1907 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Broke girl

They say

When you break 

A big bill,

Into smaller ones

It spends faster...

Change is always 

due

When offering more

Than-

what it's worth.

True

Enough-as a theory.

Change is more 

Of a fundamental

Proof.

What you see

Is what you get-

Exchanged

For small pieces

Worth saving. 

Painting by George Elgar Hicks, 'Gypsy girl' c. 1899 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Basket case

What comes

After all?

So much

stacked

unbeknownst

we carry on

Or perhaps

Was it

Grace?

And then-

How much a

handbasket

Will hold

over so many 

seasons,

weather worn

by hand. 

Painting by Winslow Homer 'Girl Carrying a Basket' c. 1882 in National Gallery of Art, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons.

Nickel Linings

When counting blessings

like spare

Change

keeps

Adding up to

Less sense

than we thought we had,

stashed In crevices

it is the

Change

Saved

For a rainy day

That makes its way

Toward

Something found...

Even green

wears off

Leaves

and becomes something

More

In time, interesting...

The zinc sky reflects

Itself

empty

but unbroken. 

Painting by Matthias Stom, 'Woman counting coins by candlelight' (Allegory of Avarice), c. 1635 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Chrysalis

Madame Butterfly,

Sometimes we be-

come

that which hurt

Us, that one we abhor

All the more

Consumed

and eaten alive.

One can feel this,

as a matter of growth

inside

as cocoon cannot keep

safe 

its contents.

From moth to monarch

Color comes to show

Consumption.

I have become many

Delicate versions

Of a creature

That becomes-

Part of

creation.

Canaries are placed inside

Coal mines

by us, to save us

from poison unseen.

Other-

Wise

I have chosen

To hover at the blazing

Hearth

making smoke rings

with ashen wings

while warm

blooded bodies

Take shelter

soaking in stillness.

I can

Still

fly away.

Painting by Edward Mason Eggleston (1882-1941), 'A Day in June' c. 1932 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Pursuit

 Joy is too large to wrap

Anything around,

Mind, Body, universe...

Whereas happy seems to fit

like a coin, a stone, a ladybug,

in the palm

leaving no trace.

Happy comes and goes

while Joy

lingers

imperceptibly, inescapably

Inside.

After chasing

Thing to thing

The cat purrs on my chest-

He cannot get any closer. 

Image credit: me. Photo of SSW, aka Smokey, c. 10/21/2022. 

Scar Tissue

 

What are you doing with this body

The soul asked the mind

To and from bounced as echoes 

Evade their sources

Proof

You want to know

Who

You are

Now, is past

Then, next I plan

On finding 

A voice

hat Does 

instead of making sound waves

with air

Going to and from

Self and I 

just to know

Nothing

Is true

Is false

looking 

where questions

make marks

like clouds,

See

the blue.

Artwork by Konrad Krzyżanowski, 'Clouds' c. 1906, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Pro Noun

When it is said

Something told me

Something made me

I sensed something-

where is the body

of the thing

that sometimes

does not resemble

Us

Like things

that feel or don't feel

Right?

Aren't we feeling

Some

Thing...

Artwork by Robert Lewis Reid, 'The Mirror' c. 1910 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

The Monster's House (D.O.D. 2022)

 

We called it 'The Monsters House'

First 

Because it had no windows and was made of concrete

It had a lighthouse tower

Only a tiara on tiny red lights to warn planes

In fog and like May

Was always in thick blankets 

Of grey days stacked

On holidays most years 

There was some decor

As if it could fit in

With the community

It stood on the Pacific Coast

Line and you could draw a line 

Home from any spot

Within range

Like Babel

It spoke of neither here

Nor there

A power plant

It became powerless,

Nothing like plants

Holding sun

I tossed out my anchor

With the security of pillars

Standing strong

Eternal and moral

You can guess 

How it crumbled

Like sand

Decommissioned, dethroned

And deleted

From the horizon

As the world spun

On and on

I stood

Still

Ashes go nowhere

Nobody will remember

A solid building

Of imagination.

Image: Self, taken in front of Monster's House (Cbad-Tamarack) March 2020 (D.O.D.-date of destruction)

Time keepers

What is there

to hear, here beneath the rain

falling?

The pianist across the street,

a poem being typed

after-thought,

above or under sirens and 

howls.

Fingertips dance

with swollen pads

across the scales;

ivory teeth, black cavities,

chatter seeking vibration 

or resonance

held in a line

that holds a tune.

Or thread of meaning-

unraveling feeling

and translating thoughts 

not our own

into sound 

between and beneath the horizontal cradle

where echoes may overlap hints of truth

there is a sense of unfolding

like pages turning 

a chord is struck

accord is sought

or scores kept 

for a record nobody keeps.

And all this may be 

called

keeping time

as if melody were many things

more than harmony

knocking and sending 

unanswerable notes 

called music or just

muse. 

Image credit:Baldomer Gili i Roig, Museu d'Art Jaume Morera, Lleida. 2555 c. Nov. 1899 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Grey area

The grey painted cement 

redundant and radiating

through my body

the days suns rays-

Still, at dusk

clouds conceal

any prism possible

from what could home

from new horizons

by night-

fall.

I retreat into

cool slate clean sheets.

Alone,

I make warmth

of close space

to release 

the solid Time. 

Painting by Johan Christian Dahl(1788-1857), 'Clouds over the Palace Tower at Dresden' c. 1825 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Sure lines

With these borrowed

hands, I preen and I prod, poking

this vessel,

taking exploratory measure-

ments

only I can comfortably make.

They do not fit-

together.

Fingers, tendrils, palms, 

veins; grasping, touching

or holding.

Yet I know I need them

as is.

This is why I collect the seashells

at the shoreline,

we may never fit in

as beautifully

as when we are ejected

from the abyss 

we thought we knew

as Home. 

Painting by John Morgan (1823-1885), 'A girl with a seashell' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Fruitful toil

It was in the temple,

I was taken,

high in the arid Spring desert

I sat still

as I was instructed

only to listen

until I could hear

a word

about my being.

When it came

I absorbed the sound

like the sun

only trusting

its power

without understanding 

how it works

on my being.

I carried the world

as I moved

on

later with wind and rain

and humid storms

feeling a wrath

on my raw skin

unaffected by its

texture

until I fell

as hitting the solid ground

I felt

Soft

inside, sweeter,

a ripening 

had occured 

when I finally let go.

I now know

this Soft

interior

was not a choice

only 

the way

I had 

become. 

Artwork from  NYPL, (Artist unknown) Postcard series number: 70216, c. 1898 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Loaves & Fishes: Memories & Plans

One made with suffering

we may savor

the bread we have made.

Some risen to our expectations,

something sweet or sour

a taste

we may try to remake, repeat

the recipe, grain by grain

we never attain the same

indulgence

again. Anticipation

of the past 

becomes stale,

may mold,

does not keep

nourishment.

Even as the oven heats steady,

the smell creeps, our glands

salivate, our bellies rumble, our eyes

witness a gold encrusting,

awaiting 

what may be

more satisfying

than the last bite.

Like catching on,

which is not fishing 

for 

dreams, desires, the plans 

of slippery silver streaks

eluding us

just beneath the surface

A world, not ours, a place

that would drown us

if we wish to linger too long.

The one that got away, 

the one that was bigger than we say,

the fish that passed the lure

you set,

the dream nibbling on the bait

and swam the other way.

Only today,

the hunger, not having,

not caught-

up, cool to the touch

feels more than

fulfilling. 

Artwork by Charles Jacque( (1813-1894), c. 1835 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Offering other-wise

At night

I did not know love

in darkness,

as if sleep-walking and dream-

making could be seen

with a naked eye.

I remember warmth

on my bare skin,

raw at sunrise 

near the hibiscus

holding its dew 

until it too 

opened

when the suns first 

rising rays 

touched its clasped red buds.

The grey-brown finches, twenty-four

or more knew just when 

to join around the fire

of a new day,

swarming in sync

into the tangled branches 

consuming this light

that pried us open.

I remembered then,

when this dawn rose

with my presence long gone

a self perched 

outside

consuming the same sun

and sharing the infinite moment

of opening

to love. 

Artwork (woodblock) by Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), 'Hibiscus and sparrow" c. 1830 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Name-less

 

A place holder,

beginning with an idea

called Someone.

A word

dear

changes to another

fondness

becomes

a title, a role, given

to the someone, the anyone

shared-

until the job, the role, the position

changes.

And you have become someone,

the only one

you never knew-

until now,

meeting yourself

more than halfway

to being, have become, a place-

holder of names

you will never

go by.

Painting by Mary Cassatt (1844-1926), 'Young mother sewing', in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Time drop

This morning

behind charred clouds

the moon sank 

as if weighted by 

its alabaster center

yet holding

light,

becoming full

bodied between

plumes of thick night.

Time brings on vertigo.

The past smells of soot,

the smoke dissipates 

as soon as it appears

now 

the ashes of what was once

solid

touch smears what has 

dis-appeared.

Imagining the days to come

are dreams,

the haze and glow of a child 

in wonder,

hoping for a pony

afraid of the horse

it will be-come. 

Now, like water the falls

in sprinkles

touching my cheeks,

the temperature adjusts

to the soul, a heart

that is cold can hold

now,

clinging to ice

that melts into the ever

present stream

of being 

here. 

Painting by Wilhelm Ferdinand Xylander, c. 1884 in Skagens Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Pres(s)her

All Things fracture where

fragile pressure placed

care-fully

just so

we know

Better

held in a place

of mending.

Painting by Harry Willson Watrous, 'The broken vase' c. 1900 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Watch-ing

 

To understand

and more -feeling

what life is

within

by prying off 

the transparent face

what is sacred or

true

we can hold

hands

while causing them

to cease 

counting 

measuring deeper-

still

the gears moving

as does the heartbeat

outside the chest

pushed on

by the next,

by the last

place 

held

until loose 

screws

tell no time

has passed,

the past 

is going to come

On the dead man's wrist

the watch stops

telling

a second time.

Image taken October 22 2016 Description; Exhibit in the Karl Gebhardt Horological Collection (Uhrenmuseum Karl Gebhardt), Gewerbemuseum - Nuremberg, Germany. As a utilitarian object, this exhibit is NOT subject to copyright laws. Instead it is subject to Industrial Design Rights; see Industrial Design Right for more information. If this object was ever covered by a design patent, that patent has expired, and thus this image is in the public domain.

Number crunching

 

In America

     aka Land of the Free (Will)

     aka Incarceration Nation

3 women are murdered every day

by their Spouse aka Partner

or significant Other.

Is it significant enough to know

that it takes 7 attempts

before a woman actually leaves

an abusive man?

When attempting

to spot a Psychopath,

it is estimated

that 1 in 20 people that cross our path

are just that.

Spots are not the same as Stripes,

prison uniform or hives.

A zebra is black, not white

despite seeming either or-

Predators need prey.

I prayed to escape,

to be Free

and became a prisoner

of debt.

He gave and gave me

his imaginary numbers

his future faking real self-

sabotage.

The total

loss is incalculable

in Time 

rounded up to zero

accountability,

divided by One, alone

is still nothing,

which is something

I figured out 

the word problems

were rhetorical,

literal, not figurative.

I live with the remainders

eating decimal points...

crunching

numbers 

are man-made

the bottom line, I made it equal 

                   to Life.

Image credit Unlisted author(s) c. 120-1929, captioned 'Third (3rd) year students at a girls' school during the 1920's, that was located in the Tonkinese capital city of Hanoi, Nguyễn Dynasty, French Indo-China.'  in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Measure up

Degrees like minutes

momentarily we see

gathering thin air.

Painting by John Constable, 'Study of a cloud sky', c. 1825, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Cell Block 9

 

There is the normal shock

that consumes the soul

upon arriving in a new reality

bare, with no traces 

of a former life-line-perforated-

into breath and blink

inside out.

You can open your eyes,

your mouth,

as the four walls

close in-for walls

box, cell or plaster 

made to contain

or hold-

back-then

This is It,

all that is needed to 

eat, sleep, repeat

every day, what were seasons and 

shades no longer define a time, a space

like black and white, day to night,

all began bleeding 

grey. The light only hurts

open wounds, such as eyes and mouth.

This much

Less, is more

deserved 

when sentenced 

for Life

without color, without a soul, without a window, 

with a reflection of nothing that was, is

held inside

with only the wait 

for Freedom 

that releases

the fear from inside out

but chooses to stay. 

Artwork credit: 'Acta Apostolorum (Acts of the Apostles)', Plate numbered 27, The Conversion of the Warder; to left, St Paul and Silas kneel in their prison cell; the prison warder descends the steps leading to the open doors of the cell, his sword drawn; behind him two other armed men follow, bearing torches; to far right, figures congregate on a flight of stairs. 1582 by the British Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.