Loaves & Fishes: Memories & Plans

One made with suffering

we may savor

the bread we have made.

Some risen to our expectations,

something sweet or sour

a taste

we may try to remake, repeat

the recipe, grain by grain

we never attain the same

indulgence

again. Anticipation

of the past 

becomes stale,

may mold,

does not keep

nourishment.

Even as the oven heats steady,

the smell creeps, our glands

salivate, our bellies rumble, our eyes

witness a gold encrusting,

awaiting 

what may be

more satisfying

than the last bite.

Like catching on,

which is not fishing 

for 

dreams, desires, the plans 

of slippery silver streaks

eluding us

just beneath the surface

A world, not ours, a place

that would drown us

if we wish to linger too long.

The one that got away, 

the one that was bigger than we say,

the fish that passed the lure

you set,

the dream nibbling on the bait

and swam the other way.

Only today,

the hunger, not having,

not caught-

up, cool to the touch

feels more than

fulfilling. 

Artwork by Charles Jacque( (1813-1894), c. 1835 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Gesture

It is the same way we see heat
emanation, only by the rippling
of reality,
an oasis awaits further down the road.

Despite the distance we cover,
no matter how we adjust our focus
crisp lines singe into smoke
relaxing
feeling and senses
a source.

Desire is emanated
from the soul to the eye
that traces the shapeliness of
bodies around
a naked blur
which softly invites a gaze.

The way wind is welcome
where still
waiting for change
of pace moves no bodies
weighted with apathy.

The world spins, arrows fly,
hope floats, love kills, babies die,
the decrepit are reborn, the gates are locked,
gravity suspends its permanence
for a second
witness.

See how it feels...

Arid and parched
a body becomes
never reaching
for what cannot be held.



Image taken in Death Valley taken August 1982 by Roger 469 in Public Domain. 

drawing with charcoal

Seething and sizzles
with intermittent sparks,

This dawn cracks
its sharp end

Making wake
a current state of fray

Today
may bring light

By ignition
cauterized by the heart.



Painting by Alphonse Asselbergs (1839-1916), 'Around a Fire in the Forest', in Public Domain. 

And In the Fourth Place

*1st*
Nice guys do not race.
Finishing is not the End
All-Be Told to Run.
*2nd*
It may be You have
Anxiety from lack of
Things to want-not Now.
*3rd*
Enstranglement is
too desirous of a Thing
that breathes not-Life.
*4th*
You got what you want
in the past tense, now what more
does Tension require?




Painting by Louis-Marie Austissier (1772-1830), 'Lady with Basket filled with fruits', c. 1814 in Public Domain. 

bed of coals

Enveiled, as usual
lifted my eyes by the chin
you invited me in

a place I know, have been
sitting by the fire-place.
And only on this hearth

have I seen illumination
made warmer
by generous raditation

over time and across space
between us-apart-of something else
that remains Otherness

between bonds like breath
we share aglow,
rekindled when struck together.



Painting by Santiago Rusiñol (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Busy going down the drain with Eddy

Start here and get this over with
will you-so we can move on
with more of the same

wistful wants.
This two
let pass...

First things first,
get 'em on deck and in a row-
orderly, nice and tidy, see

things get done this way-
or do they, I pray
we are not just

tilling our rich soils
like Voltaire-infertile,
infantile and bored,

whereby garden side

resides this musing man
who gets lost with no plan-
hence without direction.

I reckon.

That is not you. This is not us.
We no longer grow our food.
Despite the growing bellies

thick with cancer,
bloated and blurred
in fact, it keeps us busy

wondering what happened
with all these weeds.
We were supposed to be a-
mazed, we can grow.

A lie, a labyrinth,
a temporary structure
lay in the dirt.

We were pulled in one direction,
despite resistance, like cancer
this was no choice,

but diagnosis.

There was only one direction,
it was a-
head.

On second thought
there is no good place
to begin to make it

in sphere

we are contained,
consumed and thereby
recreated

it keeps us busy.





Image of artwork by Lodewijk Toeput [Public domain], Pleasure Garden with maze, (c. 1579-84) via Wikimedia Commons.

My lips are sealed

Because I liked to kiss the boys,
you used to say.
And from what he saw,
that sounds true.
Lack of will power, I say
don't deny when desire strikes.
No, they did not push my button,
or make it near my neck.
And it wouldn't matter who
happened to be throwing their meat
at me, pelvis, chest, seeking breasts.
Hot syrup breath and drizzling skin,
I'd be right there,
half naked myself, ripe peachy skin
swollen lips and wild half
closed black eyes, my body swinging
to feel itself touch outside.

This is how I know hypnotists are real,
and trances, a quarter a twenty due
to inflation, like the facts, you see.
Those musicians that are reckless
with their radio rape and power
over women, tossing bass under lusty lines
that speak to somewhere primitive.
Women respond in a certain throbbing way
under disco lights cast in dank dungeons.
A charmer and his pungi,
the venom has been imbibed.

Because I like to kiss the boys, he said
which may be true but sounds like conceit
when I profess it was they who kissed me
first. But he wouldn't dance
(too left deceit)
so he could never completely see
if I kissed them back
and I wish
I never did.





Image By UPI (eBay) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Rock Hudson & Julie Andrews 1968 film, Darling Lily.

The Currency of Time Well Spent

Wavering in want

is wallowing in wait

for something to happen

while the world goes on.

Toiling the time

is the devils presence

when you are wishing

you were

some

one

else

some

where

else

who

saw

You

As

who

you

are

Now

and said,

I've been looking for

You

I've finally found

You

-they'd say.

And I'd see,

no time was wasted,

no time like the present,

when the devil may care. 

Image of painting by Joseph-Désiré Court, 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The fork of desire

Primal hunger pangs taunt
and flaunt past senses.
Penetrating dimensions,
the jaw clenches.
Unrelenting thirst
pinched cheeks; pursing lips
cracked and trembling.
Pining for a sharp tool-
as an axe would wield
extracting the will.
Determined to fulfill
and sate the craving
unabating, excruciating
gnaw and growl
at a plate that is full
and still that dull
pull for more.
All mine-
stuck on the tine
pierced and tenderized,
penetrating and salivating
at the carnal need,
an insatiable greed.
Ravenous utensil by design
the heart, glutted and gored
a small spade, an aspiring apparatus
an ideal instrument of implementing
a stab through the chest.

Delighted and possessed,
past deprived, I digest-
admiring the architecture
of the fiercely savage fork.


Image of cannibal fork from the Bishop Museum in Honolulu, HI by Ergosum88.

Smoke inhalation

Desire

is a fire

that goes out

when it's not stoked.

Man

started fire.

A fire

does require

your full attention once lit.

Flare-ups. Smoke signals. Errant sparks.

Women 

tend the fire.

Desire 

is combustible

unless retardant is applied.

Burned. Back-fired. Scorched.

A fire

Does indeed need both fuel and freedom and air.

As lightning steals its rightful thunder

We extinguish

Without an ignition point.

Image by Carl Svante Hallbeck, (1826-1897) of Sweden [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.