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.

The life of a spark

Just beneath the skin of surface
something darker
traveled through
like a current
can only be felt
in volume.

Right outside of the visual range
a source of heat
like an explosion of light
ignited
all that could be flammable
was taken asunder.

What lurks like intuition
our own shadow seems detached,
aloof and cool to the touch.
An absence only felt
as nothing
that could be caught.


Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-190) , 'Campfire, Adirondacks', c. 1892 in Public Domain. 

tepidity

I said my feet were frozen,
he did not care
but took notice of my canvas shoes
atop the icy mud.

The fire he made,
started by Him,
should have been
enough-

but the wood was wet
atop the dirt that was sand,
the grass still green despite the dew
the smoke swirled
inside the pit.

His forehead and eyes settled into the comfortable scowl,
his red cheeks took upon themselves an orange glow
and I knew he felt
contentment.

I smiled at him over the inferno.
He often mocked
the speed at which I walked
on December nights near the open sea.

After explaining over my shoulder,
like salt,
why the air felt so distinctly different
between us

he said no more about what he could not feel.

Together,
we find our way
a-part
of accepting
differences by degrees.



Artwork by Felix Nussbaum [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Glass making

All over the place

pour, poor women and wine,

overflown lips,

she sees her particulates

in liquid stains

held over old flames.

There is no innocent steam,

the trees that finally fell to timber

under scurrying winds collecting

clay clouds, pulling out roots

by the palmful in a disintegration of states.

She seemed mad.

That insistent sun rose its entitled torch,

humming, ho-hum-mums-the-blue iris to day, to

dew, and do the birds hone a tone in

one place, canary, and crow

cemetery or church, middle C

night and gale mocking us.

She giggles at others tripping over

stone heads

and bumping toes on crosses;

no body ever saw her,

smiling some where upon

she cried upon recognizing herself

as naked truth.

It hurts to linger too long

exposed against acclimation.

We shatter in the cold.

We were always restructuring and stacking

cardboard and compressing pixels

over old times, keeping alive,

ashes and splashes

mixing and folding us back in.

This con-trap-she's in,

clearly cracking

from such extremes

of rising and falling

body temperature.

Such is life.

Photo By SMU Central University Libraries [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hyperborean

Under the shield
of summer and satire
It is cold inside.

They are all as lost as we are
so don't follow Those-
taken outdoors to witness
the sky
holding up,
while others grasp for air.
What can we learn from horizons...

At night,
desist does not do
enough
to take the edges off.

There is color coded warmth
coming from a flaming star-
it sinks in Riga Mortis
drawing a line
from my moment
to an eon
in some dynamic way.

Thus, an impression remains
obsidian and reflective,
oblivious of fixed polarities
as cinereal origins.

A sense of exposure manifests
at-most-fear,
in a moment of raw awareness.
Just-like this-cold air-
I shudder
to think
of a point
taken too far.



Photo credit By NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
Astronaut Scott Kelly posted this photo of the Perseid meteor shower taken from the International Space Station on Instagram with the caption, "Space weather forecast from @ISS: Moonless with a chance of Perseid meteors! YearInSpace space spacestation wx weather meteors meteorshower constellation astronomy nasa".