Break an egg

Lucky to be alive, I have been.

Though, you know, it is possible

for Heroes to choose wrong.

I've seen

Chance has no memory of why 

me, or some such silly magic potion.

No body's in motion.

Keeping warm, for themselves. 

Believe you me, that which we are

we were here

filling our thanks.

The people making times I was excused...

inconsequentially

conditional

to now. 

How my mother put me on the bow of a small sailboat

in rough seas as a baby,

my father ran over me in their 1969 Camaro,

a drummer man overdosed lying on top of me, 

molested by my stepdad's badmate's husband,

while his two children slept nearby

made a bottle of Advil not enough medicine 

to take the pain away, but made the swelling ego

go down 

the tank.
Man. That was the first of many lasts.

Locked up 'Crazy', thrown out into the foster ghetto,

those taught me math and theoretical calculations.

The great earthquake tried to swallow me whole,

the small town ate me alive, diced me up in tiny pieces,

to spread around liberally until I could do no more harm

tastefully.

To be

T-boned at 90, spun into a tree while driving in a hurricane, 

broken down so many times in BFE, broke and down 

in BFE, driving drunk, or high, or unlicensed, never uninsured

hitchhiking my way around, kidnapped, poisoned, toxic shock,

pneumonias, ruptured appendix, a defunct pancreas,

weary grindstone, the corrupt gall cannot stand fat, or chit chat,

for that matter

black ice, the edges

all horizon thin,

but I keep winning, if that is what this is.

I need not know why

luck is a lady

random, like me. 

Want not, waste not

 We have all wasted our time here. 
Let us be brutal and honest, each and every one of us
has wasted
Time; as in
away, 
effort, electricity,
money, opportunities
and all of these were Ours to squander, 
to squat and wanting what nots.
What is more seems to 
overspend on idle luxuries,
counting pennies and pebbles 
you say are lucky asteroids.

We should be Thankful.

We could be too coddled to recognize
all this preoccupation with preparations 
and knowing ahead
it was all superfluous.
But we are busy making;
deals, wishes, messes and mayhem,
money, babies, titles, costumes, trinkets, headway 
and art, a start at something real...Really?
We could do more to untangle our neural nets 
stuck up in sticky anxieties, worries
or not...some like it wound up that way.
And nouns hold more weight than necessary. 

As a rule, nothing is certain
to be 
Good
except
Art, really. 

Painting by Pieter Symonsz Potter (circa 1597/1600–1652) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Muffled cries in the marine layer

Everything comes in waves.
Everything that matters
will remain but moved.
Droplets as dew travel
covertly along these liquid lines
where air and water are harmonized
and expressed as external forces
weaving winds.

Victims of our voices;
cliffs conduct the falls,
reefs set the pitch,
reflections in the glass face(s)
blink back sharp silver lights
tossing frothy stinging beads
and foaming at the rabid lips.

The water was left wild.
The sand shows where steps,
the lines, the lyrics, the chorus
soothe all savages, beckons all beasts,
who seek definitive ends
in horizons.

The sirens wail while
time takes its toll in salt
and lets the rest settle.
Absorbed and absolved
in a sea of selflessness.


Image By Pogobuschel (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Anchors cut by angels

“O my soul, do not aspire to immortal life, but exhaust the limits of the possible.” -Pindar Pythian lii

I believe in little angels
                            although,
not those in Dante's Divine version
                            yet we all understand his grand design
poetry left letters lynched, hanging in his story.

I believe in angels
                           that are not molded from mortality
but leave tangible gifts
                           treasures we didn't know we wanted
like uncoveted luck.

I believe in bantam angels
                           that drop hints
and lift eyelids
                           shift the butterfly in flight
while waltzing with the wind.

I believe in angels
                           not as conspirators, or muses
I am not one of those poets, that would be insane
                           those who claim to hear voices
I believe in angels
                           that leave language to loons
whose call I understand, just as planned
                           like destiny's low decibel note
I believe in angels
                           that make time
to rescue, rally, recover, ruin, redeem, reiterate
                          remind us of what we must have known
already.

I believe the angels are our audience
                          listening to our poetry
reciting their favorite parts
                          while waiting for tides to turn.

Faith: “…a silent waiting on the truth, pure sitting and breathing in the presence of the question mark.”-Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury 

Image of painting by William Closson (1883-1978) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.