E. Pifanny

I was more in

Love with the 

Place than the man.

-I thought-

Humans are complex,

Addicted ones are

Predictable.

I think-

If you are not given

More than you think you can handle-

then how would you know-

How much more

You could...

I figured,

Turning a blind eye

makes you 

Feel more than

hind (in)sight like fore-

shadowing.

I realized,

Loss enhances the value of 

What you have, irreplaceable or

simple, nameable, and not.

Holding on to 

Nothing is free

falling-

Until 

I knew-

Everything

Lands

Home again

Like a name you've never heard, but

Think you know or a place

You've never been and find 

Yourself in

Love.

Painting by William Orpen (1878-1931), 'The Eastern Gown' c. 1906 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Long-view

It gets worse,
or gets better.

Both
chaos and entropy
like cause and reaction
entwined for grounding
the current state.

There is no potential spark
where nothing is conductive.

This way,
we are all safe,
they say this is the only way
to survive
to sacrifice
our freedoms for fear.

What if...
the same question
was posed
If what...?

Layers of complexity are added for mystery;
Gloves, face masks, hats, sunglasses, shaggy hair, alcohol cologne, we have all become suspect(s).
To Be
Watched, traced, recorded, counted, slotted, allotted 1 per person, our fair shares tanked, our borrowed time was revoked, to be copied, pasted and erased.
Mankind does one through five:
Social Divorce, Marital sentences, home tutoring, web meeting, happy hours at home, time ambles a long dark path out of the woods, there are stones to throw and rocks to kick down the road.


Painting by Edward Mitchell Banister (1828-1901), 'Woman walking down path' c. 1882 in Public Domain.

Pace

Around the mountain
The way to proceed sideways
Looking at the rocks.
*
Loosen the rein
the heavens unlock in gasp
exhaling hail.
*
Each step taken
is a charge
without receipt.
*
Certain of what we
do not want and cannot take
our bags bulge with These.
*
Lighten with laughter
Serum of Sun, what is done
is never complete.



Artist Unknown, 'Pavillions in a mountain landscape' c. 1550 in the Philadelphia Museum of Art [Public domain].

trails

Vengeance makes a map

old wives tails and medicine

man show now how X

crosses paths never worn away.

Image Title "After the battle Company G 32nd United States Infantry' c. 1898 in [Public domain].

a lone path way

some thing stirs
out there
with out us
with in
we name hope
hanging on
be came
pulling up
our gaze
only then
some thing
in finite
may be
seen.


Photo credited by Carol M. Highsmith, Santa Catalina Island, 2012 in [Public domain].

Draw out

It must have been
one of those crossroads
that Dante found too dark
to penetrate
and I find myself
sinking
to the depths
of Tarot,
whereby a spark may be
cast,
only one strike,
like sipping one toe into the
Inferno
and you know
I drew;
The Emporer, The Hermit, The Lovers,
The Devil
and Strength.

There is something
strait-forward about
a cross, a sword, empty cups,
perhaps
the pathway, and a Virgil,
that may say
directions,
like selections
when lain, like steps
a hand
is dealt and there lies
choice,
namely,
to forget
The Fool.



Artwork by Dante Gabriel Rossetti [Public domain].

Timethrift

How do we squander our breath
by counting to ten
or three?

I noticed a boys crown
his head was down
facing his lap, holding a short pencil.
Clearly, he was not writing,
By the way the pencil moved
in random places across the page;
middle, top right, bottom center.

Of course, everyone wanted to see,
even the old lady sitting next to him
who kept adjusting her hair,
her blouse, her scarf
acting uninterested.
He could smell her short
breath, I could see
her check the time.

A waste of time.
Drawing straws.
I was reading,
there was nothing to show
not a figure or shape to be seen
from the words I inhaled,
no crumbs from my feast,
no incensed smoke crept out
of sealed chambers.

I was high-hovering, as clouds do.
I never noticed
how many pages had turned,
how close I was to the end
nor had I kept record
of the miles traveled along
the lines it took
to get in between
here and now.

Painting by Charles Joseph Grips, 'Waiting for a Loved One' c. 1894 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Shaking out olde rags

Tattered paths erase steps trod to crooked gait
Frayed regality clenched its hard youth worn spite,
And yonder in gilded hours the sun burns its envy
Gathers all ye spent colours; flames out to embers
Aloft nothing matches your plundering stride
stars nor nightingales flash iridescent tails to follow-
feet planted firm,calm thy nerves -O weary traveler!
Linger here, Inns and Outs have long now closed
While history makes repast to fill the o'er sated
with seconds. Ere-the noblest pastures lie
Certain and sure of you!
             Will you not take thy eager soul strides?
              To meet my waiting expanse half-way?











Image By Rocky Mountain National Park (C.C.C. trail construction Red Mountain Trail) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A soul on a stroll

Along the Path
we must go alone.
Yet things catch our eye,
glisten just so in the sun.
Sometimes we stop to linger
a little, thinking about beauty...
But we move on
when the light changes.

Along the path,
we must go alone.
We meet many others, new faces
walking and join company
for some paces, for a time-
until their path goes another way,
to a place that is not our own
destination.

Along the path
we must go alone.
Milestones remind us to push
ahead, rest before it gets steep,
and don't chance a glance back.
Footprints fall behind,
markers of the past,
so we don't go in circles
if we are aware
of our surroundings.

Along the path,
monsters lurk in the dark shoulders,
watching the moon guide your steps,
unable to penetrate your light.
You may have to change direction,
many times, but you will know
where you are,
you have seen-This before.
When you arrive There
remember, you will know
Why, Then
we must go alone.




Image by Allen Butler Talcott [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Path through the woods.

Walking the waterline

A single trail
                    of footsteps in the sand
or snow
                                                         mark where you have been
                                                                                                       not where you are needing to go
the right way
                         left you all alone
                                                  to make your own impression
                                                                                                       stamping your day
while it lasts
                         before erosion, corrosion
                                                                  degeneration, erasure, noting you were never there

walking backward, the footsteps don't fit
   
                                                               the gait was moved, the way worn smooth
we rely on these directions
                                            safety in nonzero numbers

                                                                                       go figure, follow the instructions,
tearing along the dotted line,
                                             racing by
                                                             fixed on the finish
 
                                                                                          waiting in line
standing in someone else's shoes
                                                             you lose
                                                                               your stride, taken by the tide.



Image By Probably P.S. Krøyer, 1893 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.