Ex-isle

This world 

is not for breath

for feelings

also come and go.

As hard and light as 

Push and pull

Go.

Busy hands and 

bees-electricity, alter-

nating currents, the unseen

Never again 

Now

Where were we-

Many moons ago

and always one moon

stoic satellite

Spinning our own orbit

one side-sunlit

Not saying

darkness always becomes

Her-

Or shall I?

Painting by Robert Henri 'The Reader in the Forest' c. 1918 via Wikimedia Commons and Google Art Project, in Public Domain. 

Confession

There was nothing left 

for me to do except take him to the edge 

of land

and see if he notices

what is missing

would he read the horizon lines

and turn the page?

Together we watched the boats

come and go

at the mouth

of the harbor

saying nothing 

of directions

like wind and gaze.

The further we went on 

drifting by degrees away,

where the edge becomes and end 

before us

anyway, a moment of stillness

Arose 

to this occasion

of reading-

The End.

Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-1910), 'Chindren on the beach' c. 1873 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Our glasses (hourglasses)

I read in front of them.
I was reading anyway.
They never read.
Even behind my back.

I waited to be sure.
I was never sure
I waited too long.

Liars, thieves, and cheaters
are three of a kind.
I had them all
in hand,
and made a row of bushes
with the tangled vines
for Privacy.

Alone with ourselves
imposes ego as though
we should learn
from mistakes.

The golden rule
is soft, diamonds are forever
handed down
and the rain, perpetually
planting seeds.

The fine print, or return policy
for such a random act
sounds like wind strangled
in narrow channels
but is your paper receipt.

I figured it out
wrong but somehow came to
the correct conclusion
all the same.

There is a kind of
influence, with open palms
that holds no harm
to heat but crystallizes
in salt.

As far as
we can see,
All is in front of us,
there was no plain day
that would be lived this way.



Painting by John Dickson Batten, 'The garden of Adonis' c. 1887 in [Public domain].

Civic Duties

-Sit in a courtroom and observe a trial for two hours (ask an official which one is most interesting

you’ll find that everyone knows the schedule) Dress nicely and smile.

-Sit in the ER and read, only listen, do not make eye contact, do not touch the arms of the chair. 

Dress poorly. Do not smile.

-Wait in any lobby for someone-as if they were coming for you.

-Eat alone.

-Go to a cinema alone and take in a film alone. 

-Travel alone. Pack lightly. Smile small when you feel stupid and sorry and don’t know what to say.

-Drive to the DMV. Don’t get out of your car, just put it in Park (if available), idle and make some notes, reasons, identities, and etceteras. 

(Patience is guaranteed to be in no place. Like an ounce of gold in a ton of dirt. Don’t give any away to strangers handling hot pans.)

Wait with Will. Watch with wariness. Write with wonder.

Make the present interesting.

Active Membership dues are paid in Participation points,

The verbiage puts us in our places-

Your lines are next to appear, to  laugh or to frown

We are all just nouns waiting to be called adjectively. 

Artwork by George Romney [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1734-1802, 

Yale Center for British Art. 

If looking-She went crazy

Rarely left alone

for obvious reasons,

when given more than

a minute in solitude

She would start a poem

or worse-

(See)

Dependable as ever

they required her presence

while there was still time

together-no stability

stays the same

(after all)

And dutiful too,

as anyone could be,

she served herself last, cleaned up

after others

with a smile [happy]

And far away gaze,

busy going nowhere

(and getting there)

The blame belonged

not to poetry

alone

(finally.)

(See, after all [happy], and getting there, finally)

Painting By Michael Sweerts (Flemish, 1618 - 1664) artist (Flemish) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Times itself

One may find themselves

screaming

from the inside out

LEAVE ME ALONE

and it becomes about

the other

but it never was.

Anyway we attempt to shrug it off

and shirk the cloak of

personability,

it falls with a heavy

THUD. 

By the way-

you were not your own

To be ALONE with

any more than anyone else here weighted down,

and plodding along, prodded on, and prattling on…

It is this nauseousness that makes

mouths salivate for solitude

amidst the stench of obligation,

shit hits the fan,

demanding more

than

a breezy greeting, acknowledgment in

passing as in aloof or aloft and 

above it, over it, 

all over one

that never was. 





Painting by Charles Sprague Pearce, c. 1889 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

inner child

My body disrupts this empty room.

Thoughts are just whispers

but move matters around.

Inside voices, 

no need to interrupt

by asking

Nobody was home.

Woman at the Piano (1889, oil on wood panel, 26.0 x 13.1 cm) by Tom Roberts (1856–1931).

The painting is in the collection of the Art Gallery of South Australia.

Making myself scarce

When the door latches,
when it is only me
in this shrinking body,

when all I must do
is what I must,

when I start to feel lucky
I must be blessed,

when I am rested
I think of aging,

when I am tired
I remember dying,

when I wake up
when I reach for a pen,

I am alive. I am living.



Image credit Joseph-Philibert Girault de Prangey, 1840 self portrait in[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Body in motion

My heart does one hundred meter dashes,
jumping at the reloaded gun.
The infantile hairs on my skin are erect,
as though blowing at high speeds.
                 --cannot catch up to my breath.

Sporadically,
at the apex of my rib cage something feels
trapped or collapsing in origami swans,
somersaults and am sitting still

listening to the bamboo wind chimes,
low & lightly in the late-after noon shade...

There is no further of going nor
West I can go,
and a sense I cannot share this feeling
-end of the road
with anyone.

Anxious, I guess.
And I don't ask,
because I am alone.

Is it uneasiness,
I never wondered
too hard
I'm afraid.



Painting By Arkhip Kuindzhi (1842-1910), Sunlight in Park (1908) and (http://kuinje.ru/) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To Those Who Prose-

It is best to stay away from prose-
you may squint-if so inclined

It takes a few words to get to the heart
blame the onion

O how it makes many squirm
to live like a libertine-openly

If you must, take a deep breath
before diving in-
the wind is strong-

if you catch my drift

umbrellas are for sissy's

It is how proper prose
becomes-to sharp to handle,
inverted, in brief
                   
                    taking side-steps
where precise ought to be...

It is useful to let your mind wander
alone.



Image of painting:  'At the Writing Table' National Gallery of Art-American 18th Century (1790) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

An Affair with the Start

I try not to deny

there are others

who like me

who relish

the intimacy

of sunrise.

But every dark morning to myself

makes me think, over time,

for a few stolen moments

I exist in the world.

That dusky dawning sky sees me there

ruminating as I revel

in its wee hours

most others (dis)miss.

Sleep does not compare

to the sun's awakening;

peeling back the purple sheet,

lightening up

and stirring the ashy cirrus

lit only by our clandestine routine.

It is between us

that watch the sunset, 

contentedly,

winking when the green flash

sparks oohs and ahhhs,

sometimes

called inspiration 

in others.

Yet it tells me, with envy,

our tryst will continue

tomorrow

as soon as 

I rise

for our sub rosa occasion,
the best part of mourning
the day.

Image of painting By T.C. Steele, Sunrise (1847 - 1926) (American) (Artist, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A lone danger

The more I am
alone
the more time
I am alone,
alone, a-lone
a lone
one
I am
late, so late, elated, and finally full,
joyful, full of over-brimming bliss
an energy to explore, a desire to dive down
deeper and intimately drown in my senses,
swallowing all self whole.
I smile at leaving a gaping hole
where the eye
is spotted, leaving it beheaded and indebted
for the fruitful loss of self, rare in its abundance
we never say we like me this way today...
We re-cognitize, recognize our righteousness
doesn't come without cue
We have been wrong
pre-occupied
so long, a good bye, even now
I tremble,
still
a lone
euphoric
one,
only, once-ly
lately
lonely
wanting more
of less.



Image of painting by Paolo Veronese, Muse with a Lyre (c.1561), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A soul on a stroll

Along the Path
we must go alone.
Yet things catch our eye,
glisten just so in the sun.
Sometimes we stop to linger
a little, thinking about beauty...
But we move on
when the light changes.

Along the path,
we must go alone.
We meet many others, new faces
walking and join company
for some paces, for a time-
until their path goes another way,
to a place that is not our own
destination.

Along the path
we must go alone.
Milestones remind us to push
ahead, rest before it gets steep,
and don't chance a glance back.
Footprints fall behind,
markers of the past,
so we don't go in circles
if we are aware
of our surroundings.

Along the path,
monsters lurk in the dark shoulders,
watching the moon guide your steps,
unable to penetrate your light.
You may have to change direction,
many times, but you will know
where you are,
you have seen-This before.
When you arrive There
remember, you will know
Why, Then
we must go alone.




Image by Allen Butler Talcott [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Path through the woods.