Showing posts with label bury. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bury. Show all posts

Sunday, February 3, 2019

Formicidae


In moments that require us to stay
put,
against or free will,
tortiously, we may see some relief
in the focus
on a leaf or insects, say
the way
ants seem so purposeful
about their busyness since
distraction eases the
due process-

But then
it doesn't take long for us to
jump in,
and kill it,
this one
Stopped
his trailblazing,
his dead friend lie underfoot,
for a moment
he wondered why,
I could see it-

Anyway, I am moved
by this
and he proceeds to collect
his dead
taking him somewhere

I wonder why
it matters so much,
this weight to bear
the same as when I carried
mine
into their graves,

one realizes in
tense moments
the weight is the same
and ending in a tie
or twist of genes,
neither of us will
come out alive.


Image credited by Lubbock, John [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Treasures of a culture


Fire and glass reflected as smoke in mirrors.

A fork in the road, litter, like this wrapper, bottle, vessel, hand tools.

Artisan: colored ink, in part cursive curls, heartfelt loops, and snares,
we wrapped, and rapped, enrapt and bound ourselves.

Every opening begins with Roman squares, agoras, and edges
worn blurry and thin by so many eyes through ages, brittle
print-finger smudges to be dusted and all the while,
porous rocks erode into grainy pixel flashes, storage
boxes stack up, clouds let go, and by marrow
calcification holds together
bricks of pressed clay
                                     -for shelter is always a wall.

Supporting para-graphs, columns, and beams-by
lighted button codes:
green, go, yellow, slow, red, blood, blue screen of death,
only to touch here, like plucked strings
of stereocilia stimulating
goosebumps in sound waves that wash over us in wet streams.

Eye contact, nerve endings, radiant warmth from a mortal smile,
laser focus, photography un-posed, unprepared, ad-libbing and adding
depth of perception, this is us-

Totaled and broken down to the smallest things
in order to count the time more accurately
in minute fractions of eternity,

Well, this is why we bury things. 




Photo credit By Max Peronius (1907-1946), Tankavaara c. 1934 in[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

And then...

  Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign,  at first...