Erasure

There was a line

on the shore that clear day

We both knew

where to stand

Once

the tide came to meet us

in the middle of taking in

both sides, the ways of life

varied as the grains

all touching one another

in such a clutching way

that the differences and space

only demarcate

the same

Way

these lines cross.

Painting by Sydney Starr, 'On the Shore' c. 1900 in Public Domain. 

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.

With these hands
I held my babies-once, long ago-
now forbidden to touch
With the same such tender care.

With these hands
I sealed my ancestors in dirt
now sealed away from all five senses.

With these hands,
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.

With these hands,
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.

Make your point

Cradled in the smooth groove
stretchy slope, perched between
your pointer
and omniscient thumb
the hexagonal pole poised in position
and lightly pinch
its slender girth
slide midway down its length
or further,
depending on your comfort level
or prowess,
practice with pointed objects

It's metal headband
watches from behind, coaching
looking for mistakes.
Taking aim with the tip
the bulls eye opening is your mark
the electric desktop bladed machine,
a miniature tree shredder of sorts.

It will resist and rock, grind
and gnash,
vibrating and stimulating
to the touch
Five seconds will do,
enough to make your point
sharp and new
although you've lost some length likely
you've left some carbon footprints where
it whittled itself away
right before erasure led to its faded decay
ashes to coal, black dust in the wind
archaically, today the pencil is passe.

I still use one today
and I could continue on rhyming this way,
until my coal dark pencil turns light grey.
Then again-
I think I'll grab a pen.



Image By Juliancolton (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.