Empirical Spherical

In the sphere where clouds are formed

How high? Out of eye-

sight

Is where mind over matter mixes its

Potion

Something

from nothing-

Empty

As a periwinkle sky

filled purely with a howling wind

that you can feel in your

Bones

like rain

and gravity, the weight, and desire of

Still... 

the plane pierces through the dark wall

and

Nothing was there

After

All.

Painting by Nesterov, The_Nightingale_is_Singing_by_M.Nesterov_(1918,_priv.coll), in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Gravity speaks of distribution

While putting away the dishes

in my tiny kitchen,

I recalled over-hearing 

the man say to the girl

'Your eyes were bigger than your plate'

And now I was stacking the plates,

sorting large and small,

thinking how they were all made the same

Each one designed to hold only so much

And the inevitability

Of each one taking a turn

At the bottom,

bearing the weight 

Of all 

The others 

And never cracking.

With the dishes put away,

I look through the glasses

Thinking of the right size

for my eyes

Hearing the tiny echoes

Of gravity 

And thirsting for more. 

Painting by Joannes de Cordua (1630-1702), 'Still life with copper dishes' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Baby rock

A daughter is the only true conversation
that never ends...

Domesticated means kept
for companionship
by necessity.

Friend-
ships sail easily in a passing breeze.

Love spins
the Earth,
holding us close
to the core
or heart
of matter

like all of these
intangible connections
that bind
our words to the spine.

Once upon a time
we were here
mattering to one another

collecting the loose fragments
that spin off
and calling them stars.


Artwork credited by NASA/JPL-Caltech / Public domain.

Whyte light

Lean out,
breathe in.
Step off,
take it in.
You will fly
they praise.
My wings must be wet.

Whyte, white light
from acme to abyss
this mountainous
poet dragon
echoed across
my blood river valleys

and Up
I aimed a gaze.
My eyes-directing
my eyes where I wished-

Like the flower
happy to bloom,
in bloom
noticing the ever-changing
view.

Left with these notions

what must come down?
Come down
what must,
what must...



Painting by Thomas Moran, 'Mountain of the Holy Cross', c. 1890 in [Public domain].

Wait and see

That is how things collapse,
you know how it goes,
all at once.

From experience,
there was no other way.

I survived a major earthquake,
yet none jolt the nerves like those
fault lines
connected to the heart.

So, it is never
really one thing-at a time,
rather what we choose to do or see
about it,
like finding a moldy blueberry
and leaving it with the rest.

It makes one turn to meat,
foregoing the fruit.

There is a dotted line between
poison and penicillin.

There is more to throw away
than keep.

Rebuilding is going to require
everything,
except
accepting to live in the rubble
of what once stood
up to/against.



Image credited by Nyttend in [Public domain].

Intro-version

Things fall into place and we can safely say
gravity had a heavy hand,
although it is a weak force and spineless excuse
for why we stand up-
right

despite the pressure this places directly on
our crowns,
fashioned from sand and stone,
the weight resists the wait
reeling into terminal velocity
blurs and gives
in, collapses into itself,

and condensing, reducing what is necessary
by its lowest denomination

We still build and rebuild as if we knew it would
all work out this way,
and not that way we tried
to change the inevitable, like laws, universal
and blind,
like this dark energy displaced
with good will

things were determined
by the absence of things
accidentally
heavier than we could imagine.


Painting by Jules Charles Aviat (1844-1931) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Insufferable

Poems do not feel
anything
Yet they are something that says
with words feel me
If only
there was another poetic way
to speak
to emotion
(in order)
to capture, to convey
What was meant
to be left unsaid
                           Silence
                           is full of
                                  This
                           pulsation
                           felt as a compulsion
                           to give way
                           to gravity
For no sound
reason.



Painting by Wada Eisaku, c. 1926 in the Pola Museum of Art [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Leave a message at the tone

The universe has a way of hearing the things we say,

aloud, Eliot knew this too.

No matter whom we direct it to, sound waves ripple

the atmosphere which hears this 

stretching--of---imagination

into speech tones, a whistle from the kettle of

the thermoshpere or body-cavity.

The rising sound, or the Doppler effect teaches us

the source

is closer than it appears,

-omnidirectionally-

It absorbs  itself and replies

as a twinge, wave or spasm, clenched

in the sinking feeling of a heavy heart

that beats on itself, calling everything an echo

of what was thought, solid enough to move bodies

into empty spaces and fills itself with volume

from heat, or by imagination.

It conceives these shapes and translates them

into words or wishes

which will settle for a collection of particles we

have  heard before

we knew the source. 



Photo By State Library and Archives of Florida (c. 1948), [No restrictions or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Maxim Poetical

Grandma said
                Always wear a bra
                -even to bed.
She said,
                Put liberal
                amounts of lotion on
                everywhere every day.

Grandpa advised
                looking up every-
                thing I did not know
how to use or say
Smile
Grandma warned,
               those are the better lines
               to make.

My heavy skin agrees
                with these
                ad(d)ages.



(This poem was inspired by Lorine Niedeckers' poem, '(A) Poet's Work')


Painting By Mohov Mihail (1819-1903) (Mohov Mihail) [Public domain, Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Learned

We have become wiser by (re)placing knowledge,

the study of science and acquisition of hard facts behind 

the gauzy veil of superstition, making senses agree to co-
here.

When we look up our horoscopes, we know it means superficially,

and specifically, something general about us and all others

born under the same stars, the same fate awaits us 
under the same moon,

for Now by proximity.

Where some of us are the observers and some are the affected,

which results in the observed being aware of observation through

filters like sieves, discarding the detritus and cause. 

As in the non-medicinal biology of our physiology

and newly altered chemical psychology,

originally the study of the soul, which moved up to mind

which won't be found, locally hovering over us.

The cause of all actions, dreams and motivations, 

are electrochemically bound to the nobility of gasses produced

and what cannot be seen is still ingested, gravity rolls in waves

to tip the harmonic float of equipoise in irony. 

Under all this entropy, chaos left a scathing impression

Of being busy and all amalgamated, diffused and placed

as a foreign body, easily pushed out over time

as a known irritant that refuses to fade away. 

And we realized it was there for a reason,

the whole time it was up to us,

which changes things intensely,

which overloads the first mover

who would be wiser to let go of certainty

by welcoming the only clear way

where stars have the room to line up

and fall, to burn out after emitting all

opalescence.

Pennies sink and still shine, unenvious of temperature,

windows will fly open in desperation for fresh cool air,

we were stuck thinking and suffocating, 
awaiting a breeze 

that breaks in and ransacks the soul

inside out

in any given broad day light

we were willing to learn from the past, 

but still collected worthless things

for others to admire.

We forgot on purpose 
what makes desire. 


Artwork (brush and watercolor on off-white paper) By Creator:Luis Falero [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Gravitas

It was never about our dumb thumbs.
It was the way we stood up
to gravity
without needing to know what we have
pushed up against, the faceless force
of resistance that throws its weight in waves
that crash out of sight and none mind this weakness
the stacking of back bones.

The clock, the book, ape our names with a smirk and a stick
shows you his ant collections, meanwhile, the snake swallows its tail.

Pounds and heartbeats resist this ethereal oppression
that taunts us to compete with what we have,
as though a winner was ever chosen,
as if hope had more than clipped wings with whimsical wants
and rings only of brass cages,

only light easily escapes our local prisons,
with motion detectors triggered we creep
like suspicion
reflection and persistence and say we are seekers

what gathers as cumulous clouds all comes
back down to dirt before clay
this way something is from nothing

the spinal column rachets and secures its connections
between inside out, an idea, a step in the right foot first
direction of brave, giants leaps of grace
loss of place

higher than vertigo knows
makes me think
there was nowhere to grow
up is out.

I doubt our thumbs
gave us a free ride.
Gravity takes no sides.




Painting by Claude Monet, Heavy Seas at Pourville (1897) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Expansion

Moving forward, at the end of the day, and these clichés

were left to remind us what sounds about right,

in-sight-fully (don't look back).

As though we could help it, we were not made

this way, a head, not eating tails of our time.

Before you ask-did I know about this

I have said this before, a little bit of chaos

does so much more for creation, inflation

and more. There is (much) more,

After all, 'A few people laughed, a few people cried',

I hope you lived in an interesting time-

Most were silent and simply watched the wax melt

down the ink dark sky making white caps on mountains.

It is best to listen for the ring mascons make,

since echoes don't travel well without gravity’s hold.

Calling your attention to small matters like the moon

making our weight

neon light, a flashing Open sign.

By NASA/ESA/JHU/R.Sankrit & W.Blair [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
"On October 9, 1604, sky watchers -- including astronomer Johannes Kepler, spotted a "new star" in the western sky, rivaling the brilliance of nearby planets. "Kepler's supernova" was the last exploding supernova seen in our Milky Way galaxy. Observers used only their eyes to study it, because the telescope had not yet been invented. Now, astronomers have utilized NASA's three Great Observatories to analyze the supernova remnant in infrared, optical and X-ray light."

A handle on mesmerism

Just so you know, we were right

to suspect any consonant

that needs a vowel to back it up.

Quintessentially; quasi, quickness, quiet,

quarks and quantum theories,

all innocent until proven otherwise.

We were correct when we assumed

gravity would keep it all together,

but neglected to factor its distributive

properties & aggressive enforcement of

simultaneous eminent domain properties,

allegedly, stayed comfortable until ejected.

We were on the right track,

until it went-left-us

dusting prints and collecting categories.

We were seekers and askers

that could spare no time to wait

for the reply. Why, we all ready

knew, light travels by choice, fades,

in the dark effervescent legacy of We

picks its photonic path of preference or

-least resistance.

We were getting somewhere

further, expanding our reach and

grasp at the fading universe

whose tension untangles energy

by itself through kinesthetics.

We were playing with electricity

and shocked to see, we were the end

that shorted potentiality

with our beautiful brevity.

We were wrong all along

about gravity and letter pairs,

the proof was static, hanging, ringing,

crushing

all in the heavy air.

Artists conception By NASA/JPL-Caltech [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. From wiki:

This artist's conception illustrates a Jupiter-like planet alone in the dark of space, floating freely without a parent star. Astronomers recently uncovered evidence for 10 such lone worlds, thought to have been "booted," or ejected, from developing solar systems.

The planet survey, called the Microlensing Observations in Astrophysics (MOA), scanned the central bulge of our Milky Way galaxy from 2006 to 2007. It used a 5.9-foot (1.8-meter) telescope at Mount John University Observatory in New Zealand, and a technique called gravitational microlensing. In this method, a planet-sized body is identified indirectly as it just happens to pass in front of a more distant star, causing the star to brighten. The effect is like a cosmic funhouse mirror, or magnifying lens light from the background star is warped and amplified, becoming brighter.

Hand me downs (II)

The local train blares by

to cause alarm

although familiar, futility gains strength with steam.

With this new engineer at the helm from the rear

he calls *Attention* to his pressures and passages

as though he

the town crier knew the time

anymore.

This whine is the bell vibrating raw gravity-

                           hard to see

coming straight, near, far, coming, going...

All the rest is color coded for us,

              lights and trigger switches

are on the outside, green and red, black and blue

Stop and Go for Simons followers.

The straight path, as the crow flies,

is soft and well worn, even in the sky

                     drawing diameters

in his radii, he is right on a smooth track.

To make it back home for dinner, meatloaf.

To rely on regular things such as

weak forces, sympathy and cacophonies.

Painting by Frits Thaulow, The train is arriving (1881) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Quicksand

Since poetry is up to interpretation, meaning-wise-
how does the poetry reader understand the Poet's intent
with certain-T's like Truth and Tale
divided unevenly...
Mostly, we knew the poet forgets these two
So how does a semblance come together as a sense
of justice, (common sense) or was it just us
who smiled at the cool plums...

Electromagnetism asserts its charge,
Gravity resists a zero,
the Poet's ears are taut
the words that wobble and worry
about none
poetic and pathetically undone
in ink.
Welcome All.
Let that sink in, a lifeline.
Try this barefoot
with a poem,
touch the earth with your toes-
read it again, it will tell you
its potent-ialities
softly, poetry
tart and juicy.



Painting by Ilya Repin, Tolstoy Barefoot, 1901 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To know and not show

I have a little crimson rage

who gathers his little demi-gods 

inciting a violent riot

assembled in order

to exact 

his welled-up wrath.

His rants and blames

sharply

backed up by 

observable trajectory

aimed and arched for the heart.

You missed you fool.

Penetrating rampage,

the bull sees red and enacts

his death charge

allegedly, no more time

to explain.

Veins bulge, blood boils, 

frothing at the surface.

The hide and skin

sizzling volcanic 

and tectonic.

Flying plates,

slamming doors, 

shattering windows,

shards skim

a schism.

Under his direction,

beneath falling debris, 

buried under all sense

of which way is up.

Ungrounded accusations,

underhanded maneuvers

defy gravity, suspended;

a salve of dali 

makes sense.

The Truth 

will always sink 

(in).

Image of drawing by By Julio Ruelas (1870 - 1907) (Mexican) (Painter, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Fall (Haiku)

Inevitable

the onus of gravity

facing Truth and Time




Image By Kusakabe Kimbei [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The weight of the world

My pockets are empty, no rocks for my swim today
I am armed still with each of these quartered limbs

The rope swing resembles a gnoose, or a snake
the mongoose was always me, miss identified

Eucalyptus tendrils squeeze out mentholated breezes
calling the monarchs, two come to court, tagging up in streamers

Perched in the sappy pines a murderous row becomes a mob,
volume and black plagues grow from the chain mail gang

Humming while hovering over a well, the nectar inebriates
bird and bee still in recovery, stalling in their stupor mid-air

The drum roll of wind, corralling the dead, noting the tenor of leaves
swirling in symphonic disharmony, sloughing and buffing scales

Laser beams between tall pillars scorching the dirt, releasing the
essence, crushing the spice revives, in particulates burnt alive

The serenity of the lakeside: The tranquility of Tantalus
eternally reaching, mute preaching, still teaching all of us.



Image credit:By Extemporalist (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

What's the Matter

I am an unstable lepton seeking opposition.

I had a chance to be an undiscovered pentaquark.

And, like you, I prefer symmetry in my fractals.

And am particularly attracted to magnets.

What's the matter then?

Gravity bums me out.

It’s constantly micromanaging, like Time itself-

read on the face, I've seen the circle of life,

but I prefer triangles.

I think wealth should be calculated

by Karmic Score divided by Faith.

The way it looks,

I will get to watch

two Haley's comets pass, elapse

(in my little blinking life).

I used to live at the seashore,

where there are 1,440 waves

that break every single day.

And even though I move around,

(often in circles)

and am not there to see the crash,

I know those waves are still

breaking

(without me).

Nobody can remember what it is to be an American anymore.

America isn't even 500.

Didn’t we manufacture ancient history (yet)?

Monsters make earthquakes.

Geologists think about flatware.

Their i's bigger than their plates-

the I in inertia, that is.

And anthropologists are making strides,

measuring footprints in lieu of the gait.

I never want to grow out of my imagination,

I'm waiting for flood pants to be back in style.

I've accepted my death is nothing personal.

I am not sorry,

(anymore).

Beyond Reason

Tell me please,

if you have seen,

what lies between the magnet

and the object of its pursuit?

It's a pull, yes. Explainable;

quite easily, right-?

But can you touch the chord;

pull it like a string, strum it, interrupt it?

Of course.

But where is it from-

beyond attraction...

So, gravity has the same modus operandi.

As nondiscriminatory, as flexible, per se, so one says.

It's a Law of Physics too-one can be sure.

While we break it every day, obsessed by

Air Anarchy, in our endless tries to defy

flights of fancy, let’s do levitation, zero gee.

Not explaining the monkey on our shoulders,

elephants squatting on chests, legs like lead,

and arms that mysteriously float

after being constrained, contained, compressed-

beyond extraction…

Okay, now what is that smell, and why, or how does it work?

The innate swoon of a baby’s head,

making a maternal perfume; loves incense;

coconut oil melting in the sun, beads rest on sandy shards,

smoky wood in campfire rings, popping on a summer's night,

warm cinnamon...

The crook of your neck, just behind your left ear lobe

crackly new books,

squeaky clean skin-

beyond satisfaction…

I won't bother asking, from where or what,

is this thing, so refuted by scholars, called intuition-

since it is beyond my simple human erudition-

but is scientifically, senselessly, purely poetic,

beyond literal abstraction…

Image of painting (oil) by Jacob Philipp Hackert, 'Fisher Family at nighttime campfire with turbulent sea', 1778. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.