The words escaped her...

 

Sometimes she speaks

Others...

Don't listen to her

How she doesn't know

What she says

Before...

She thought

They could hear

Her thoughts

filled with speech a-

loud voice

You could tell...

Image credit User:Zmaj, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Aerodynamics outside Elsewhere

It had happened before
certainly,
not All
at the same time.

This time
a first
Spring
vital statistics
lost interests,
attentions drifted away
from their gliding paths.

The sky dictated
directions and we employed
Free will.
At all costs
we are trying
Time
sheltering in square spaces
and speculating about the sudden
impending darkness, the doom
and the emptiness filling corners
while hands draw curtains
and blinds squint like eye-lids
in thin masks
wanting only
Elsewhere.

For once,
the calls all came down
from above. Over-
ruled our old ways.

The birds sang out
consonants, whole
notes hailing hard
lyrics none had heard
before but had been said
meaning suddenly something
anything, anymore,
save a Poets smooth
translation of such dead languages
avian, barbarian utterances
fallen on deaf ears
so many years
we stood under oblivious
and missing
the calls.

There was no place else to go,
to look, to escape, to buy, to barter, to sell,
to tell, to exaggerate, to hide, to collect,
to get, to juggle, to balance, to plan, to invest,
to pad our feet
by adding more Pyrite in the veins
connecting our heart to our soles.

Blood is always on the move.

We look down
and out-side-gazes
away from each other
avoidant, accursed
shielded and sheltered
under the same temperamental
Spring sky
whereby
a feathered friend cocks
his head and chooses
a listener to teach
one good birdsong.



Image description: Birds in flight, St. George Island, Alaska, USFWS, dated 12/04 in Public Domain. 

reception

I was called upon
to light the candles
I arose first
to a voice
in the dark

and listened

Over my right shoulder
and above
whispers
as a breeze
would hum

and falls across my skin
like daybreak

It was not necessary
to know
more than could be heard
and I do not ask
for repetition
as in prayer

for a sign

a flicker as sure as
aglow,
I kept
quiet, in order
to Here myself
saying 'Yes'

while carrying the flame.


Painting by Godfried Schalcken, c. 1670-1675 in [Public domain].

Sheet music

I hope you would agree,
my dearest sole reader,
that the oblivion was everywhere
we were not
interested in the apathy
invested
in each other.

Listen,
I will speak about what comes up
to the surface in poetry
without using names
I will call you,
I will bury you,
I will label and sort it out
of context
placing things in such a way


You think-This is real,
the sound of air doesn't linger
long enough
to touch one another

And yet we float in the same light,
listening
to each other
fall between the lines,
Hear-
we are.


Painting by Anders Zorn, 1905 in [Public domain].

Mumbled the old man

We will never,
in our entire lives
forward lived
be listened to
like when we are
babies
and have nothing to say
that makes any sense
or adds up to experience
as in process
other than
the audible reaction
we have come
to refine.

And still, the old go unnoticed,
after all they have witnessed
in further thought
one should not ignore
repetition
because it looks the same
and never is
and sounds like complaint
but never was.

We predict
the firefighter from the fawn,
timid in the forest at first,
naturally, he will adapt.
We guess and check
and still seem not to heed
the final words
as they were said
carelessly,
as if it were possible
like alternate endings.


Artwork by Leonardo da Vinci, c. 1513, Old Man with Water studies in Public Domain. 

Here yee

By anthropomorphic standards;
that which possesses the sharpest quality
is able to penetrate without drawing a drop of blood-

it is the words that slip under the skin,
instructing our sense of tactile awarenesses
that are permeable, absorbed
and mixed into our blood or consciousness streams
beneath the smooth surface, it flows like riptide

whereby, like all liquid bodies,
we obey the laws
thermodynamically,
by an embered blush
or spontaneous hurried chill.

I will listen more closely
when the words
are honed
to the point of Truth.


Painting by Théo van Rysselberghe [Public domain via Wikimedia].

Conductivity and Rhythm

The bass was low all day,
the only thing that resonated
was my deaf ear toward the treble.

When my eyes bulge with tears,
it is time to surrender,
when the bones feel metallic and leaden,

light notes miss their harmony.

A dread tastes sour and acrid
in the back of the mouth.

An idea of where one is and
what must be done is conjured
in a line, the music keeps time

alive, lightening the load

a feeling carries a tune
echoing the heart and human
need to be moved by sound.




Painting by Johann Carl Loth (circle of) (1632 - 1698) – Painter (German)Born in Munich. Dead in Venice.Located at the Palace Museum in Wilanów [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What?

Hears drums and crosses lines.
Mumbles to self, too loud.
Listens for source, finds growling inside.
Forehead furrowed after thinking.
A grey hair, an old mole, an ache, a hunger,
a new sparkle, an old ennui, or lack of
commitment-
Where screaming will come in
side, when it is safe, and if the space
is able to absorb it All.

It All sounds tempting.
Obsessions are relentless.
Remember how images dissipate
when held under sound waves?



Photo by CEphoto, Uwe Aranas via Wikimedia Commons.

Hear me, here me

It is in the way one focuses in with their entire skin

to yammering Twains and muted Cages,

I have been listening, intent on comprehending

which requires presence of mind-a-ware-ness-or

No-thing from me.

I have filled my creased palms gathering

dust others have lain out for me,

 they say, fit me,

Fine.
So it may be.

The young lady with the feather in her hat-

the old lady with a crooked nose

saving face, the youth refuses to come out
behind memory

which is why mirrors won’t work in-side,

over-time.
They have me pegged,

and while wedged, with my arms tucked,

I have taken a moment to look around

and recognize my proximity 
to the precipice,

                                                to others on this plane

as day.

Painting by Winslow Homer, The Red Feather (1864) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Composition by ear

The music tutor

Directed the pupil

Watch-Watch-My Hands-

Listen-Hear the sound-

In Here-It feels

Right-There.

and those scales rose and sank

perked up for notes to hang shapes

Of waves on passing ears-

No-No-NO-

You missed a step-

Here-skip-and where is that note

You played-out of tune-

Try to pretend you play.

and again, the pitching seas rolled,

bodies thrown together, clumped 

Whole words found themselves 

in forgotten consonants,

meaningless 

Bumbles swarm. 

Painting By Frances Hodgkins (1869 - 1947) – Creator (New Zealand; Great Britain) Born in Dunedin, New Zealand. Dead in Dorset, England. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Deaf, dumb and mute (me)

If you ask me Today
I'd undoubtedly admit
I was built this way,
it is my arch-i-texture
rehearsed.
If you ask the same Tonight-
I might not answer,
despite having something nice to say.

Either way, those questions get slightly worse
all the time
So I'd rather not ask, it is not my task,
I consider this a gift,
I try to listen louder
than anyone can Here.





Painting by Fernand Khnopff, Silence (1890), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A city called Home

If I were blind the first question would be
Where,
then Am I?
If I were to listen I could not tell our places
apart
Your city sounds no different than my home.

When I close my eyes
                to turn up the volume,
when I strain to listen in
               the sounds become deafening.

I can hear your train
               passing through.
I can hear the rushing waters,
through my fountain
                or your pipes.
I can hear conversations
                not for me,
laughter, underlapping rise and
fall
of voice-
a plane passes also
                not for me.

I can smell the cafes, the local fare,
I can smell the clothes and bodies,
I can smell the trash and perfume spent
for no good reason.

The pots and pans,
footsteps, traffic, coming and goings
of whims from my window
it tastes exhilarating.

Smiles, and dings, rings,
jewels, tones, excuse me's
and gotta go's
seem exhausting.

Everything
I could ever need,
under one roof,
safely knowing each footstep
                      to the door, down the hall
                      to get the mail
                      to get back inside
                      (where I hide)
called my place,
or your City
Where
        I am right at home
taking in
the blind view.

Bottled Up

I took your advice
and put a cork in it.
Silence!
(on repeat)
Compression under strict repression,
taut me tension.
When you said
Keep your lid on,
it went flat anyway.
Impatience spoils the fizz…
Bite your lip-
Don't speak when being listened to!
We thirst as one must lust for
quenching and regurgitation.

I heard you the first time-
Flinch it back and glimpse
-Potential-
Here,
Anything explodes
amidst the churning sea of noise
a message contained
in a clear bottle

is shaken.

Composed 12/26/15.
Image by Juan Gris [Public domain], Jar, Bottle and Glass, c. 1911, via Wikimedia Commons.

Linger to hear you near

I am
listen-
in
g
hiding
in the music
tapping
my shoulder
blade behind me
down
the hall
jumping out
at the antique
store
always
waiting
buried in a book
obscure
wrapping up
in warm words
under
lines

Cannons
re-loaded
taking the heat
under
fire-
gun to temple
questioning
fore-
head
drops
(off...)
taking it all
in
I am
listen-
in
g
for
you.



Image by Ferdinand Leeke (1859-1937)[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.

All that you cannot Here

The moment had arrived.
The time was Now.
Eyes squeeze closed,
the trigger was pulled,
the knife broke flesh,
the man awoke in a sweat.
The young woman paces, patting her baby's back,
the baby hurts, nobody knows why.
The homeless one eats steaming bread in the alley smiling,
the dog barks rapidly in anxious fear,
the tiny kitten shivers, hungry and heavy
the car impacts the tree, the glass rains,
the deer scatter,
the mountain lion yawns and stretches out,
the owl daydreams.
The fish choke on fumes,
the bees swarm the carcass,
the malaria army invades the ghost town.
The business man carries confidence in his briefcase, clearly leaking vodka,
the roof leaks into buckets of song.
The sky clears in deaf innately.
The mist makes prisms disband.
The humpbacks pick up the chorus,
the child in pigtails plucks a wild daisy,
the birds steal bloody berries.
The King holds the little prince's hand,
the boy buffs a rock on his shirt for his slingshot,
the hikers reach the mountaintop before the echo,
the historic house collapses,
the family laughs to tears,
the old woman shivers, closing the blinds on her last day.
The man and woman embrace each other.
Eyes fall closed tightly loving
all ways and for ever,
Now,
a quiescence,
a soundlessness found,
any given Time
we are Here to list in.




Image by Anders Zorn, The Embrace c. 1882-83 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Devil in the Details-From Notes Taken (Haiku)

the moon set on an
idea, and the wind blew
off the words: (List-in).
















Image by By Galileo moon phases [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.