Empirical Spherical

In the sphere where clouds are formed

How high? Out of eye-

sight

Is where mind over matter mixes its

Potion

Something

from nothing-

Empty

As a periwinkle sky

filled purely with a howling wind

that you can feel in your

Bones

like rain

and gravity, the weight, and desire of

Still... 

the plane pierces through the dark wall

and

Nothing was there

After

All.

Painting by Nesterov, The_Nightingale_is_Singing_by_M.Nesterov_(1918,_priv.coll), in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

A turning of the Blind I

It would be
an act of empathy
if only
we were able to turn a blind eye
inward
when feeling
our way around
soft dirt
and sharp diamonds
with only our bare hands.

We focus
on bettering ourselves
Daily
instead of making ourselves
feel
better
daily.

From the first mud pie
we are taught to make
to the first brick of the fortresses
we build around our heart
to keep out
more than intended
being
the eager makers we have made
ourselves
to be-

merciful

we
wage battles,
venturing outside our dwellings
for a time
feeling our way
a-round
the perimeter
tempted to go
as far as the I
can see.

Eventually,
we arrive with new visions
and
without any tangible evidence
of our travels.

Painting by Paula Modersohn-Becker, 'Self-portrait with hat and veilt' c. 1906-07 in [Public domain].

Dendrite doors

We learned they would come after midnight.
At least, I learned this on my own.
The neighbors all knew where those footsteps led. 
The lights had been killed before...and it was a signal still.
The horror was trapped in the suspense.
They never knocked. That was the true terror.

I never lived this way. I learned how.
Why have doors, they would all conclude,
since all else had been stripped away?
When we strip wood, it's raw hide-
stripped skin shows through.
We all know the smell.
And screens are illusions like musty hospital curtains.
Did you know that there is no word for Privacy in Russia-
just keep this to yourself.

I knew an American woman 
that imported 14-foot tall exotic hardwood doors from Indonesia.
She had them installed or erected
in a financed rehab mansion in Southern California;
they divided the living from the sitting room 
and the doors were always open.
It took two to move them.
When she was evicted from the retreat she tried to steal them. 
She went to prison. Not just for the doors.
She'd tried to escape to Mexico.

And although before my time,
I liked Jim Morrison's poetry 
back when I was just little and more morose.
Now his poetry seems hollow, soft in spots.

I was petrified to eventually find 
purple heart in deep prose,
and blocks of solid Bolivian Rose by Burmese blackwood 
so fresh it bleeds,
still...life with leaves and family trees fall
and knots make it all stronger.

We learned about the grind and carpentry,
sand smoothes stone and wood. 
Don't cut against the grains. Leave room to breathe.
I tend leave my doors ajar, 
and query why we each have so many 
inside.
I like my peephole. 
That was a solid design.
Unlike suspension bridges which transfer tension
and tend to be fire retardant. 

Now how can we move on,
without looking back. Locks break.
We cannot ignore these partitions anymore.
Divide and Conquer, knock on wood, 
for your own good and I should warn you-
I am not decent but have found a match. 

Photograph (by 'not given') of the massive old wooden doors of Mission San Gabriel which withstood the attacks of the Indians, ca.1908. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.