“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 fences. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fences. Show all posts
Thursday, March 17, 2016
A chain linked fence
Galvanized tendons twist
to form diamonds uncut
steel.
Roughly transparent in
semipermeable static lines,
electrified when more than it
is.
Keep in the bad,
holy cells skewed of
graphed locking turns,
sideways squares that we see
thru.
Holding red cup circles,
as a symbol that means
heart pushing thru
with
crimson aura.
A link between sides
that were never a
part.
Kept inside shapes,
diamonds tilted sideways squares
holding red circle cups there
to share a cold heart, locked,
barbed bivalve and by block-
nearly far enough to-
gather.
Image By Evan-Amos (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Sweltering in suburbia
He is winding his cobra hose
into a giant pot
it knows the way
and conforms to its coiled state
He checks his wrist
as the Cross's sprinklers cough and sputter
erupting in four corner rainbows
just for the latch key cat to see
Beads of sweat match the dew
as he knits his brow
She buses the kitchen
tidies and tucks, neatens and preens
applies her costume makeup
before choking herself with cultured pearls
She grabs the knife noting the missing
empty vase, with a handheld guillotine
poppy heads will roll, the daisies do nothing
and the hydrangea trembled in sweet defeat
Her paper mache skin tears on a thorn
nearby, she sucks up her own sap
Somewhere a horn blares
two trumpets picks up the pace,
accordions shuffle along
a guiatrrón leads the falsetto
Her heels dig into the Bermuda sod
as the peeks through the fence, tipping her toes.
An entire expanse of brown earth contrasts
the blue-white linen in milk chocolate hands.
The thick brick woman on the other side
pins and shuffles along a line, barefoot
a little dog prances and pops at her feet
carne roasting wafts in the wimpy wind
As she moves along, some are dry already
pressed and flat, stiff without starch
same as paper doll clothes with foldover tabs
her yellow tooth sweat stains circle her silk pits
Night and day
they do not say
or share a word
Next door
the paint has given up on its tone
the grass doesn't bear fruit, or wishes
laundry is pressing itself in midair
The Senorita hums and smiles blindly
Blanca sighs and tries being kindly
An alien in her own skin
not knowing how to begin
a new accord.
Escaping from the scalding sun,
Blanca goes back inside to hide
The Senorita stays 'til done
her side wafts with pride.
“El que más temprano se moja, más tiempo tiene para secarse.”
He who
gets wet earliest has the most time to dry.
Image of painting by William Aiken Walker (1839-1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
And then...
Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign, at first...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...