Naturally Resourceful

            Foggy today.

Not outside.

Expecting nothing

of this Sunday

that cannot be named,

securely crated and/

or mass produced.

Must everything be ahead of schedule

in such a small time?

At least our brains are stocked up front

for processing and Random Access
Memory.

There are no explanations for this,

but go on...

Name what you need.

Struggling to say, 
assembly by poetry is perhaps 

helpful to visualize intangibles i.e.

physics and such phenomenona

as aspirations...try.

It could be, most simply, 
about physicality-

that my nose is out there, 

too far to see transparently
or cross-wise.

I do feel exposed, but that is not it
either.

The dull light doesn't care about mood

or money. Funny how we do...

A penny for my thoughts.

O yes, it was reconciliation.

Counting the change

in the air.

Painting by Friedrich Preller the Younger [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Our Lady Alexandria

What feels like Now is never heavy enough

to last longer than a Sunday.

Idle times like June, we tend to wander too far,

it takes august

to bring us back to routine.

Presently, reading.

Presently writing

Then and Now lying in front of me,

blurred by biography autonomously-

     whose voice is lost in the amplified volume

of imposition

     whose own prosaic tome is never true or tight enough

to carry the note all the way,

to cut the final folio, to fill the flyleaves.

More memory appalls dead weight

          one will carry to the cemetery, nary a soul should know  

Those things, flammable flashbacks attack hard back, unhinged

in carnation

in damnation

in citation,

My cover slowly singing, smoldering as I am oldering,

lighter 

Now (transparent)

on paper backs.

Painting By Juan de Echevarría (Bilbao, Spain, 1875 - Madrid, 1931) Born in Bilbao, Spain. Dead in Madrid. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Silent Sunday Services

The clock on the wall hammers away
in the quiet house before sunrise, oblivious to Sunday morning
rituals.

Nary a breath escapes while the beat skips on along-
long whole, holy, sunny sun days-
while others pray I lay behind dreaming doors,
light pouring in, purring snores,
while that clock ticks off
and takes, takes, takes
its sweet time,
this time I think-the time-
Time-it takes too long to make every single
second
count
may be wrong.

***********************
The kitchen sink taps a tune
into a rose colored glass
muffling its measure
by the minute
becoming
optimistic by the hour.

Between that quiet space
of steady shine and rise
coming up on-
it is too easy to lose the pace
or miss the place
where to chime in...
.........................................
The fridge hums steady and warm,
the oven clean and cool
both standing white in the background.




Painting By Catherine Wiley (Tennessee Portrait Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Blue earth, Red sun

Earth will end on a Sunday.

The sun will have had its best days behind...

The moon, long retired, makes wax figurines.

So we are all stars.

Nothing disappears without direction,

even inside itself.

Concentrate.

The ethereal essence is growing without us.

Earth, like a sponge, porous

we take it all in until full

dripping with light.

And just like deja vu, we knew

Earth will end on a Sunday.

Drawing (pen, ink, graphite) by William Blake [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. The great red dragon and the woman clothed with the sun.

Sundays with Mommy (Dearest)

Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
on my landline, she leaves the same message
if I don't pick-up, she doesn't call my cell
ever.

She calls to chat about her week
on speakerphone while my stepfather listens
occasionally making comments
frequently making faces
I'm sure.

It has been 10 years since they visited
my home, although we live in the same state
we are far enough apart
to blame inconvenience on transportation
and time

She speaks at me about the small town
I grew up in, the weather, the roads and wildlife;
Breaking News from Monday she shares and
sometimes she even sends me links, in the mail box
(newspaper clippings) that smell of cigarettes

She'll rave about the wine I can never drink,
she melts over the meal Mike made for her,
decadent and deathly to me,
insisting I am missing out
by being this way

She'll brag about her co-workers adult children,
everyone else's kids with a 9-5, who are
making a good living, while I am wasting my little life

My mother had only one child
and I was too much, she let her parents
do the parenting. She did this for me-
apparently this was better
for my future, sighting the hind

As my mothers' only child, the lineage is certain-
there is a 100% chance of never being good enough.

When my mother and stepfather became grandparents (twice)
I thought (once) they would become Grand Parents, instead
they adopted their neighbors' son, they go to his birthday
parties and soccer games, but couldn't make it for my sons
high school graduation.

When my grandparents died, I thought she'd be there for me,
but I knew, I was already too far away.
When my grandparents passed away, I knew she'd need me
and I went home right away.

After 520 Sundays, you'd think I'd find something better to do.

Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
a disappointment
Someday I should stop making
these appointments
and live a little (life)...
Although I know when I get home
her message will be waiting
past 1 o'clock
Next Sunday
for someone else
whose number she now has.




Image of painting by By Vladimir Makovsky, Mother and daughter c. 1886[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.