Cell Block 9

 

There is the normal shock

that consumes the soul

upon arriving in a new reality

bare, with no traces 

of a former life-line-perforated-

into breath and blink

inside out.

You can open your eyes,

your mouth,

as the four walls

close in-for walls

box, cell or plaster 

made to contain

or hold-

back-then

This is It,

all that is needed to 

eat, sleep, repeat

every day, what were seasons and 

shades no longer define a time, a space

like black and white, day to night,

all began bleeding 

grey. The light only hurts

open wounds, such as eyes and mouth.

This much

Less, is more

deserved 

when sentenced 

for Life

without color, without a soul, without a window, 

with a reflection of nothing that was, is

held inside

with only the wait 

for Freedom 

that releases

the fear from inside out

but chooses to stay. 

Artwork credit: 'Acta Apostolorum (Acts of the Apostles)', Plate numbered 27, The Conversion of the Warder; to left, St Paul and Silas kneel in their prison cell; the prison warder descends the steps leading to the open doors of the cell, his sword drawn; behind him two other armed men follow, bearing torches; to far right, figures congregate on a flight of stairs. 1582 by the British Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Three Haiku between Us

Between Us-Nothing

but Space and Time, grow and shrink

reaching the same light

Now, it is too late

to take it back or let go

so completely gone

Two souls are mated

Being seeks itself alone

there was always More.

Painting by Martin Johnson Heade (1819-1904), 'Flowers of Hope' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Sundialing

Under the darkness
I wait for daylight
and it slowly drains
all energies made
over-this-night.

I find myself
empty and long
for the warm light
to wane
or die
back down
knowing this
way we live is insane
and making it not so different
from this sentence.

The years blend by lumens
and erase all traces
of anticipation
for another
night
to escape
for day to come,
for the light that never
dawned upon me...

unrisen and incapable
of my occasional
need to know
what a future holds
without hands.


Painting by 'German Master' unknown, Still Life with skull, sundial, wax jack' c. 1620 in Public Domain. 

The life of a spark

Just beneath the skin of surface
something darker
traveled through
like a current
can only be felt
in volume.

Right outside of the visual range
a source of heat
like an explosion of light
ignited
all that could be flammable
was taken asunder.

What lurks like intuition
our own shadow seems detached,
aloof and cool to the touch.
An absence only felt
as nothing
that could be caught.


Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-190) , 'Campfire, Adirondacks', c. 1892 in Public Domain. 

Out of darkness grows

It feels like rain
in the bones.
It is as though
I have known
the subtle differences
of hours
from reading water lines
and by translating the stain
visibly left behind
similar to thunderheads.

Another dawn lightens over me
and after so many
thin and pointed
Winter moons have waned,
it becomes easier to reminisce
in this Time
alone and perishable.

Soon enough,
daybreaks the serene brow
into blended spectrums
dampened down seeds are sown
deeply enfolded into the crust
and the anticipation of flowers
made nothing but sense
of Beauty.



Painting by Jean-Francois Portaels(1818-1895), 'Spring' c. 1879 in Public Domain. 

Warning signs

Red dawn
sits quietly
behind Eastern hills.
Space
is blue and cold
in moonglow flood-
light.

A candle flickers
inside
the window.
The birds stir
leaves,
while wind
picks up any loose
thoughts.

...the purpose of a flower,
color can make us
feel.
Beauty is perishable,
like the light
of this day.

A reflection glows
warmer,
warnings signs were every-
where
day breaks
hearts as light as air.




Painting by Herbert James Draper (1863-190), 'The Gates of Dawn', in Public Domain. 

The beaten path

Curses
lain across footfalls
shadowing
the marked path

Treacherous crags
protrude guilty edges
into skin
under brittle nails

The way weather exposes
the external
and tries to wash away
shine with light

Circling eternally,
erosions never cease
such as this
degradation of morality.

The darkest parts
are tethered to these heavy
steps
Taken

for fugitive
methods of moving gifts.

A body spent is
a blessing saved
for another way.
High noon

obscured only our difference
by degrees,

illusory of our self-images,
and how much distance

must be made
to be come
one with a same
destination.

Too late
to take back
steps.

Any other way
could not have been
more direct.


Photo credit: Carol Highsmith, taken 2015 in Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado, USA. 

Mirroring matter

Mirrors may make us
uncomfortable
because they are not-
omni-perspective-or
All
of view.

Things like this,
that seem to be
merely a reflective signal
may not be observed actively
holding and casting light.

Some of us,
completely visible to some others,
may be seen through and seem
somewhat scared of such spontaneous
reflections
that move like we do when we
go about
Being.

We need to be shown
how to hold ourselves
together in order
to be taken in
without seeming to fall apart
or over refract-and distort

such as you noticing yourself
between all things and still
yet unable to divide photons
by four dimensions
or separate yourself
from what is behind you.


Painting by Pierre Bonard, 'Mirror on the wash stand' c. 1908, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

wild is relative to tame

The wildcat lazes in my lap,
his sleep disturbed suddenly by my human
sounds-briefly he stirs to make certain it was not him,
my stomach growls at him,
when his attention snaps suddenly, pupils go black
above me, behind and over my head,
enrapt in some blurred glassy vision-
I see-I feel nothing-my vision is going-
and he is cautious, cowering without stalking-it moves
His focus-
Upward again,
I peak-

A cobweb, or ghost spider home
flutters downward over us.
The hall light flickers, like my pulse
and then I can only close my eyes
and pretend I am purring along.

We rest our heavy animal heads
and listen in deeper
but fall into the same trap
as our hairs, split evenly
and stroked lightly
by an errant cool breeze.
It was touching
to be chosen

likewise.

A new day (refurbished)

Meeting with the sunrise again,
alone,
time strikes me as the lone
witness to this.

The mirrors are everywhere,
blinding.

I wrote it all down
to get it out of my head,
to silence the voice,
to make it go away,
and then it was there
in front of me,
like the horizon
line,
too terrifying to retell
today.

Better to watch
the light change.



Photo credited by Fancibaer [CC0], Morning Sunrise, 1/2013, in Public Domain. 

Periwinkle...

...was precisely the most fitting tone
of dawn before the tint of all things
illuminated themselves outward

humming their hues
in synchronic earth tones,

in the distance,
there were glimmerings,
starlight still hanging
on, winking it self away
until the last wishes
were taken in
pastel.

Painting by Thomas Wilmer Dewing (1851-1938), 'Untitled', in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

This 1 day, death is not near

It is called a veil
or shroud
for the way it
reveals itself
to be a cover
where the light
gets in
there was space for this
exchange
of dark(ness) and light(ness)
or public and private.

Lifted into a demanding
presence
we find ourselves
lingering
in graveyards
as though this was defiant
or exertion of our will
remaining
from youth.

It is between discrete moments
when the warmth moves through
the atmosphere
sometimes sinking in
while touching us deeply.

Our memories turn to life.


Painting by Miner Kilbourne Kellogg [Public domain].

Namely

Archer is a good name for a poet.
Only someone intent on honing their craft
could sharpen any word,
with pro-
found in-difference that whispers
copper pennies of investment.

Whistling in the air,
important and pointed,
as it whirs across a perfect arc
the branches dance back
strobing light through
space.

There was infinite,
what did it all mean?
There were names of things,
there was the aim of
Things
and there was connection
with the target of meaning
Eros, all was Love.

 Archer is a pseudonym
for Anonymous, as far as arrows go.

Photograph taken by Julia Margaret Cameron of Lionel Tennyson with bow and arrow [Public domain].

Belighted i Be

It may be a silly rule,
none-the-less,
the law against
picking poppies
makes me want one
all the more.

We should have been taught
as with butterfly wings
the word Love
should not be handled
without recognizing
the salt of our fingertips
inhibits flight.

And where the suns rays
first find a full beam,
a red tailed hawk
screams
in delight
for the day
is coming
and he will feast.

Seeming forever
fields of wildflowers
Spring in every nook,
gently coloring to the corners
and reminding us
that pollen, like Love
exudes itself
as every living thing
under the sun
became belighted

to break free
from the salt of the earth

despite the inevitable
returning,

Our seeds are always being
sewn.

The light from stars

The sun had yet to rise
Still; inevitably it occurs
to us
it will never be the same
when we embrace this day
that tries to run away
from us

Not to notice

A sky
contains hope
levitating
as atmosphere,
permeable to light and
always open
to being caught
unaware
but ready

like the eyes
that see from here. 


Painting by Paul Klee, ;Horizon, Zenith and Atmosphere' c. 1925 in Public Domain [CC0].

Two a.m.

I wake up early-
earlier than usual.
And I assume it must have been the moon
disturbing my sleep, with its intrusive and
garish moonlight on high
and the ghoulish nightmares
all rising to the surface.

When it finally rains, I am comforted
by the cloud cover,
which will luckily tuck me in tonight
and I should sleep tighter, making for more
muted sleeping conditions
with this welcome addition of white noise
atop clean white sheets.

It pours. It hails. It is dark.
And I wake-too early-
still-wondering
why this sinking icy feeling holds me here,
alert and anchored.
Awake. A constant pull, resistance and an
uprising washes over me, cold chains snap
forcing me violently to the surface,
gasping for air.

My two eyes try to adjust
to the bright white light,
where windows make mirrors
dark pupils shrink in the glare.
And I see, plainly,
it is too early to tell...



Painting by Johan Jongkind c. 1872 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

One and done

A singular point pierces the edifice of air,
a stone ruffles the feathered water in strands
where the wind was whispering aloud
and bodies bending above were
leeched into the one minuscule slit.
Pulses race under this repulsive pulling force,
heat escapes by each breath projecting into liquidity
and bulging beams charge forth in banded arrays
fractured from nothing, All
excited by this culmination
we found ourselves somewhere in there
catching glimpses with eyelids
necks lace this track, our spine compresses,
humidity falls, beads babble over boulders in
broken brooks under black light or water and space
pulled from the mountains sleeve
pinches time, a shroud of silken sky
glistens with age, a blink of life, a volume of light,
reaches its diurnal destination,
recycling motes in elliptical orbits.





Photo By Ingolfson (Self-photographed) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

With the worms

Shaking off his jacket
spotted with purple dots of dew,
he unfurls his wings
and dashes off
to a new perch
higher up.

In the insistent rising sun
my head and shoulders form
an opposition,
casting shadows on
soft golden blades
rooted underfoot.

Stirring begins from the ground
where settled matters to-day
such as History and alternative pathways,
are made with each step one leg takes
at a time
to make movement or progression
of orbit

in order
to get there
only to see the selfsame shrinking
without feathers, but by a hair
and blunted nose not pointed beak.

This is sharp steel light
severing the warm body
from the sound mind.

A murmuration demonstrates
the reason
for gathering
our resources
but taking them
lightly.





Painting by Léon Bazille Perrault, 'The Bird Charmer' 1873 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

chiaroscuro in chalk

The thinnest limn of luna
fights her way through forests
of shadowed beings

Dimly disappearing cusp,
the darkness drinks its last sips
of amber

Spheres spinning so fast none saw
the movement, as vertigo, camouflage
in dancing shadows, the coins spin

The same two choices,
flashing rims and eye lids
make vertigo

Below bodies levitate between
the same two choices
quintessence finds the balance

between particle and wave,
reflecting accord on a fulcrum
or where to draw the line

between light and dark spaces.








Artwork by John Bauer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Granular

The moon was the same this morn,
the sun did come around,
eventually,
the hourglasses agreed with the sky
for once
what was needed was more
sand,
some moonrock,
and salt water.

All these things were sought
outside of day and night
in a blur of grey
it was just bright enough to find
the soundness, the source
which would not part
with the wind.

And it came down to all hours.
All Hail-
the spin master, mixing
time with light,
blind to the difference of circles
ingrained.




Artwork by Peder Balke, 1864 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.