A sense of place

There was this song I have never heard
but its rhythms told my body that we've danced before.

In the yellow sunrise, the old farmhouse glows
like a candle in the road and looks as though I've lived there before.
The side door, if I remember, is unlocked.

The old woman that peddles vegetables every day in her blue bin on a bicycle,
I've never seen her before, but I bought some more Romas anyway.

Tulips in the garden are breaking their silence, like the mockingbird
the chorus, the words, I've heard anteriorly in this same spot before.

I thought by now I'd be pining for the giant hewn tree,
the shade it once made-but the roses are blooming,
and I'm left feeling stumped.
The grass is greener.

The new postman, who sometimes rings twice
because he forgets where he is at,
delivered a package for me down the street.
A neighbor I had never met brought it over to me,
like long lost friends, it was good to see both of them.

At home, I have house-guests
I rarely see.
Teenagers, some call them.
Outside, I feel out of place.
Inside, I feel too big in my own space.
Today, I picked up a peculiar novel
idea, and went with it.





Image By Yinan Chen (www.goodfreephotos.com (gallery, image)) [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fake news

Poetry is dead
The news went unannounced
the morning after
nothing significant happened
overnight, like the falling
of a star
none had ever heard
of.

All extermination outside
control is an infinitesimal iota
or inkling of discontentedness.

People are anxious and sad-
ly digressing.

These people around us,
called Friends,
dwell in a hive,
it is known to be
unsafe to stick one's arm
or neck out-
side.

Neither milk nor honey were effective
remedies
for the human condition
of bread and blood and jealousy and revenge.

Fact check: adding prescriptions won't remove you-
unless taken as instructed.

Poetry is often, by Anonymous.

All gossip is fast food.

There were reports of random rhymes and recently
too much illicit alliteration which went awry from
strict poetics, dismissed originality, refused mint-
ability and silently went about matching cases
where poetry became art and art made life
(more) poetic.

And yet it was always so,
documented.

Footnote: the value of 1,000 words has decreased significantly.
All photos have become 'Public Property'.

Religion has been resurrected for persecution.
Nothing is sacred.
Nobody is scared.
All coincidence is evidence of Magic.
And maybe
it was miraculous
and newsworthy,
Poetry was written
encoded into our genetics,
like the language
found on the tip of our tongues.

It feels good to roll your R's.



Painting by Francis Luis Mora, 'Morning News', c.1912 in San Diego Museum of Art in Public Domain.

Convice-a-versa

There was too much to say 
and no single string
to unwind the entanglement
they had become bound by.

There was no effort to try an utterance,
no thoughtless pennies lying around;
that whet glimmer gone out-thirst quenched
that kindled glow to dull grit, brackish.

Nowadays, 
they say so little about much to Be
done differently, they insist
resistance is futile, 
the pinned up smile, better
(n)ever?

And so, the silence stood for resilience,
for this speechless return, old friends 
in darkness, happenstance
this ends loneliness for this time.

Gentler thoughts could do-(no)
Better. 

Painting by By Felix Nussbaum, 1943 (https://www.tumblr.com/search/Felix+Nussbaum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.