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.

September steams

There were stars too-
and of course, it was clear as crystals
with a full ball of mercury rising up
near ninety degrees,
moon shadows with a blue halogen aura
shrank and shriveled,
well before sunrise
everything hung in place,

every breath was held
and humid from being inside the body
where courage gathers
like a photo collection,
(in single dimension)
that could be assembled in someway,
in chrono-or-logical order like constellations
that slip and slide down time lines,
yet no sense would penetrate
nor make land fall.

There I was, looking for something else,
out there
with me
dropping leaves
like I let go
of every thing
on dawns tip-toes,
through light night
pretending not to notice
the disturbing peace.





Painting by Martin Johnson Heade, Passionflowers and hummingbirds c. 1870-1883 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Edit(her)

Today
I pray
all the words fray
ravel away...

Whole words
                    carry too much

-much less, defenseless against
strung out sentences, slabs
posed in parallelographic paragraphs,
cover pages and such strata and likewise its
generous detritus

stacks up,
burying A brain within its grooves-
meaning between
pro-fessional and con-fessional
moves too fast to hold,
the rope burns
and I feel smolder.

Sleep did not bother
to muffle the pillow words,
vowels easily pass
through cotton screens.

Threads that vibrate not enough separation.
Too clear to hear, semi-permeable is
the peace underneath, the bubbles inside lips
of white foamed waves.

Those hard consonants could not be avoided.
Sound becomes
a wall between being and story,
bricks and dreams.

Mist always settles.

Black
is the language
when there are more words
than matter.



Painting by Jacob Vrel (fl. 1654–1662) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

de Hydration

It may be more satisfying for those that attend high school football games or homecoming parades,
who have mini-vans-or now-called-cross-overs-with stick figure families on the back window and are stocked with three cases of Costco bottled waters at any given time-
they must know, despite the number of passengers,
thirst is the same for all of us.

That middle-aged woman that was on the local news who was arrested for breaking and entering a church and sobbing inconsolably, may have been parched,
her lips were chapped and white last night.
The police on the scene were ill-equipped
to serve her,
or protect her
from the ensuing harsh light of day,
offering no peace but handcuffs.
Do not doubt, she will drink today.

The old meth house near the elementary school that had been boarded up after numerous raids was demolished over two years ago but has become overrun with five-foot and rising weeds.
It was finally fenced off and covered with green construction mesh.
That was weeks ago.
Just yesterday they hauled the heaping mounds of green waste away.
Without the water weight, they could carry more.
The kids walking by learn something new.

Water is no longer free.

At any given time, tears help to alleviate
our own weight in water.

That hydration happens in the hypothalamus, and like all mammals, we are merely
menial doodlebugs donning diving rods, lead and led,
most often leading us to empty wells where water once went and today only traces of humidity remain.

The air is sere here,
even those echoes no longer replenish wonder.
The apocalypse asphyxiates us
while we are set on re-repeating, like sheep bleating out and choking on swollen tongues,
panting and naked as wolves we are.
It is no wonder
we are still thirsty.



Painting image credit By "FREREMORPHEUS" (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Peace(s)

Crumbled
into randomized fragments
of pointed feeling
the blunted parts
have no meaning
anymore-aligned-
once was whole

Fumbled
for something solid
like nerve
and trembled when I touched
down and felt myself
holding air

-There-
I stumbled
on steep logic, up
alps of apprehension
cast-over-shadow scintillant

Humbled and haggard,
I mumble in awe...
Matter moves (us)
to make a sign.




Image stained glass window, All Saints By Poliphilo (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons. 

a Peace of Christmas morning

Christmas morning,
nearing six,
the moon just retired.
Curled on the corner of the couch,
under the copper lamp light,
books piled on the left arm,
Smokey is nestled on my right,
between outstretched toes,
pads touching mine,
his heavy head propped on my
soul, with a deep sigh,
i am alone
writing
in front of the Christmas tree,
whose moments are numbered-
alee, the chimes try to carol outside
a pine candle cheerfully flickers,
heavy breaths are carried down the hall...
and I remember
how many books I've read this year
and the fathoms I've learned
beyond measure.
I am
more aware-
of myself.
I am getting somewhere-
besides the moral of the story
or simply The End.
I have found peace
and puzzled in pleasure
over moments
with words as pieces,
like these,
gathering beloved dearly
to day.





Image By Lars Jacob for Ristesson [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.