Hot Spring

Well, we can depend
on the constant flow
of water out of the spigot

In these modern times
nails lined with dirt
hold nothing
together

And so few knew
cleansing could be so
bone-chilling,
the cold C
sterilizes me
still
leaving
a residue of salt
inside the deepest wounds

For hope was on the other side

The H begins at the same
temperature
If we wait
sometimes longer than others,
immersed in it,
the degree of Hope rises
from tip to tip,
from pipe to vein

Although, we all know
one drop
was never enough
to remove the stains
or replenish the well
completely
and for good

it was always our turn
of the faucet,
our choice
from which side
to draw
out from some hidden
seeming eternal source.



Artwork by Károly Patkó (1895-1941), 'Woman washing herself' c. 1931 in Public domain.

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.

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.

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. 

Spring palette

Some nights such as these

in Spring

the crispest ones forebode

dramatic scenes and

will only be appeased

with warm words, the genteel kind

unlike those dark corridors linking

hollow rooms to alternate realities

and how easily

we may be misplaced inside,

one sees clearly-

Poetry possessed the palace,

the chorus charmed themselves

considering changes

are made in continuity,
contemplating,

harmonium found itself

outside sound and dancing

in full color in the deepest
dark.

Painting by Henri Le Sidaner, 'Small table in evening dusk' c. 1921 [Public domain].

Belighted i Be

It may be a silly rule,
none-the-less,
the law against
picking poppies
makes me want one
all the more.

We should have been taught
as with butterfly wings
the word Love
should not be handled
without recognizing
the salt of our fingertips
inhibits flight.

And where the suns rays
first find a full beam,
a red tailed hawk
screams
in delight
for the day
is coming
and he will feast.

Seeming forever
fields of wildflowers
Spring in every nook,
gently coloring to the corners
and reminding us
that pollen, like Love
exudes itself
as every living thing
under the sun
became belighted

to break free
from the salt of the earth

despite the inevitable
returning,

Our seeds are always being
sewn.

Graciously greening

Grateful grew
a waterfall-
when it seemed
dry
the stream had fallen into
a lull
a bye and by chance
a babbling brook broke the silence,
the banks exhaled
a warm chill
mist its forests
and swelling by providing
encurrentment
to every atomic bead
aligned inside sealed springs
to thaw and draw
themselves
forth
by means of appreciation
to rise in a flood
of movement
for no means other than
most simply Being
drawn willfully to the sea
of Eternity,
a wash in tranquility
when the thirst
for refreshment
all but evaporated.
This atmosphere
was everything we needed
to thrive.


Painting by Marcus Larson c. 1856 in [Public domain].

Bulbous

The earth slows down
just enough to focus on a handle
as if made for us,
made for touching and gauging
the sum of all things
with the unbearable lightness of possessing nothing
earnestly.
Time flies, hope levitates, spines flex in-
tensely repulsing gravity
just to keep up-
right
after the fact, I heard back home
the mighty oaks had toppled on perfect-
ly calm days,
the redwoods, however, stood their ground.
Meanwhile,
down here, the passiflora
already swallowed the fence
and now nibbles away at the eave.
On this evening
the colors come too quick to name.
It was
the tulips
we were expecting
to Spring,
the wait was too much to hold still.
Over centuries,
it has been discovered
our heads have become rounder.
When I look harder
it seems like
Venus' belt is shrinking.




Painting by Franz Werner Tamm [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

An other day

On the other side,

walking atop this Spring earth

we get carried away,

some say Fall.

The light frays, either way,

shards of stars squeeze their sharp way

through black sand, latticed like a shell.

We often think of castles

in our alabaster grandeur, with adobe esteem

and admiration for the deep moat we have made.

Closer today.

The water reflects her
forbidden territories. 

Painting by Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira (1891) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Framed

♦

There was red on her neck-

He tried to strangle her-

There were blue prints on her right forearm-

He grabbed her too hard-

She had been painting mountains

And sky

They dropped a bomb, I mean “we”-

Tactfully, with precision, they said.

How is that done?

Never mind-

♦

She could see crazy coming back for her

Granite, he was her rock.

Assumption over blends shades of grey-

Let the colors come out

In every crack of Spring

Primavera,

The last step taken

Toward a conclusion

Hot or miss

The point;

 ♦

Of impact, of view, of no return, of intersection, of convergence or divergence, of terminal velocity, of it All, (in time)

It was all Artwork. 

Painting by Francesco Hayez [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Magnetic fields

The air holds warmth in sealed packets

and ships them to living bodies

whom linger idyllically,

overdressed in gaudy allure,

pink jasmine sprays its lusty plumes

overhead the woven flower wreath

making this crown Joyous.

The mustard yellow fields are lit.

Local poppies have all stuck their spindly necks

out tall, above the scruff and common

gullible daisies.

Petals spark fields of amber glow, 

strong in orange and

merely mocking 

the white weak sun.

There was green hope all over the hills

-After All-

Winter wouldn’t stay fixated on grey

forever. Tasted the difference between 

yellow earth and blue sky-together

And It was good, 

And it was all green

left by the sugary dew

drawn to each other

in the new Spring atmosphere. 

Painting by Granville Redmond, Coastal wildflowers (1912), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Incantation of Sprung

The ringing had to have been

the resistance of air in being dissected

with a rugged swung scythe.

A crude way to make matters worse.

Should we speak up

so breath can chime in and tune on its own
accord to T for truths, sinews,
or sing along so we know

where we were going
when it is over?

Souls dissipate most visibly
when the sun is a mere

ten degrees above the arc at the end of All

and they blush as they come
into vulgar exposure.

The vertiginous extension of body

feels its mineral composition,

just as the mountain has long since
gathered here and crumbled there

under the broom of wind and whistling.

The wait is the same atomic gravitas

so we make music on its shoulders,

conjuring notes we hope will

carry,
raining colors in a natural spring

Forward marching over the detritus
of the Others
calcified fragments, ground in silt and 
carried by such quick sand.

To hear and to be heard over the years

something so sharply.

Watercolor by Karl Bodmer (1836) Assinboin in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lie Lack

The lilacs in full bloom against the lattice fencing,
biggest by all the grey skies and wet clouds
we had

Dark green metallic leaves long and narrow curl
away from the insistent sun,
now a paling display
in this spectrum
spun towards
Spring.

Those celebrity roses build new spires,
spiders have their scaffolds up,
clovers cover dark dirt over a sheet of pily moss
in cracks, softer for a time, lush was once castover.

Now pollen and fruit gather in groups,
sucking it all in sweet lemon dew
it is the tart, fill those pocket lungs
with rich new air
made just for you, lavishly the last lilac
flake falls.


Painting by Mikhail Vrubel. Lilac 1900 Oil on canvas. 160*177 Tretyakov Gallery via Wikimedia Commons.

a little birdie knows no wordies

Little tawny thrush
why so jumpy? Spring has not sprung.
And you have certainly known before now
the cats that live here-this pride.

Silly sparrow, 'twas all made up
those felines would not know what to do
with you-yet how they do like watching
all the twitching
you do.

Look over here! Cackles rise,
this tweet and grub dash,
fidget and dart,
you cool hearted busy birdy,
on holiday.

The cat sees your ploy-a quick dip
in the fountain-this one couldn't care,
he laughs a hoarse then licks his nails.
Oh, this little bunting
gets behind his pinprick hot holed ears
and says-or chirps-
POTUS, po' po' us, po' us another
wergle fumpus, with yellow belly feathers, like a lilly livered loiterer,
tethered to others, such as the not so rare big-billion-billed cuckoo,
Who, who, who knew-
how to flap in place.

Polly-ana-cracker-barrell-of-monks like these-
Just look at that jittery pulpy face,
ask, just ask, he is fluffed and full of flock
puffy and inflated on a fence takes no flight
path to escape,
the last words were purr-purr
after the cat
finally got his tongue.

Painting by Louis Émile Pinel de Grandchamp [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spring Rite (Haiku)

May gray clears away

at sunset: seasonal tones

may be come clearer.

Photo By Mike Stephan, user:Mikosch (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spring cleaning

It was eighty degrees in April,
calamities abounding on fractured plates,
like earthquakes
and the old lady
wearing a black tank top, her arms propped on her knees,
sits on a curb
outside the white medical office
with her frizzy white hair
clenched in her hands...
and she quakes quietly,
her skin ripples in the white noon light.
Mexican fan palms crackling in the white hot breeze
seem to say
just another day in paradise.
The pollen has fallen,
she could smell it in the air
while dripping salt water on the blacktop.




Image of painting by By Carl Heuser (1827-1892) (Bonhams) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In essence

Pinch and tart, sweetly smell in-
Culling season has begun!

Spring is loaded,
its arsenal of flower power
and the annual dramatic
pallette astounds
against the brown subdues earth,
set under stoic grey skies.

The lions purr thunder
the hunters in Heaven
have scared the lamb
to May.

Humans gather
en masse
genocide, green stalks
with showy tops
limp headed bodies lain
and strewn in pot-pourri

Incensed
with Pride!
our Kill!

Boquet'd
mantled and displayed,
propped and posed, pretty
for (the) sake of a seasonal
mild medicinal redolence bliss...snip.




Image by János Thorma [Public domain], Girl picking flowers in a red coat c. 1930, via Wikimedia Commons.

"Out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaks"--Chaucer (c.1343-1400)

Haiku VIII

A cup of JOY spills-

drips over the chalice rim

eternal Spring flows

Image of painting Lilla Cabot Perry (1848-1933), "The cup of knowledge, 1905" [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Spring in my step

Did you see how big the sky was today?
I took particular notice of her limber stretch
and wide grin
Happy and Light in forever blue

I happened by chance to be in a hurry
funny how these things grab you just then
On my way to Nowhere
more important than here

I'm not sure if I should guess
you have these strange long moments too
The air smells like hot Youth
and bottomless Freedom

The tempestuous whisper taps you on the shoulder
a sultry breeze murmurs something in your ear
about having fun
Shhh, your Time is not yet done

Like lust its so hard to refuse
a harmless offer to dance on air
or drown every pore
wrapped in blankets of flowing atmosphere

A smile sneaks up on your face hoping
you don't notice first or ruin it with thinking
Let it Ride at Full Speed Ahead
ringing and singing Hells Bells

I am suddenly parched
by this urge, or maybe a growth spurt
rapid blossoming
Now I understand wildflowers

There is no rhyme
or reason
just appreciating time
noticing I changed with the Season.


Image By Robbins, Ellen, 1828-1905 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Wild Flowers No. 2) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Changing of the guard

Image by Francis Barlow [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons-"Wolf in Sheep's Clothing"

In the mid of night

the house breathed.

Thick with rattled windows-

anxiety like shadows,

stale rooms heavy, dense-

                                    and then it began.

Rolling down the street,

wolves roam in the ally

the howling chorus rises,

under sheepskin blankets.

Rapping on walls,

                                    whispering through the cracks.

Rattling cages,

trembling fingers

on passive leaves.

Branches snap-

the final straw drawn, is it over,

                                   the weak have fallen.

Calculating the after-math,

identify the drifter in the dark,

a faceless fictive fright,

who mocks the meticulous gardener,

who taunts and terrifies the innocent children, 

                                    who are anxiously counting sheep.