Circles of influence

As with Death and Being

(in love),

you only know it when it comes

close enough to smell-it gone.

This doesn't help us.

It is curious to wonder

why we still get dizzy

(in tight circles we spin)

when this has always been

the Prime Mover

of things that (are like) matter.

It is earthshaking to think all of us

know something

(is speaking directly to us)…

As with Kodiak bears and Great White sharks

act Bigger and be LOUD-pretend you are more than you are.

We don't dare admit

this is not enough.

Survival is still

just our luck.

Painting by Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Title: Ulysses Fleeing the Cave of Polyphemus

“Eckersberg spent 1811 to 1812 in the studio of David, practicing life drawing and history painting. One of a series of subjects from the Odyssey, this is perhaps the most compelling. The giant Polyphe­mus in his cave looms over a sheep, searching for Ulysses and his companions, who blinded the one-eyed monster. The men have escaped beneath the bellies of the flock; Ulysses, at the end, prepares to join his companions. The Mediterranean light is dazzling. We viewers remain imprisoned in the tenebrous foreground as Ulysses slips away. Eckersberg’s study of the eloquent contours of Greek vase painting is put to good use here.”

Be wildered

When I think about it too hard
I get vertigo.
When I don't do anything,
I turn morbid and green.
When I consider giving up,
I feel less...
closer to Death-without it.
When I write, I feel right.
When I forget all of this
I make sense.



Painting By Frederick McCubbin, 'Lost' 1886 (1855-1917) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Any last feelings

When asked, at death's gate
shall thee prefer to enter
happy,
satisfied, or content-
will you choose?
I'd like to think
when I circumnavigate my trip
I'd take a view of contentment.

Though a man I know
answered this hurriedly-
Happy! he bursted-
I doubted one would like
to die-then-
I said-As in-having sex?
He said he couldn't ask for more-
of course, he couldn't then-
satisfied
Lovers: Sex and Death (a taboo tryst)
are actually akin
to sacrifice for something
we knew
annihilated
to be-
come
a piece-full
of
you, like
All men.




Image of painting by Gustav Klimt [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Dead-lines make us dance

I am going to die.

Not today, I really hope.

Inevitably I will it so someday.
Not this one,

I know, I can control that. Will. Be.

Able to stop the Time: why we write. Though,

all know, the endings are not ours.

Cracks in the porcelain grow-stress-lines

like faults at forty. At thirty, we don’t think

of meeting our match-in dem eyes. 

Now Ecstasy we see

helps alleviate the stress.

Chemically, elasticizes the skin,
that tightens in fear, out-looking grim,

youth is fear-less-ignored-immortal.

I’m-mortal-immortality?
How could we want more…

sublime with the time we have

had-enough time-time enough.

“Relieved of the burden of passion, and freed from the pressure of desire”

Sounds serene, quiescence, in essence, is nothing left to say

any other way.

Sleep. Sueño.

Nobody stops to Thank Death
for bringing these:

Dreams, drive, to do, be for, we go.

Dead-lines makes us dance.

“The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.”
-Edgar Allan Poe

Image of painting by Thomas Pollock Anshutz [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Little Ms. Pants on Fire

My black jacket with the fur-rimmed hood
whispered in my ear yesterday,
that one day
we will go live in the snow.
Although, we don't talk much,
since I live near (warm) San Diego
(now) it has been cold
so we've been friendly lately.
Then, when
I was having dinner
with a lemon verbena candle
the other night, thyme on the table
I read something interesting,
which actually gave me quite a fright-
but the candle jumped in and uttered a spark,
'You wont die in the dark-
and it wont be from fire,
those words were written by a liar!
Tho', idle fears, I have years and
I don't necessarily think so-
acrophobia,  arachnophobia and pyromania.
Fear, Love and Webs, scary things
to get tangled in.
To things I harbor like hobos
And as I begin to listen in
to assorted precocious objects,
threadbare trinkets and baubles that pop
I harbor like lazy houseguests,
I still hear the ring of fear
in the old quaking clock
five-fifty-five-tic-tock
five-fifty-five-tock-tic
I was told
this fateful mortal time
I accommodate and appropriate,
still chimes in my head.
My watch has no comment,

it's face, expressionless
and lays like a remora, leech.
I proceed  with today anyway

as though I too, 

have no need to know
such sagacious

miscellaneous things

such as where, and when, by how

I will die, not now

from animated things with no eyes
who see my future
and how it
lies. 

Composed 1/18/16.

Image by By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

From Wails to the Shuddering Sea

When I wonder

do we first think

we Are

welcome to the world?

From the abyss

of a watery womb

we hear

outside

of Us

we know

when words fail

we wail

upon arrival

into blinding light

from maternal night

Immobile and trapped

in our scaly shells

worn by the tides

we call Time

we wither

from glass to grain

too small to complain

anymore

utter

nonsense

We forget

Shards and slices

pieces of Us

that cut to the race

humanity

drops of sea

expire We

at the finish line

of memory

shuddering 

blindly

in our final victory

drowned 

in revelry.

Image By Koga Harue, Koga Harue, 1929 (died in 1933) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.