which explains the silence...

The monkey and the muse
were in the
den
together
waiting for one
to speak-

The muse sat,
arms crossed
across the locked up chest
and the monkey just
gesticulates
in wild attempts
to aggravate
a predicted response-

whereby
two arms finally fell like pillars
allowing a plumage of smile to seep out
of the rubble-

You don't need a hand-
were the only words
I heard
eavesdropping
I struggled
to recognize the voice.

While trying to listen in
I lost sight of where I stood
momentarily,
and then the den was silent
while the world
was deafening,

when I could not
help
but find focus
there seemed only one-

source of the sound,
and only
one shadow
emerged.


Painting by Janis Rozentals, 'The Princess and the monkey' c. 1913 in the Latvian National Museum of Art [Public domain].

Another time

could you tell
the
pre-
occupation was else-
where
by, I mean, analogous to
investment, banking into
listening with the right ear-
I always knew
it was not wrong-
which explains why
I haven't given
much voice,
by choice
to what is left
over

this way
I can hear who said it best
and decide omissions,
sadly some adverbs snuck in
the cracks,

the poet recites
from fissures
showing the weak spots
matching voices,
what could have been
an echo
asked again,
could you repeat that?




Painting by Giovanni Segantini, 1892 in [Public domain].

Summary of a shadowed moon

Struck with a new Idea,
I held onto it like a treasure map,
rolled up,
with the lines inside.

I carried it around
so long, wrinkles
were inevitable,
weathering and what not
made it fade.

After revisiting this place
I am lost a little,
afraid to start
wrong,
I fear it will not become
as I thought I remembered...

No mark would be made,
no footstep
impressed,
unless
anywhere I begin becomes
a starting point
that vanishes...

which made it obvious
to fill the space,
flooding it in white
so I could build it
by taking away.


Photograph credited by Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Miss Agnes Martin

And Agnes spoke.

After all she had seen 

                            and failed to portray accurately

“It seems to me, I am a greater destroyer than creator.”

The inspiration more reverent in potential than intellect

She suffered it seems.

The quiet part 

                                 a-part 

from the living with her art.

Agnes assembled some reason,

with color and line, like us, listening for the tone.

A message was delivered via postage stamp imagery, 

she found this in the box with the red flag

                                           too tiny to see.

So she was required to extrapolate 

and re-scale 

to make larger

than the letter

addressed to Resident.

Perfection, as though always made the same-

This one template mistranslated 

                                                 in the corners.

The migration from idea to ideal,

lost in most blending, space, silence, room, makes too much

semblance, geometrically so much more than medium.

All that

depends upon a nail, a red wheelbarrow and leaf capacity and

a multiplicity of task or cause.

Yes, Agnes knew her arithmetic.

And Agnes tried to forget rules, axioms, theorems

and the half charged radii she never saw as encompassing.

Less can be greater than

too much inspiration.

Agnes said the envelope was empty

but she received the message.

I know, I sent it. 

The sound of light

What do you want from me?

                                                                                               I want to ask-

                                                                                               but don't want to hear

                                                                                               a reply

This is my friend bearing gifts-

                                                                                               she won't stop offering,

I cannot accept-                                                                      is she senile?

Is it the same thing over and over again?

                                                                                                That would be nagging.

No, I don't know where you're from

and cannot tell by your accent                                                If I could guess,

                                                                                                I'd say Light-

I'd be a slight right.

In the dark you're so loud!

                                                                                                There's more room to stretch,

                                                                                                 and stand out.

Will it ever stop?                                                                     Brightly, 

                                                                                                                I hope not.

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

The possibilities of a fractal

The way I see it-

art contains real magic.

Like blinking, or like an automaton,-always on.

Projecting its wizardry when no one’s there to see it.

A child is a miracle-

of busy blurred lines.

Making it difficult for others to focus on them directly,

blinded by their angelic buzz of innate electricity.

Art is the grandchild of God-

or whatever grand-father you Believe in.

It’s immaculate conception and delivery are born proof,

of a source, the straw that was pulled, the ignition point.

We are the ghosts of our grandchildren.

Now.

We have to pave the way, clearing our Karmic path

to Here.

Art arrests shape-

holds it captive-

to represent-

likeness-ness.

Our family tree,

rooted in our orchards of History,

bears ripe fruit of juicy inspiration,

tastes like sweet familiar childhood in the shape of a fractal.

Image By Randomness (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Fractal face of Beauty, 2008'.

Ambient light

Are we hard-wired to be afraid of the dark

to imagine ugly things in indistinct corners

lurking and watching

light-less-ness amplifying every sound

in stereo

our world spins on wires

acrobatic static

a puppet in space

Yay! We made electricity

to conquer and fill the empty void 

with our brilliant vibrant light

enhancing our sight

penetrating every nook and cranny

slaying the black matter with our gamma rays 

with the force of direct and alternating currents

knobs, buttons, censors, trackers

we've become all thumbs

coded languages, levers, tactile sight

and its own glaring response

on the fritz is something to fear

unplugged no more, we're wireless anyway

signal shields

afraid of the dark

fear and trembling is 

to know Life all depends 

on a spark

for our mechanical animal things

and as heavenly human beings

still afraid of the darkness

inside

where the light cannot hide. 

Image of painting (oil) Joseph Wright of Derby [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1769 'A Philosopher by Lamplight'.

Suffering in Silence

By Antonio da Fabriano II (Italian, active 1451-1489) (Walters Art Museum:  Home page  Info about artwork) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Shhh! I'm straining to hear

(I must admit, to you

this is my greatest fear)

thundering, rolling silence

boulders unwedged

cracking from a dry spell

not able to find the words to tell

nor a drop in the hollow inkwell

a writers ramblings

that chokingly clutter

floods of thoughts, ideas,

those clever lines I mutter

all taken for granted!

Perhaps there's just nothing

more needing to be said,

(it never before

felt like such a chore)

It used to come

like a heartbeats drum

Absent, broken, chaotic ideas

now dam

and make me look dumb!

A river of words flows by,

a waterfall of passion spills out,

taken by the current inspiration

that usually carries me

Dry and jammed

lodged with self-immolated Styx,

a busy beavers idle work,

where idleness eddies may lurk

I am told not to worry

it will be back and come in torrent

Can you hear the watery voice?

Comprehend its murky messages?

Now, I should confess

I am responsible for this lazy mess

(it's not as though I haven't tried

"I wrote a little today," I lied.)

Instead sterile white paper mirroring thoughts

Letters, symbols, pixels,

words that don’t go anywhere

stuck in virtuous silence

waiting for the stream to come...

Composed 8/22/14.