Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts

Monday, October 7, 2019

Recital


On a Sunday without sun.
A day of Revelations, 
-without all the Light.
I think of how my elderly mother 
is likely being beaten
down and on 
by her husband...
I think of how the man 
who says he loves me 
is likely cheating
on me and is always down around me...
I think of my adult children 
and how they have struggled with me 
and grown still
suspicious
all the more-
none the less,
I think of all of the sandcastles I have built, 
now perfectly indistinguishable from all 
other failures;
grains, hairs, skin flakes and ashes 
that I have left 
strewn around trying to blend in...
I think I have been told my whole life 
to put it down-
I think I misunderstood.
I wonder how 
I could ever think
thoughts could be read 
like a sermon we share
or the psalms we hold 
in memory. 



Painting by Claude Monet, Camille Monet on a garden bench, c. 1873 in Public Domain. 

Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Flick-her


Opposites attract each others
Curiosity
At first sight
Rapture is often mistaken for 
Attraction,
an alternating current-
Notice the friction...
Sparks are not always a promising sign,
nor an indicator of warmth,
as in
A promise to burn.




Painting by Martin Ferdinand Quadal (1736-1811), 'By the light of the candle', c. second half of the eighteenth century, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Saturday, May 18, 2019

Prince of charms


I see him clearly behind the wall
furtively tending to the ritual
of opening wounds
while he wields his favorite knife
which resembles a bottle of Tequila
and he stabs himself
repeatedly
with audible barbs-
the kind that go in and you cannot
pull them out
you must pull them through.

And when I forced a look at him,
I saw the glimmering round shield,
blood spattered red cheeks,
his brow beaded with sweat from lifting
the load so long, carrying it wrong,
he ached, he moved in pain.

And the artillery unleashed
with words flying like arrows
and feelings popping like brittle
burning wood while smoke
circled his buried head
and instead of his precious blade,
he pulled out a small smile-
sweetly
in his shining armor,
while looking away from the glare
he managed to mumble-
you know I love you. 

I was never sure
who he was aiming at.



Image credited by UVM Libraries Digital Initiative 'Sword_sharpener_practicing_his_trade', published asa postcard c. 1909 in Public Domain. 


Friday, May 3, 2019

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].

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Exhibiting


Funny thing is
like love,
and other sudden
appearances

One is easily taken up
with the obvious Now
and yet indescribable
Then
and
That

feeling of
reconciliation
along with a benevolent
contentment
arisen
impromptu

That is
the feeling
in the right place
at the right time
to see
differently

As in the gallery
where windows were mirrors
and so the first
reflection where I recognized
myself

captured and mute
yet framed this way,
in the best light
there was Time.



Image credited by BurgererSF [CC0], from Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, December 1, 2018

Dem bellies full


When the fridge is empty,
I crave paper money.
When my pockets are stuffed
with receipts and detritus
there is nothing more to buy
into.

Love does not accept
money as tender,
yet it seems to alter
chemistry
dissolving this exchange.

As compelling as it is
to appropriate,
as we must, everything
has a place,
the toil never ends.

Pockets of air
take care of filling empty
voids and holes
and we are all full of it-

Language to gnaw,
gristle and by the way-
none of the above
ever satisfied the thirst
for our own consumption.

I will find a way
to take smaller bites,
preferring less
seasoning
or taste in love.


Painting by: Pyotr Ivanovich Subbotin-Permyak. Down the river (1918).


Saturday, September 15, 2018

kindling


Maybe the best way
to keep love alive
between two
is to
always start
but never end
with a Maybe. 




Artwork credited by Charles Jacque, c. 19th century in the Metropolitan Museum of Art [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Monday, January 22, 2018

What are the Chances, Chances Are


What are the chances:

That your most despised frenemy suddenly found themselves 
sitting down next to you in the only open seat-


of being late and avoiding an accident-

Someone looks like you, but worse-
They are better versions-

Saying something meaningful aloud-
It becomes true-
Anything true can be said-

There are second impressions
called shadows-

We can make ourselves proud-
without too much pride-

Our dreams are someone else's-
You are the true version 
of someone else's dreams-

True love is only a test-

Chances are:

-more likely you will drown (one in eighty-four)
than getting killed by a shark (one in nearly four million)

-you will end up looking like your dog, your mate,
your old self

-the Universe listens

-fear of shadows once saved our lives
fear of shadows from towers we have built
enshrouds our lives

-nightmares are honest discussions

-Love's Labour's Lost



 Painting by Unknown c. 1892 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.


Thursday, September 28, 2017

Danger zone


I got to thinking-
maybe we were doing it wrong-
facing fears-meaning
why not let the demons in-
hell, welcome them hordes and all,
feed them well, find out what they want
from us,
so when they leave
it is-
for good.

What if what soaks in our pourous mem-
brains, is what we ooze out-
that is All,
like Nothing is ours,
or New,
we just reiterate or refute,
repeat or recreate, take credit
and run with it like a baton-
on fire,
And the longer I live,
the more I've seen,
heard, worn, thought, been there before-
it seems All
stolen-
moments-that is.

Furthermore,
does one dare to consider entering
such dangerous zones as the solid realms
of love or death, one and the same,
before one has tasted
it on their own lips?

No. Not in poetry. It would be tasteless.
Alas,
beautiful things
are most draining.


Photo credit By:Henry Peach Robinson [CC0], c. 1860 via Wikimedia Commons.

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Catch


We may toss around
Love and Homicide
too casually.

Mutual attraction is limited, finite,
if a connection is made momentarily
And result in Love or Manslaughter
it seems too lofty in-
Designation or in-
Decision
To place fat Hope woven
round, a chalice.

There is fault or fissure
between psycho
And Matter of Time.
Those that do make it a-
cross feel justified as 'survivors'.

Meaning making, throw or drop intentions,
Themselves, proclaiming they be gods
With clay and Pray, hands take shape
as in For-giveness For-self-
ishness.

Since the air is thin and light
relatively pliable
around laws of nature, it was all natural
to let off steam, in order to play games

Sharpening
our serrated skill sets,
with the wrong weapons.
It was no duel, not one against the other,
rather competition can be
humbling,
when the ball is dropped.


Painting By Тиціан (бл. 1480-1485—1576) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Friday, August 4, 2017

Ear-ly Eve-ning


At the end of the day, 
when the crickets find me
most attentive to their feast of roses and drunken
nectar songs,

The darkness that settles in the pit I carry,
this stone heart needs no theorist
to confirm this is where the swallowed

Information has been broken into dark energy
as a compression of all things
in one day

Though they needed my light to see
and absorbed all thermal emissions,
fueled by love and friction
seared in and cauterized, the hole

Space for consolation with these over-
flowing words, no sense of black contains
All meaning

At the end of another day,
crickets had their final say.




Painting by Henry Golden Dearth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Passes thru


The train rolling through town
sends in its signal 
                   with the intermittent whistle which warns
of something more than arrival, delivery or destination,
crimson, or even hot steal.
It smelt of cinnamon and sueded leather,
Bark and skin, the warm coat.

Two young men, 
                         friends since childhood, 
Skype and catch-up on nothing new.
They live close to each other, 
                         only one hears the train first.
The little girl that left the boy 
                         in the woods to get lost herself
was kind enough
to think of bread for later so she could come back
to him, but he was hungry and took care
                         of himself.
She cries about choices to another boy.
She was the wolf that howls at the passing train, sirens song,
a puppy in a dogs coat.

Tracks made for trains are best for drawing lines, 
                        demonstrating the forging of space
between then and now,
                                    here and there
one nose
smells first
and hides in his skin.

The other clearly hears
the passing scream left behind
on warm steal lines
                        without a second glance
he knew there will be another
                         soon enough to catch up.
He takes off his coat.  
No longer in a hurry 
he thinks in all directions,
and decides to walk
without destination.




Photo credit by Carol M. Highsmith [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Friday, July 21, 2017

All complementarities aside


We tapped into the human genome
And are now mapping the brain
But you know we won't find love there either.
They scared us with the hole in the atmosphere,
Cosmic rays, acid rain. They tried terror
By burning down the forest before the cure
For cancer was cultivated.
The ice melts and minerals reinfuse themselves
Ionically with purpose, freeing radicals to cleanse
Surfaces.
Then this standard A brain met a utilitarian snaggle-
What’s it for? What about changes?
Yeah, the gold was soft after all.
There was common wetware
And we always knew how copper conducted itself
Generous with friction and actions without touch.
Entangled in the overhead wires,
Thought is under webs, like lines that meant complex
Life that we thought
we could emulate all the folds and it would comfort us
knowing love was no there to be found
nestled in tight corners and, residing
rather closer to a paradox between intelligent design
and first thought or dream.



Image credit By Smithsonian Institution from United States [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
Info via Wikimedia- Chandra telescope x-ray (2005)
"The Chandra image shows a bubble of hot gaseous supernova debris (green and red) inside a more rapidly moving shell of extremely high-energy electrons (blue). These features were created as the supersonic expansion of the debris into interstellar gas produced two shock waves - one that moves outward and accelerates particles to high energies, and another that moves backward and heats the stellar debris. The relative expansion speeds of the hot debris and the high-energy shell indicate that a large fraction of the energy of the outward-moving shock wave is going into the acceleration of atomic nuclei to extremely high energies. This finding strengthens the case that supernova shock waves are an important source of cosmic rays - high-energy nuclei which constantly bombard Earth"


Sunday, June 11, 2017

Bide and bide


Patience was a problem
he was working on
And so: Nothing Doing about it
All's well that ends in a day.

Around the bend danger awaits,
there was no other way out.

Asking about contents and swatches
make a myriad of answers juxtapose and
work without reason.

I still stand-awaiting your reply.

His hyper heart, the others tainted blood, the ill-tuned organs, the laced food, the zombie pills, the (mixed) media/ (missed) messages, the dumb distractions, the deafening volume, the vast emptiness, the toxic air, the yellow water, the rush, the summit, the plummet-----
Do it NOW!
That is-jump-the wait is too great to hold onto for longer than patience holds peace.
Later-it will be too late to learn of love
and its heroic acts that fail to think
before giving up
the weight
was over.


Painting By Gordon Coutts (1869 - 1937) – creator Born in Glasgow, Scotland. Dead in San Francisco, California, United States of America [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Forsaken, forsooth

Have you seen a secret? Someone  else's-specifically?
The way they fiddle with it in their pocket-It gets stuck between their
first and second molarslike poppy seeds, or opium and needs constant stroking
or protection by its caretaker who thinks-who believes-utterly, no one else can see;
the touching devotion, the precious obsession, the random gaze, sneaky smiles, daylight        
dreams late labored nights, off-kilter emotions,
or most simply the love of its keeper-buried deeper than they think any other can see.

Indulgence even has its limits.

Honesty was never a necessity for breathing easy.

Instinct can be turned down, or diverted to other carnal needs such as
survival of the keenest wills.

All the bile was meant to make you sick of yourself.
Betrayal, often thick and yellow in-consistency corrodes from the insides-
tastes like lies.
Love smothered with these dies in a shower of saliva’s acid rain. Kiss me...

for another's wish
for another
denied all this to me in sweet secrecy.



Painting by William Dyce [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Abundance


We mind rarified
elementary considerations such as
helium and hope that just
stream out the o-zone.

While we worry about coal gluttons
and electric vampires,
the signal still comes
in crystal glints,
colors are just
extraneous.

The most resourceful
were generous
making love-
concurrently, we are
interfering.

Simultaneously
sucked in
shiny silicon i's.
Unwound and seriously
needing respooling.





Image credit Hugo Gerhard Ströhl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Friday, February 10, 2017

A more & A greater than


Z sing iz, the buzz on thee,
Love is too little, jolie, jolie, jolie,
Je t’adore. Je t’ aime. Jest a phaze
Pshaw, lust must pass away.
Love’s haze, amazes me, truly,
enamored in deceitful enamel,
this shine, all mine, in Love.
Trivial, no? Failure in this,
is mans kind demise,
dismissal of duality
a potential of casualty-
could be more…
In love,
first, then find.
F is force, for P, probability
E is of course our energy, and
why, z axis, a spot on a plane
two dimensions entwined,
I find lines hold space,
needing each other just as much
for meaning and definition,
listen...
it sounds like hummmmm
with i 
and feels like u.


Painting by Joshua Reynolds, 'Mrs. Abington as Miss Prue in Love for Love' (1771) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Saturday, January 28, 2017

What is thine is divine and is feline


How sweet it is!
He chose me, he did.
Lucky to be
There then
when he wanted on his wild whimsy.
A seven-year itch, though it may be.
You see, it is quite easy to
cherish thee more every day
feeling more spiritually on air
by him just being there
by choice. His voice
calls and beckons for little me
whose heart feels about to burst forth
and spill thy weaknesses all over
with emulsified energy,
found the warmth we each seek
From the sun
this is how he follows thy heat
day by day.
That is all we can do, soak it up,
sound would only muffle the space.
So we should hold silence gently
and stay in this moment, you noticed me
waiting to be saved. You made me
meet you more than half way.
And now, this is we,
joined in verse where eternity is
guaranteed and easily granted
permission to feel what is happy.
We should
be happy, now,
with our own two eyes
and keep holding on to each other
for as long as little life will keep
holding us back.


Monday, January 16, 2017

(forever) Haiku




particle & wave
Light like Love; impossible
to keep-in one place...


Painting by John William Godward [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Define Y


Why did you have me
when all you wanted was to give me away?

Why did you take me
when all you could do was give up on me?

Why did I try-so hard
to get nowhere new?

Why did i bother the universe
trying to make matter more real, make real matter more...
?

Why did you stand behind me,
only to run away?

Why did we come together
only to divide
and reduce ourselves
to the lowest
common
man?

Why did I believe in Love
after all i have seen, after what has been?

When did all of We
become only (m)e?

Why should we try
to solve
for
x
?

Painting by By Germán Gedovius (en es) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(Bone pile)

My lips are sealed with  The caulk of deaf ears. Born for this. Lessons to be learned as chapters Turned  Over, like how to read our bodies ...