“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Sunday, May 17, 2020
Laundering
Where does one begin
to unpack the suitcase of grief?
While it may be nice to throw it all away,
or donate these shreds,
I find it impossible to imagine
never
wearing those favorite jeans again,
the perfect bra, the stained shirt,
the holy sleeping attire-
I have no desire
to wash and fold and put away
for the 235th time
these obligatory articles.
I sense that grief starts with the smell
held between the threads
and remember distinctly
the quilt my grandmother made me
that fell apart
completely-
like family...
Long gone,
I ponder the scraps
and marvel a few moments
at all the layers we carry
and feel a sudden need
to give the shirt off my back
only to see
how I was made
myself again
woven with only
the softest flesh.
Painting by Aristarkh Lentulov (1882-1943) 'During the laundry', c. 1910, Public domain.
Friday, April 10, 2020
Two steps
You are ahead of me.
I have your back
in sight
while dutifully following
your lead I am left
wondering how far behind
I will be left
looking for your steps
and contemplate your hurried
gait-
Need you sprint
in such fits and starts?
My heart gets louder
the further I am
from the life
I chase.
I can picture your intense
forward focus
and broad shoulders
pushing through
the warning signs.
It becomes easy to forget
you are not alone
without shadows for solace
without trepidation
for what lies
around the bend
and without a sense of where
and why we started
this journey
together.
You win.
I will take my time
and keep going without a
wasted scent.
The finish line
was not my destination
anyway
we will be tied
in the End.
Painting by Giovanni Boldini (1842-1931), 'The Summer Stroll' in Public Domain.
Tuesday, January 21, 2020
Muerto de la Noche
A solitary soul stirs
this night around
its geared dial.
Icy on the rocks,
all that matters
bends the steel air
sparks subdue any singes
While other carbon bodies
lie in their nests
heaving gentle breaths
through resting rib cages
my feathers fall out
and the kitten chases them
under the couch.
Watching the speed of time
and loaded with momentum,
and anticipation
for the light that breaks
anything it touches,
it dawned over me,
(after all) an awareness
that all feathers fall
at the same speed coin wishes
sink
under the weight of water-
sometimes out of sight.
The brown widow and I weave
simultaneous gossamer threads
from what we have left
of the night that never
imposes its intimate knowledge
without our consent
and an entwined desire
to witness this place
we seem to not belong
but are required to prey in
for survival.
The kitten purrs in a ball,
the humans snore, fetal in their beds,
while I draw out long lines
the nocturnal pace
themselves
into the unforgivable light.
Artwork by Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916), 'Figure reading at a table at night', medium-chalk, c. 1891 in Public Domain.
Thursday, October 17, 2019
Time will never Tell
With these hands
I have cradled the past.
With these hands
I have buried memories.
With these hands,
still-lined with life,
callused by death,
I grasp air in my palm
and feel it trapped there
squirming in a fist.
I held my babies-once, long ago-
now forbidden to touch
With the same such tender care.
I sealed my ancestors in dirt
now sealed away from all five senses.
I make words
that lose their matter while gaining typeface.
I multiply my meaning only to divide
by the given definition of what it is
To pen or poem.
I scratch the wet shoreline,
I was here
With these hands.
I open my palms
erasing my place
just in Time.
Image by By DashaVZ (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, November 4, 2018
cardinal points
Death
Being
as Natural
as Life
Why
we made
murder a Sin
and Nudity
a profanity
(poverty a crime
wealth a blessing)
All just
because we are afraid
of Reality
Inevitably
I-denity
we live with
Exposure
made up
with our raw materials
ore
data
and information
easily eroded and likely
to give way
someday, in a word
too large to lie
eyes upon,
too precise to name
with exactitude and
Finality
just As
finis origine pendet.
Artist unknown, c. 1650, Master of the Vanitas Texts [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
Sea minor
The day you were born
It would never be the same
as it ever was.
This day, at that time
started this life
from lives past-
Passed through you to you
creating something
from some things that were before
you arrived as you.
This time and time again
many things came first
many more things will come to pass
none have counted you
in years
-as the last
-pushing through, pulling you-
The only time you
were you,
we met
through others
matters were made
any day now we will change
-back-
into strangers, fate carried vessels
pulling our chords,
the other way.
Painting by Ivan Aivazovsky [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Pain poems
Perhaps, like Plath
and Sexton, along with
nameless Others,
Ars Moriendi,
the shared obsession
was rebellion
(against the self)
We do this our own way
Alone, like childhood
and candied P's & Q's
they all thought they were
getting and making a way
from direction(s).
All I know
is that life-
the stuff that makes us up
(in the middle)
guts, chakra, vim, what not,
is not the same stuff
we put out, project,
hold title(s) to,
but the real stuff must be
Here somewhere...
When the pain ultimately wins,
perhaps the prize is popularity
in passing
as if believing in the benefits
of retirement (afterlife),
such as a tomb and sarcophagus
with a cat and some gold
we would reap the forever fields
we would have our Faith
and it would be good
enough
or worth more than Now.
Well, my well must be empty.
I hear echoes in chambers,
growls in caves,
screams behind closet doors,
and pitch so thick all is
hollow, except these
twisted guts, gnawing and gnashing
kicking and screaming
frozen and struck dumb-
and still
I breathe
through it.
And even when it becomes difficult-
if not
Impossible to stand up-
right-w/ spine straight
and those familiar serrated red daggers
twist while
blue dots with white halos pulsate
behind closed i-lids-
(shhh...)
I know
All will pass.
Painting by Gabriël Metsu [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, November 4, 2017
By a heir
On a full moon night
near the solstice,
there was no gentle way
to be honest
under the naturally blue light.
I have long said,
everything travels in waves,
like this; light, sound, heat, idea,
emotion, news and aromas.
It made me angry
to remember
standing there.
He said I should do it,
for the money, for some sense
of justice
I ought to
make an effort,
as if it were worth going
backward.
There is no gold in those hills
waiting for me,
He disagrees.
For now, I tell him
I am still too busy.
And he knows how cold it is already
and knows it is too cruel to drop more
on me.
I reminisce how
many moons ago
I dreamt myself right here,
and never needed to remember
how it all happened.
Honestly, there is nothing left there
of value
for me.
I know I will have to go
back there, as the only child, the only one
who will-
It will cost them
only a little peace
when all has been
said and nothing done.
You left part of you
exposed there and turning blue
waiting for you to finally go back
and bury the body
deep in the hills
like treasures of the past.
We finally agreed,
a wave of relief washed over us both
Not Now-
in due time
it will come needing me
and my cold-hearted honesty
in the full moonlight.
Painting by Ilya Repin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Bare Essentialism
When we speak of
Ars Moriendi
You and I are finally getting somewhere,
beautiful.
When the Poet dies-finally-
The poem is freed.
The libertine line advances
meaning, perspective.
Morals are not the main characters,
plot is where we were going,
a scene made, is setting,
is a container, set and broken down,
a frame to hold all the pieces
to gather in one assemblage
and enable anyone to walk around.
Implicating exclusion by category, genre,
red and not read,
unbounded through decohesion,
letting leaves fly-
Well
we must determine-
To finish or decompose.
After all This
Art is all that remains after speech,
after thought, in memoriam,
the pictures point and the words paint
only where there is
Life.
We recognize these reflections
and find them beautiful.
Painting by William Orpen, Reflection in mirror c. 1917 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, September 28, 2017
Danger zone
I got to thinking-
maybe we were doing it wrong-
facing fears-meaning
why not let the demons in-
hell, welcome them hordes and all,
feed them well, find out what they want
from us,
so when they leave
it is-
for good.
What if what soaks in our pourous mem-
brains, is what we ooze out-
that is All,
like Nothing is ours,
or New,
we just reiterate or refute,
repeat or recreate, take credit
and run with it like a baton-
on fire,
And the longer I live,
the more I've seen,
heard, worn, thought, been there before-
it seems All
stolen-
moments-that is.
Furthermore,
does one dare to consider entering
such dangerous zones as the solid realms
of love or death, one and the same,
before one has tasted
it on their own lips?
No. Not in poetry. It would be tasteless.
Alas,
beautiful things
are most draining.
Photo credit By:Henry Peach Robinson [CC0], c. 1860 via Wikimedia Commons.
Monday, September 11, 2017
The Benefits of Oatmeal
Murder with breakfast, a sig alert for a fatality on the 5
before noon, then murder at dinner, leftovers again
as my heavy head hits the pillow-
Murder one-more time-a crime scene.
Alibi? Where was I? Lying low, while racing through thoughts,
I can feel my pulse-and stop and start-and I wonder,
am I feeling empathy? Guilty? Ceaseless. Peaceless.
Is this some sort of social
conditioning or mental shampoo?
We have all been too close to death
by now to tell each other Murder is not new News.
Another full round moon awaits
ahead. Some body’s namesake, a chunk off
The old rock.
There is a natural selection, population control,
denizens of indifference, disinterest, in de-
sensitizing the kind man.
Now Brand New! Tried and True!
Oatmeal is good for your heart.
It’s better with bananas-if you do not mind starch
All day strong on mushy trails while mixing
Cement for filling ruts.
Routines, like rituals, are set-up hopefully.
Warm and heavy, we live despite ourselves
simply not wanting to die.
The rest is bleeding out,
One drop per second
or all the mushy stuff
That caulks our gaps and seals our
fate, satisfied
Until tomorrow.
Painting by Willard l. Metcalf, The ten cent breakfast, 1887 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Smoking Rope Burns
Rope rather than guns
I said to the man
-in America anyway-
As if he asked for some alibi,
as if anyone Wanted me: Dead or Alive.
Not that
I suggested murder or hinted at a
lynch mob-no soldier trained for Tug of wars.
I have no skin in that game.
Here is the Reader
with their eyes on the trigger
pulling out meaning,
hanging there, in town squares,
the tangled mass pulls at twisted truths
by yarns and feet, knots and nots.
Suicide is never the last act.
Remember?
A rope also saves lives, he said
depending upon the need,
in his all-
American way.
Painting By Albert Baerston, Belgian painter, Ghent 1866 - Gent, 1922 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, June 9, 2017
Fight or flight
I propose
to usurp the power that death takes
hold, clamping its rusted iron jaw on degradable values
make diffused, diluted and convert to decrease aversion
Fight or flight for
Fear?
(clipped wings are for peacocks)
I have thawed my right angles
to meet the idea of my mortality
in mirrors and simulations and held white
for a time, essentially accepting
dirt nor ash is enough to subsist us
For the birds-just-ice
Leave me
Happily ever after
Life.
Lastly, carried away
Wishes molded into clay sink
while the will
always ends
with wind.
Painting by Melchior d'Hondecoeter [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, May 19, 2017
Soundless garden
The word noose hung in my head
Another dead
body
sways
goes away
A pretty pendulum taut under a knot beam
strong enough
I cannot convince myself
Ends are here
I feel them approach nearer
draws on
a bead
my unknown heart
my heavy hit
ear drums
top snares
his rhythm speaks to me
alone-
who left-
who-
Speak up, I’ll clap my bones,
bang my head
until I snap
off
my fate
my wave
crashes.
On May 17th Chris Cornell, an American musician and artist, took his own life-and his art-leaving behind a dear family, a large extended family, close and distant friends and fans that span generations, leaving us all to thrash in the crashing waves of his music awaiting a sense of full color sunset on his vivid passionate life. I hope he may be resting peacefully.
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
The Incantation of Sprung
The ringing had to have been
the resistance of air in being dissected
with a rugged swung scythe.
A crude way to make matters worse.
Should we speak up
so breath can chime in and tune on its own
accord to T for truths, sinews,
or sing along so we know
accord to T for truths, sinews,
or sing along so we know
where we were going
when it is over?
Souls dissipate most visibly
when the sun is a mere
when the sun is a mere
ten degrees above the arc at the end of All
and they blush as they come
into vulgar exposure.
The vertiginous extension of body
feels its mineral composition,
just as the mountain has long since
gathered here and crumbled there
gathered here and crumbled there
under the broom of wind and whistling.
The wait is the same atomic gravitas
so we make music on its shoulders,
conjuring notes we hope will
carry,
raining colors in a natural spring
raining colors in a natural spring
Forward marching over the detritus
of the Others
calcified fragments, ground in silt and
carried by such quick sand.
of the Others
calcified fragments, ground in silt and
carried by such quick sand.
To hear and to be heard over the years
something so sharply.
Watercolor by Karl Bodmer (1836) Assinboin in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, March 24, 2017
Aromatic Aura
How fast does smell travel?
Why must we try to identify the source?
What if----like light---
the colors- have not blossomed
yet in us?
The smells seem too obscure to identify individually,
as in comparing puce or magenta and tastes of rust.
We take in the deep red rose delightfully-
We pull the yellow little weeds sourly-
Sort of sorting…
Is there a clear line where the scent drops off?
As in event horizon,
Sort of, Danny D. would offer.
And scatter or spray,
It works the same way
At the atomic level
What does it Do?
Save face.
The rock has not the same
fears.
Making sense of it,
We had to take it all in-
side.
There was no place safe
to hide from the smell
we all know too well
already.
Painting By Francisco Iturrino (Santander, Spain, 1864 - Cagnes-sur-Mer, France, 1924) Born in Santander, Spain. Dead in Cagnes-sur-Mer, France. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Painting By Francisco Iturrino (Santander, Spain, 1864 - Cagnes-sur-Mer, France, 1924) Born in Santander, Spain. Dead in Cagnes-sur-Mer, France. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
What a Strange Trip we Spin
When we can finally
Let Go
we should hold onto that.
Forever young is not aging wisely.
No gain, less pain;
less risk, no reward.
In fact, 9 out of 10 persons,
in their final hour,
utter
Should & Late
now knowing it could come early.
Anyhow
on the seventh cloud,
in the ninth ward of heaven,
I see clusters of humanity acting civilized,
some are sleeping, some seem to be
searching around,
feeling nothing and gasping
for nothing they found
was there.
Ten out of ten,
just held on too long.
Let Go
we should hold onto that.
Forever young is not aging wisely.
No gain, less pain;
less risk, no reward.
In fact, 9 out of 10 persons,
in their final hour,
utter
Should & Late
now knowing it could come early.
Anyhow
on the seventh cloud,
in the ninth ward of heaven,
I see clusters of humanity acting civilized,
some are sleeping, some seem to be
searching around,
feeling nothing and gasping
for nothing they found
was there.
Ten out of ten,
just held on too long.
Painting By William Paxton (http://www.taller54.com/736.htm) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Bitter Me and Boris in February
Since it is February
my pens all lay in disarray atop my desk,
a box of tissues crouches underneath,
nearly empty on the fifteenth.
Twenty dollars, six gallons of gas,
radio streaming from Sirius, I try driving away the stillness.
Those bruised and patient pens will wait an eternity,
or February.
Nowhere are these thoughts not there.
I find serial murders of crows, low lying clouds
hovering and bitter cold from below
all cast down in ochre light.
I try to forget
any distinct lines
any distinct lines
with clarity and save the cruelty
for April.
Piercing eyes also translates
into Truth
and the inevitable thaw, moving matters,
the fiery tears Fall with drowned dreams.
Heavy, a serious wind is now winding down
her watch and brevity makes beauty
of all passing. If you remember
how purple was this February...
it must just be
Time
the words mixed
blood and ink.
Painting of Borris (Pasternak) beside the Baltic (1910), By L.Pasternak [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
How the ship went down
He wont go in, I asked him.
He said it is too c-c-cold.
It is February, someone said.
I thought it was warmer here,
that's what you said,
Spoke the brother man
I just met,
he then looked at
me.
He pretended to be misled
by the change in latitude.
Lightly making light
of this ceremonious process.
I looked around
for any familiar
faces.
The sun setting
cast a candle glow
on all of them.
The wind picked up
random pieces,
stirring us
salt and water
with mixed drinks.
Fifty-five and a half million lives lost
every year-two dozen ships sink.
"Relatively," I confessed,
unrelated to any
body.
And we were oceanside
all together,
a family,
not mine but with me doing this rite,
the ships sailed back to the harbor,
we all watched the pterodactyls pass
hugging the shoreline,
then seagulls in vees
watching us hug back.
We saw him now
scale down the riprap,
clutching the carved wooden box
in his left hand,
the waves rushed in to
meet him first
and he did not look back at us
looking over the edge
once.
He would not hear
the group of us
cheering
this man, these two men in the sea
fighting to stand,
fighting to let go
the sand, the ashes
and I saw that he was sobbing.
Silently, softly,
his shoulders shook
against the crisp horizon
in the last light
of that day.
He would have wanted it that way
is all his golden child could
grasp onto long enough
to say...
(This evening now gone,
peaceful bones, now resting deep
I thank the tide
for the grainy souls
it keeps
moving us
to live
without
wasting any more time)
Painting by William Bauly Lithography by Sarony, Major & Knapp [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, November 4, 2016
I am mortality
You-
Are afraid of death.
We can all see, it remains
obvious to the living.
Your trembling keeps you aware
of your limits by
borrowed body and baited breath.
Those weak limbs only lent in posterity
become bent
out of sorts and in specimens
You know, you have no ownership
Accept
the choices all there
your self unaware
the voices no where ensemble
the sirens that blare
some semblance to soothe by
Temptation
and taunt steadily
amplified at the base
of all heart beats
and eardrums.
You
conductor,
are listening for a pattern,
a way of knowing
the curse was weak
the cures were waiting
before Eternity for
You
in terrified harmony
aghast and kept petrified
shivering me to timbers.
Painting By Thomas Degeorge, Death of Archimedes (1815) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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