Christmas Presence

 

 

I am here 

Warm blooded

In the icy dawn.

Pink blush to periwinkle blues

Paint the sky

Behind eyelashes,

Barren branches,

Heavy hearts hung high

Not just I 

sigh, exhale

thinking only of 

Others

whose day holds heavy fruit,

Hugs, in deep loss and great gains

ripe and rotten. I

Inhale the sharpness of

Those warm with love and

Those hollow in hopelessness.

Those that have just arrived,

Those that have long left,

Those that remain

In this familiar temperance

I feel

Here. And there

Goes, swift as the hours,

enduring as years

Ends and Begins

all Over and

Again.

 

 

 

Artwork by Hans Makart 1840-1884), 'Abundantia the gifts of the earth' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Disillusionment

I am here.

And now, I begin, again,

With space and commas, breath and white

And see clearly how obsessed

With spacetime and specifics

With Here and Now-

I have been…

Have virtually

Erased all presence

Of mind

Or need for then,

Than,

I have made sense with time,

Grown with space

A sense of place

Within the hour,

Finds me.

I knew words,

I said it all

And after all this

Was settled

It dissolved…





Painting By William R. Leigh (born Falling Waters, WV 1866 - died New York City 1955) – Artist (American) Born in Falling Waters, West Virginia. Dead in New York, New York. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Echo-interpretation

Few knew
how little we were
hoping to be noticed

Not that
they wanted more
and less to be seen
here

Some found
they never heard
(of) the likes of you
before

Some sought
outside as outcasts
too frigidly
accommodating

Some stayed
in place and inside
by the fire
alit with artistic rage

Not many
more than we
can handle
touching
poetry
without scalding
the tips

And know
none pine
for ringing cedars, pet rocks
or chop words, but quarry
here
for the echo...


Image of painting By Adolf Mosengel (1837-1885) (Dorotheum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Your Gues(t)s

There,
where you are
I can see me
being shown
around by you
native trees and path
ways you cross
while I notice
the shade of the sky
unable to grasp
the name
the word
the color
or any delicate phrase
to turn
to say
the way the crisp air
nibbles on my nose
before piercing my ear
lobes with sugar frosted
sentiments thick with lust
lingering over us
like clouds
getting there
some time
where ever
There
is.



Image by Carl Moll, watercolor c. 1901-1902, Stroll in the gardens of Votivkirche, Vienna [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.