elasticity/density

The anticipated fog
steamrolls over
terrestrial things
in ways worthy
of emulating.

Clearing in manhole
windows, a glint of caught
starlight hints at the presence
of an eternal watchful
vigil by the moon cast.

Slow and muffled comes the
hollow sound, conjured by a presence
stirring the air.

Straining to hear
a muse muttering
your name as if it were
pronounced in the echo
of Nobody.


Painting by John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836-1893), 'A Moonlit Evening' c. 1880 in Public Domain. 

Spell

Nobody practices
Magic anymore,
Other than for
Amusement.

We are losing
our skills while being
focused on
what went wrong.

Who knows better.
We know.
We do not like taking medicine.

All doctors begin
Believing
that all of our inoculants,
all cures were right here,
waiting to be
spelled out
on the tips our of tongues.

There is a familiar smell
growing stronger
Outside of the lab.

It was always Life or Death.
This time
A muse meant
Healing.
Some words are harder to swallow.



Artwork by Paul Klee, 'Fish Magic' c. 1925 in the Philadelphia Museum of Art [Public domain].

which explains the silence...

The monkey and the muse
were in the
den
together
waiting for one
to speak-

The muse sat,
arms crossed
across the locked up chest
and the monkey just
gesticulates
in wild attempts
to aggravate
a predicted response-

whereby
two arms finally fell like pillars
allowing a plumage of smile to seep out
of the rubble-

You don't need a hand-
were the only words
I heard
eavesdropping
I struggled
to recognize the voice.

While trying to listen in
I lost sight of where I stood
momentarily,
and then the den was silent
while the world
was deafening,

when I could not
help
but find focus
there seemed only one-

source of the sound,
and only
one shadow
emerged.


Painting by Janis Rozentals, 'The Princess and the monkey' c. 1913 in the Latvian National Museum of Art [Public domain].

Mis(s)worded

Since
I couldn't
no-wouldn't
stand the voice
No-noise,
the incessant barrage
of worded white noise,
I wrote poetry
(for constraint).

What does happen when
2 pennies are rubbed together,
a spark
of sense?

The sound that silence plays
while filling in the gaps
has become louder the older
I get, as if I get
something.

Who is the I
that claims to Be not I-
the poet

The words with an alibi
from elsewhere
saw how small and narrow
the mark Itself made, and made
more width and depth
to shroud the naked nouns.

When I went
quiet
you covered your ears.
My two eyes narrowed
even more,

the poem burst and dissipated
in front of us, like memory
maligned
for lack of metaphor
or something nice
to be noted.






Image credited by Edgar Degas [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
Title: Louise Halévy Reading to Degas, c.1895

Suffering in Silence

By Antonio da Fabriano II (Italian, active 1451-1489) (Walters Art Museum:  Home page  Info about artwork) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Shhh! I'm straining to hear

(I must admit, to you

this is my greatest fear)

thundering, rolling silence

boulders unwedged

cracking from a dry spell

not able to find the words to tell

nor a drop in the hollow inkwell

a writers ramblings

that chokingly clutter

floods of thoughts, ideas,

those clever lines I mutter

all taken for granted!

Perhaps there's just nothing

more needing to be said,

(it never before

felt like such a chore)

It used to come

like a heartbeats drum

Absent, broken, chaotic ideas

now dam

and make me look dumb!

A river of words flows by,

a waterfall of passion spills out,

taken by the current inspiration

that usually carries me

Dry and jammed

lodged with self-immolated Styx,

a busy beavers idle work,

where idleness eddies may lurk

I am told not to worry

it will be back and come in torrent

Can you hear the watery voice?

Comprehend its murky messages?

Now, I should confess

I am responsible for this lazy mess

(it's not as though I haven't tried

"I wrote a little today," I lied.)

Instead sterile white paper mirroring thoughts

Letters, symbols, pixels,

words that don’t go anywhere

stuck in virtuous silence

waiting for the stream to come...

Composed 8/22/14.