Net wait

A blessing comes with a curse,

wait and good things will appear,

like whale spouts and comet tails bursting forth,

you will see-eventually.

And chances are 

choices awaiting a verb,

like the other side of the coin

what is tossed in the air,

must plummet to its lowest nadir.

We have seen this played out. Likewise,

such sweeping statements, proverbs and prophecies,

do little for everything-in-all-times, 

yet consistently, this movement tends to

strew the smallest fragments more widely 

distributed across the floor and

atop all the lowest planes, building up-

just as the feather duster spreads its wings,

the timepiece propels one to practice 

gathering oneself more

and in doing so, magnetism must assert 

its basic properties are acuter 

than our elemental bodies

behaving and obeying the laws.

Well, we can only collect our thoughts 

and arrange them in an orderly fashion 

so that they may be 

overlooked,

making more room to move around and since 

wisdom was a woman, things, like elimination, 

we tend to find 

liberating in corners.

Everything here, in a sense shows, 

entropy was a mirror image of 

this empty room, piling up with dunes of dust.

While waiting for change,

chaos was creating 

lines in the sand and

when the wind broke in for one last sweep,

there was nothing to weigh any of us down.

The holes served their purpose. 

Image By A Stieglitz, c. 1899 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Coffee Table Book

As a little girl I remember the living room, 
        the smoked glass paneled hexagon coffee table 
with the abalone ashtray 

always full.

This table back then was the media center, for the TV Guide and 

disheveled stacks of various magazines;

Rolling Stone, Glamour, Woman's Day, Better Homes and Gardens,

Guitar, and Cosmo-always had the cover covered,

censorship-I guess since it always said something about sex.

I rarely saw her read them, she just threw them on the stop sign table 

day after day.

Along with sticky spilt drink rings and bits of green leaves, 
          there were tiny straws always there too,

and I could never find any tiny drinks 
          in the fridge despite looking

day after day.

They were collectors of clutter.

I remember taking all the magazines, 
                sorting them into music and beauty,

by month, bindings all lined neatly

and of course reading the Cosmo.

I also played library 

with my stuffed animals before they were all

taken away due to allergies. The animals, not the books.

I got them all back, I wasn't allergic to them, it was just dust.

Back then I decided I must become 

a magazine writer-No I would own my own!

I am no Oprah though, I remember her before she was 

her Own woman with an over-sized magazine I have never seen

on any coffee table. Square or round.

We cannot all be famous,

but we can all become anonymous.

When I learned about air-brushing, angles, and trending topics,

I thought I must become a librarian-antiquity-my own library (with a ladder)!

Then Google and Amazon got around collecting and distributing rare

and hard to find literati-poor little she already too late. 

I worked at a bookstore when I was 16.

I implemented a used book exchange, 

I met a man named Adam Walks Between Worlds, I learned

floristry and barista services, he was brutally murdered.

It was not the job I sought. I did not want to check, sell, stack, dust, sort,

I wanted the words only, the cover, my name, and sex, permission

to express succinctly what I believed in me. 

A better home and a garden, possibly
a new edition of Cosmo-logical, not politan.

Alas, I am only a famished writer who wants 
real words in an unreal world. 

Some sex up front.

Sneezes are similar to sex.

some dust is okay but no clutter

or stop sign tables

to bring me back

there believing in limitless opportunities 

for those with life experience

with a loss of words,

like, Bless you.

Painting By Adrien-Henri Tanoux, Afternoon coffee (1888) 

via (Christie's) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Whose in the way of whom

What does it matter

if water may hollow stone,

it also melts ice,

and is able to absorb

its likeness

to become more of itself.

Who can blame the wind 

for putting pressure

on structures we've built

opposing its whims,

where we erect our wants;

which is why we tremble.

Unlike the stone

that is grounded

lays low, erodes slowly

and goes nowhere fast.

Water I care

emote a dust in the wind?

Amidst stone cold silence,

I heard the wind whisper

and the water splattered back.

This poem was inspired by the poem Wind, Water, Stone by Octavio Paz.

Photo credit By Sequeira, Paul, Photographer (NARA record: 8464471) (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Description: Homeowners lined a lake beach with cars in order to prevent erosion threatening their dwelling residences. 

Feather Duster

A collective flux of humanity
each a mote point, asserting non-space,
and carried into the strongest current, alone
only to settle,
scatter the matter
atop the surface only to
corrupt the reflection.

Iotas of equality, wanton of will
in this form invisible, divisible
and particularly unattached

loosely liberated from titles.

Breaking fields, bumping along,
cluttering the reception, static
speckled somewhere, between angled
pieces of we, as ashen air,

suspended and taut the heaviest,
scattering a smattering
of our particulate atmosphere turn
back into stardust, visible vapors
 rain in shafts, even when we cannot see,

which is why
dust lingers here at high noon,

mocking notions of clean.

Image by By Dana Berry/NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Black hole devours neutron star, taken 7/21/2013.