Offering other-wise

At night

I did not know love

in darkness,

as if sleep-walking and dream-

making could be seen

with a naked eye.

I remember warmth

on my bare skin,

raw at sunrise 

near the hibiscus

holding its dew 

until it too 

opened

when the suns first 

rising rays 

touched its clasped red buds.

The grey-brown finches, twenty-four

or more knew just when 

to join around the fire

of a new day,

swarming in sync

into the tangled branches 

consuming this light

that pried us open.

I remembered then,

when this dawn rose

with my presence long gone

a self perched 

outside

consuming the same sun

and sharing the infinite moment

of opening

to love. 

Artwork (woodblock) by Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), 'Hibiscus and sparrow" c. 1830 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Holding hands

I had a grip.

A naked palm clenched

around,

I had a handle on the thing

softly carrying it with me,

until I noticed

the odd itch of thick blood

sliding down and out 

between my fingers.

Holding on too tight

but feeling nothing 

of pain or wounds

after barely

holding on so long,

I observed myself

doing it wrong.

After all-

the petals had fallen

behind me

leaving 

choices made for me.

No blessings to count,

no scent

to take in-

and it must have been dead

who knows how long...

Dried and brittle

piercing-

This is 

how I knew

He loved me not. 

Painting by Carolus-Duran, 'Portrait of Lucy Lee Robbins' by Carolus Duran, dated 1884 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Voluminous

I long to be

a book upon

that shelf,

an erect 

spine

gazing quietly

Outward

The kind of book

with extra 

creamy

blank pages

after

So we can continue

the story

a little past

The End...

Photograph info: 

Public Library- the work of Leyton Public Library Service, Church Lane, Leytonstone, London, England, UK, September 1944
Two young female library assistants rearrange and classify books at Leytonstone Public Library, Church Lane

Dated: 1944

The sun sets

The way we flock to the shoreline
for the small chance
to catch a green flash
between blinks

-is the same
as knowing the sun will set
and yet
it will only get dark.

It reminded me
of this Red Sea
swelling and sinking
between you and me
making that rosy glow
more ominous
than optimistic.

We keep a trained eye
on each other
from our respective
ground
unable to make out details
like friend or foe,

you just know
outlines
the bend of the horizon
and how the melting shadows
run together.

The way we hope
and take chances
for a ride,
reminds me
of the underlying breeze
caused by our spinning worlds
neither pushing nor pulling
but settles
for warm bodies watching
until The End.



Painting by James Richard Marquis (1833-1855), 'Man o War and buoy at sunset' in  Public domain.

A duel purpose

I try to hold my balance on the
edge of this blade
whose hilt is in your firm grasp
and our history of incidental equipoise
clumsily
refuses to align-

would not any line
a muttering muse utter
true up to,
assist or desist us en guard
such strife-like loves twist on life
when the incision has been made

deeper, for us
while trying to maintain a sharp sense
of the point that tips
scales and armor
by design and intent

to inflict and to cradle conflict,
to penetrate and promptly
turn away-saying nothing
about the warm blood spilt
and simmering on the cool concrete
where we once made connection.


Painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904) 'Duel after a masquerade ball', c. 1859 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. 

My Valentine

Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.

Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear

and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-

a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out

but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-

clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.


Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.

Hollowed out heart

I unsheath the telescoping rod
from the vein in my left arm
connecting my ring finger
to the heart
and pierce the stale air
of dwelling in this too-small space
atop the low mountain ridge,
I scream, a hawk echoes me and
I determine to open it up,
as a surgeon might do,
and bleed out the rest of the
swollen lust built up
from impossible dreams
and so many bruised misentries
stain like scar tissue,
there is no feeling in this area
that the immune system
is ill-equipped to treat

As the resistance is overkill,
homeostasis is not a residential zone.
The needle-tip inserts alternate forms
of nourishment and necessity,
only meant to keep the heart
beating me up and down
like a closed fist
striking empty chambers.


Painting by Hans Dahl (1849-1937) 'On the mountaintop' date unknown, in Public Domain. 

Laundering

Where does one begin
to unpack the suitcase of grief?

While it may be nice to throw it all away,
or donate these shreds,
I find it impossible to imagine
never
wearing those favorite jeans again,
the perfect bra, the stained shirt,
the holy sleeping attire-

I have no desire
to wash and fold and put away
for the 235th time
these obligatory articles.

I sense that grief starts with the smell
held between the threads
and remember distinctly
the quilt my grandmother made me
that fell apart
completely-
like family...

Long gone,
I ponder the scraps
and marvel a few moments
at all the layers we carry
and feel a sudden need
to give the shirt off my back

only to see
how I was made
myself again
woven with only
the softest flesh.



Painting by Aristarkh Lentulov (1882-1943) 'During the laundry', c. 1910, Public domain.

Recipe

I used to write about food.
After that night
we had that first
big below-the-belt fight
and you challenged me
to make it-
writing,
a submission.

I took the shriveled passion-fruit
and placed them on the kitchen table.
Admiring the small brown cluster
with the tip of my pen
I finely drew out
a likeness
that read-
pink, tender, more seeds than pulp
and nearly dry
inside.

I made something
delicious and tart.

Anyway,
that is how and where the disease
began simmering,
one organ after another
changing tune in time.
It was then-remember-
I renamed
myself, mostly taking away
nourishment,
and then adding a healthy dose
of humility
garnished with a twist of fate.

The paper folded,
and I was told
you may have to wing it
from here.

It is wise to always start
by pre-heating the oven
and a word of warning,
it often makes too much
so I suggest
mixing in small batches,
or halving...

Love,
you will like making this
too-
Ease back in,
cook until the juices run clear,
take small frequent bites,
use salt for wounds sparingly,
smell before tasting,
don't look at the date,
trust your senses,
and know-
most ingredients
may be substituted
in a pinch.

Although
practice makes no promises,
it only becomes sustenance
if you can make it
again and again.







Painting by Peter Jacob Horemans (1700-1776), Still life c. 1774 in Public domain.

Spark-ling

For the small moment
You did it,
rekindled the small boy scout fire,
Had fun, for a time,
Were occupied
Stoked and prodded.

Handy to have more than wood to burn.
It was not enough to last
Through the cold night.
The steam and smoke billows and blows out.
The rain sidles in with heavy
Clouded feet.
Light becomes heavy
And I reminisce over
That time we shared this manmade heat without duty
Or blame,
Was love.

Togetherness said nothing
To explain or justify its purpose
Save
Sharing the warmth emitted from
One another.

My cheeks redden for other reasons
Than blood boiling laced with whiskey

See, we don't see
The same
Pleasure or Pain
Under heat, inside pressure, cold edges and sharp sounds
like sticks piled inside the stone hearth,
a resonance is echoed in our porous bones.

There is a classical tune
Evoking
Times past and a comfort
that stays
Lost in our presence.



Painting by John George Brown (1831-1913) 'Camp in Vermont' c. 1879 in Public Domain. 

Cut, color and clarity

Been programmed to feel,
like all little women,
small, incomplete,
naked without-
a veil,
and in total transparency,
I have no doubt, I will
never wear a white gown
in this life-time
I do
not be-come worthy
un-less, there is more...
                            Diamonds are numerous
                            as faithful friends
                            I have-family-bloodlines
                            circumstance and choice,
                            opportunity and onus
                            promises and pure white
                            lies, thule veiled truth
                            All                           
                            under an abundant umbrella
                            called Love
                            the ceilings will keep you
                            dry.
To be good-enough
for special occasions
with honor and rite,
is to be-have as
fortunate for the gifts
be-stowed upon our vessels
pulled by current and tide
toward each other
we shall always meet
                            Here, untouchable
                            amid this journey underway
                            outside of ourselves
                            we become found
                            reassured and rescued
                            from each other's line of sight.



Painting by Auguste Toulmouche (1829-1880) dated 1866 in Public Domain. 

Should've asked first...

We were connected
to each others gaze
and more
deeply, once
we wished would last for-
ever.

Remember
with me
conversations, deeply
endless opportunity
being
together only-
beginnings.

I know
that was then,
but I do not know
when this
is-
more endings.

True, I only speak
most
honestly in poetry.
Saying more
than I could other-
wise.

I only ask
now, how we changed
focus-frequently
away...

Don't answer,
I won't repeat.

The blue-lit face,
red cheeks, empty windows
and presence-
elsewhere, I try to focus
on something
as intangible and
deeply infinite,
as sky only to resist
the falling atmosphere.

It is my fault.
I should've asked
you if you think
we get what we deserve
always?



Painting by Philip Hermogenes Calderon (1833-1898), 'Her eyes are with her heart' c. 1881, in Pubic Domain. 

Combustible

Blinded and spotted
with double vision
of two
dancing around
the ring, the pit, the issues,
the pyre and flames,
the names
we use
in Love...

The elements
were all presiding
outdoors.
The smoke moves us
around
the light flickers
and pops as it catches
on...

This orange glow,
we know
the truth is
coming together
these cold nights
bonfires seeking
vanity
are explosive,
knotted and ingrained.

We agree
wholeheartedly,
we are only we,
individually.


Painting by Paul Gaugin, 'Upa, Upa (the fire dance)' c. 1891 in Public Domain. 

The shortest love story ever written

Sometimes I picture
Us,
sitting down,
                       shoulder to shoulder
and looking down
at an open book-
reading the same lines
but not understanding
each others words
So I will point
                        to a picture
Instead,
you smile
while I cry.


Painting by Pierre Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), 'Couple reading' c. before 1919 in Public Domain. 

Witness whiteness

Who is watching?

I feel-

Enough.
It was
-not needed
              any more
Love
         you sooo much
rains    candy,
Sugar name drop not

Justify
Too

it is complicated,
intricate, entanglement-
through
close contact-
intertwined
and inevitable.

You see. You do.
You are-I am too.

Kiss me
Aloud
if you can

in this tension
of Presently,

Let me
             land-

(softly) Held,
holding

your gazing heart
that embers
                    Into

Ashen skin
before

All of This
living in sin
bore witness
To.

Finally,
just

what do you wish
to be called?


Painting by Franz Dvorak, c. 1927 in [Public domain].

Assets minus liabilities

It causes a sharp pain
in my chest
to witness
the kitten perched
on the edge of the
couch
watching television-
while the people
are occupied
with other screens

It pangs my stomach
thinking about
the income of
a Poet
who wastes not
a scent or moment
to dwell
upon
the wealth of
interruptions
like pangs
spine shriveling-
the Book won't come
Out
I shout, Inside
voices affirm
the lame excuse-

Not saying

the churning sense
of burning
ears or pants,

Love has been simmering
on the back of the stove
while I wove a couple of loose ends
and made a sweater
without a head-hole,

Thus
confirming my ineptitude
and such
as feeling the need
to Escape
the bleeding clutches
of Loved ones closest
to touch,
the spot
which widens where
no treasure is ever safe
keeping.

The kitten purrs
from this place
smiling
finally
noticing me
watching him
stretch
and grow.


Artwork: By John William Godward, 'Idleness', c. 1900 in [Public domain].

'cat purring' from Wikipedia:
"Although true purring is exclusive to felids and viverrids, other animals such as raccoons produce purr-like vocalization. Animals that produce purr-like sounds include mongoose, bears, badgers, foxes, hyaenas, rabbits, squirrels, guinea pigs, tapirs, ring-tailed lemurs, and gorillas while eating. Animals purr for a variety of reasons including to express happiness, or fear and as a defense mechanism. It has also been shown that cats purr to manage pain and soothe themselves. Purring is a soft buzzing sound, similar to a rolled 'r' with a fundamental frequency of around 25 Hz. This sound occurs with noticeable vibrations on the surface of the body, varies in a rhythmic pattern during breathing and occurs continuously during inhalation and exhalation. The intensity and length of the purr can also vary depending on the level of arousal of the animal."

Blue blood

The heaviest ink
a writer bleeds
are a Mothers Eulogy
and the vows
etched for Matrimony.

These marks,
deeper than tattoo
annotate and commemorate
an expression of Life and Risk
All
Love to Lose.

We may say
nothing aloud
that sounds like what
It is
to trap butterflies
with a lariat.


Artwork credited by W.T. Benda, cover of Life magazine September 1923 in [Public domain].

Post

After moving
around
this much
it is fair to suspect
that it takes more than
             one year
before we feel a place
is our dwelling.

After loving
two liars
too long
it would be cruel to conclude
that white promises were
                                purely made,
or that honor does not fade
                               when exposed.

After giving away
our time
so freely,
it is common to become consumed
by generosity and lacking
                              surplus or seconds,
starvation is written on the bones
of the donor.

After writing
all of these
                   words never read,
there is learning
                    in letting them all go
and watching them
come back together
                    long after
they have sunk
in, disappearing from sight
and causing a subtle
                                  displacement
After all.




Painting by Mary Cassatt, 'Young woman in a black and green bonnet looking down', c. 1890 in [Public domain].

Plywood windows

If I could wear soft and loose clothes
every day
                and be taken seriously,
forgetting for a moment
that comfort is for lesser creatures,
I would be less ill
                              at ease
and more sensitive to
zippers and seams.

I lost a drinking habit years ago
and found every thing
                                    sharper with age,
which does not clot the
bleeding, or numb the
site                     I remember I last had it
with me,
my cups are bone dry since this thirst
has all
but evaporated
making the air thicker around me.

If I found a diamond encased
in every silver lining,
                  carbon acting under the pressure
                  of those that have convinced me
                  to forgive
                  in these conditions
                  with sparkles on top,
I would have tasted love
                  on the rocks,
and choked on the hardest facets.

Time is our only personal property.

In-kind, community property
has foreclosed upon the pearl gates.
These lips have been boarded up
to deter any passer by's
                                       from dwelling.

It may not be safe
to live this way
without proper uniforms,
window dressings
and with naked wrists,
lacking a steady leg to pivot upon       
                             in order to see things
as they are
and find slighted contentment
enough of a shelter and shield
from monsoons and bad moons rising
every weak day.




Photo credit: Carol M. Highsmith, Kinney County, Texas. 2014 [Public domain].