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.