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.

Wildflower Mix

Nobody notices
the wildflowers I planted
up on the steep hill-side
amongst the chaos
and they are just seeds
It is Spring
after all,
but these are for me.

There was no way to tell
what would come up
where
and yet the rain, like blame
settles on a place,

soon enough
colors come out
like memories lured by
a scent, the way pollen
is heavy and imposing
making an occasion
to rise.

Between weeds, the butterflies weave
and I dig a fine line
between reaping and sowing,
the towhees wings graze by me
and I hear Hope
spoken in a voice that sounds
close to my own.

It was clear,
a good day to plant the seeds.
For this was the time to change
the natural course of things
as if by hand
we could sense
the Possibilty.

"I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance."
-e. e. cummings

Painting by Sergey Vinogradov (1869-1938), 'Still life with wildflowers' date unknown in Public Domain. 

Blue blood

The heaviest ink
a writer bleeds
are a Mothers Eulogy
and the vows
etched for Matrimony.

These marks,
deeper than tattoo
annotate and commemorate
an expression of Life and Risk
All
Love to Lose.

We may say
nothing aloud
that sounds like what
It is
to trap butterflies
with a lariat.


Artwork credited by W.T. Benda, cover of Life magazine September 1923 in [Public domain].

Clear as mud

Enveloped, as I had been
         folded
into the dark mournings,
one after the next stroke of
grey palette,

And when standing
         upright
among the five foot stalks
of daisies and poppies
where painted ladies
couple up twisting aloft

precipitation,
and what precedes,
a worm, a cloud, a momentary
          levitation
inconsistencies become solid

Silver change strewn across
the steel
sea,
sense
              the bottom
of the well, whereby my feet
have sunk
in.

Artwork by Umberto Boccioni, c. 1902 [CC0] in Public Domain.

The Monarchy of October

From my quiet pitch in my pj's

the dawns dark fire rekindled

under the coal clouds

embers embracing day 

remembering and warming

their undersides

pink lily liver bellies 

waiting for white to shine on...

The shadows never slept,

spoke the moon softly

who watched 

the menage a trois

of Mars, Venus and Jupiter

atop the altocumulus stage

late and lascivious at this hour-

A hush and the sky gives way

to orange, Octobers delicacy

indulgent, licking glad and warm, 

Indians wave

at the passing warm breeze 

the kindred Monarch

of summer reborn 

taking the Santa Ana pass

linger now

A black phoebe cracks

shells in the slow stir
of rise and shine

human voices splinter

lips labor for slivers, 

making first words

untruth

whispers and thoughts

are better for the butterflies

already dressed 

for Octobers occasion. 

Image by By Lisafern (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The weight of the world

My pockets are empty, no rocks for my swim today
I am armed still with each of these quartered limbs

The rope swing resembles a gnoose, or a snake
the mongoose was always me, miss identified

Eucalyptus tendrils squeeze out mentholated breezes
calling the monarchs, two come to court, tagging up in streamers

Perched in the sappy pines a murderous row becomes a mob,
volume and black plagues grow from the chain mail gang

Humming while hovering over a well, the nectar inebriates
bird and bee still in recovery, stalling in their stupor mid-air

The drum roll of wind, corralling the dead, noting the tenor of leaves
swirling in symphonic disharmony, sloughing and buffing scales

Laser beams between tall pillars scorching the dirt, releasing the
essence, crushing the spice revives, in particulates burnt alive

The serenity of the lakeside: The tranquility of Tantalus
eternally reaching, mute preaching, still teaching all of us.



Image credit:By Extemporalist (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Beautiful Things and Those In Between

Worms with wings and other beautiful things.

Melodious birdsong all morning long.

Lovely stargazing lily, stained by rusty stamen filthy.

Diamonds in the rough-though just a rock of carbon,

all facets aside.

Bars of precious gold people still hide.

Supplest of metal, soft shiny pride,

purposeless and paradoxical.

Emaciated elegance,

Easy on the Eye,

a standard of beauty is dictated.

Monumental stupidity in all the standards of frivolity.

Semiprecious or flawed, not making the cut,

inadequacies fill the black Hole-

that is the empty soul,

which pines and yearns but never learns…

The most beautiful thing should not be judged

by human packaging,

maybe what we are told to see

that is beautiful to you-

may not be to me.

Reaching for the status-quo

determines just how far you will grow.

Things of value we are sold,

advertising aggrandizement is how we are told.

What is a handsome treasure?

Who is asking and why?

Is it a worm or a butterfly?

Photo By Cheryl Schultz for the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons