Time keepers

What is there

to hear, here beneath the rain

falling?

The pianist across the street,

a poem being typed

after-thought,

above or under sirens and 

howls.

Fingertips dance

with swollen pads

across the scales;

ivory teeth, black cavities,

chatter seeking vibration 

or resonance

held in a line

that holds a tune.

Or thread of meaning-

unraveling feeling

and translating thoughts 

not our own

into sound 

between and beneath the horizontal cradle

where echoes may overlap hints of truth

there is a sense of unfolding

like pages turning 

a chord is struck

accord is sought

or scores kept 

for a record nobody keeps.

And all this may be 

called

keeping time

as if melody were many things

more than harmony

knocking and sending 

unanswerable notes 

called music or just

muse. 

Image credit:Baldomer Gili i Roig, Museu d'Art Jaume Morera, Lleida. 2555 c. Nov. 1899 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Aerodynamics outside Elsewhere

It had happened before
certainly,
not All
at the same time.

This time
a first
Spring
vital statistics
lost interests,
attentions drifted away
from their gliding paths.

The sky dictated
directions and we employed
Free will.
At all costs
we are trying
Time
sheltering in square spaces
and speculating about the sudden
impending darkness, the doom
and the emptiness filling corners
while hands draw curtains
and blinds squint like eye-lids
in thin masks
wanting only
Elsewhere.

For once,
the calls all came down
from above. Over-
ruled our old ways.

The birds sang out
consonants, whole
notes hailing hard
lyrics none had heard
before but had been said
meaning suddenly something
anything, anymore,
save a Poets smooth
translation of such dead languages
avian, barbarian utterances
fallen on deaf ears
so many years
we stood under oblivious
and missing
the calls.

There was no place else to go,
to look, to escape, to buy, to barter, to sell,
to tell, to exaggerate, to hide, to collect,
to get, to juggle, to balance, to plan, to invest,
to pad our feet
by adding more Pyrite in the veins
connecting our heart to our soles.

Blood is always on the move.

We look down
and out-side-gazes
away from each other
avoidant, accursed
shielded and sheltered
under the same temperamental
Spring sky
whereby
a feathered friend cocks
his head and chooses
a listener to teach
one good birdsong.



Image description: Birds in flight, St. George Island, Alaska, USFWS, dated 12/04 in Public Domain. 

Assets minus liabilities

It causes a sharp pain
in my chest
to witness
the kitten perched
on the edge of the
couch
watching television-
while the people
are occupied
with other screens

It pangs my stomach
thinking about
the income of
a Poet
who wastes not
a scent or moment
to dwell
upon
the wealth of
interruptions
like pangs
spine shriveling-
the Book won't come
Out
I shout, Inside
voices affirm
the lame excuse-

Not saying

the churning sense
of burning
ears or pants,

Love has been simmering
on the back of the stove
while I wove a couple of loose ends
and made a sweater
without a head-hole,

Thus
confirming my ineptitude
and such
as feeling the need
to Escape
the bleeding clutches
of Loved ones closest
to touch,
the spot
which widens where
no treasure is ever safe
keeping.

The kitten purrs
from this place
smiling
finally
noticing me
watching him
stretch
and grow.


Artwork: By John William Godward, 'Idleness', c. 1900 in [Public domain].

'cat purring' from Wikipedia:
"Although true purring is exclusive to felids and viverrids, other animals such as raccoons produce purr-like vocalization. Animals that produce purr-like sounds include mongoose, bears, badgers, foxes, hyaenas, rabbits, squirrels, guinea pigs, tapirs, ring-tailed lemurs, and gorillas while eating. Animals purr for a variety of reasons including to express happiness, or fear and as a defense mechanism. It has also been shown that cats purr to manage pain and soothe themselves. Purring is a soft buzzing sound, similar to a rolled 'r' with a fundamental frequency of around 25 Hz. This sound occurs with noticeable vibrations on the surface of the body, varies in a rhythmic pattern during breathing and occurs continuously during inhalation and exhalation. The intensity and length of the purr can also vary depending on the level of arousal of the animal."

Project-ile

The poet sits with intention.
Knitted brow and with a scrap of
paper, a sharp implement and a
momentary departure, a faraway gaze,

the poet observes the words taking their own
positions simply as
falling
into place.

The poet lines up the marks and cross-
hatches, rounds up loops and keeps it all
justified, inside the margin(al) notes,
deducing answers by guess and check.

With so many alternates and messy remainders
that carry over into the wrong
problem,
we are easily led astray with too many steps
to count.

The poet prefers no word to another,
making it impossible to say anything
of value about luck or music, or talent,
or art or war or philanthropy or money.

In shorthand scrawls,
the poet draws out
the sharpest tips acquired and
compares this craft to the fine work
such as that of the carpenter or accountant,
or tailor or assassin,
whom measure thrice before a cut is made.

The poet shook his wrist.
The poet knew there were solutions inside
so he sought and tried
to say the one thing that would change
something.
The poet goes with the flow of ink
and arrives quickly
in a foreign tundra
where the virgin snow melts
around slated and craggy ideals.

The poet watches the footfalls
disappear,
grateful to have never been
Here.


Advertising illustration credited by 'Bookseller & Stationer', The Sawn Pen, 1919 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

the gazing tree

Words are my mirror.
In one frame, there Is
an accuracy and simultaneous
Alienation,
projecting from This compact structure,
such as a singular dimension,
as in Ego,
ergo sum
perception.

I pointed
my gaze
out-
side-
this Home
provides no shelter.

I wanted to pick the words,
like weeds,
carefully including the root,
which is a sure sign
of eradication, or hope
of never returning.

So my eyes and hands scan
scan the sky
but only a breeze
could find meaning
There.

What does remain
Solid
after trying to convey
an idea, to prose?
Must be made with
origination,
in other words,
something like; a black box, a red wheelbarrow,
13 blackbirds
and a parched poet
scratching tan paper under an old oak tree.


Photograph by Dietmar Rabich / Wikimedia Commons / “Senden, Venner Moor -- 2013 -- 2305” / CC BY-SA 4.0.

Miss Demeanor

Rather than
Not being good at
Anything,
I mistakenly over-
heard
People reading
The writing
I left on the walls
And instead of calling
It graffiti

They said it was
Good, they called it
Poetry, they read my
Name
and it became an
Accusation.

 Painting by Pompeo Molmenti (1819-1894) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Another time

could you tell
the
pre-
occupation was else-
where
by, I mean, analogous to
investment, banking into
listening with the right ear-
I always knew
it was not wrong-
which explains why
I haven't given
much voice,
by choice
to what is left
over

this way
I can hear who said it best
and decide omissions,
sadly some adverbs snuck in
the cracks,

the poet recites
from fissures
showing the weak spots
matching voices,
what could have been
an echo
asked again,
could you repeat that?




Painting by Giovanni Segantini, 1892 in [Public domain].

feather weather

The awkward bird
arose from her branch
puffing up her breast
and shaking her head
discovering a burning
sensation
in her throat
which carried pangs
into her tiny talons.

She tried out
a few simple notes
to crack open the stale air
before asking
the question,

was there a moment,
a degree of light or altitude
a passing gale
ideal
for realization
for comprehension of wings,
to soar, to sore to try again
and again
when did it know
to sing in truth with only vowels

Where did the poet go
in verse?

The owl chimed in
wisely
turning nocturnal
eyes
with avian alibi,
refused to name names.


Painting by Friedrich Thurau, c.1868 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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

Cold and hard like cash

Ha! What money? Don’t I look hungry-

Enough, with only skin and bones

The mother poet is simply a conduit

For care.( a.k.a.ATM), logistically

Someone had to buy the groceries 

and gasoline.

Of course, electricity must be paid and the internet

is always on, even with power bars,

despite attempts to unplug everything.

No money was any-

more than a thing to get another

thing or things.

Finally, detoxified and rehabilitated,

I breathe freely,

but it costs me my life.

There is no green growth in the wallet.

And every morning, there is money to be put in boxes,

sorted, split, and aggregated from valid sources.

So it was not me eating money or homework, or flesh, or words,

it was paper, fiber, DNA, dinero

And dang it-I remember having it

and not needing it. 

Painting by Wilhelm Gause, c. 1911 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Puzzling poet

The last line was laid and this tied it all together,
Success!

Yet in the excitement of the assembled vivid scene,

the poet dropped his masterpiece onto the tile floor,

Whereby words shattered and scattered about

Everywhere.

Dejected and deterred, he could only kneel down

and try to pick up the pieces flung in far off places,

watchful for synonymous edges 

and similar shades

and of course, he paid particular attention
to the edges.

It had been done before, 

he told himself to start over,

it would be easier this time,

never imagining a different picture

put together,

he caught himself still glued to the finished image

of the new poem before him-
Stunning!

From out of Nowhere

its edges disappeared,

he saw it would never be finished,
so he took it apart and put it away.




Artwork by Harry Willson Watrous [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Shadow lands

The poem cowered
in the dark corner
as does an animal behind a tree
feeling hidden
and safe
in error.

In the open, there was everything
that had been muttered
and nothing more could be said
in translation
of such inspirations
outlined in full color.

Grey and subdued
reflected in the blinded panes
so struck silent was the poet
when words
couldn't convince any body-
lighter was ever better.




Painting by Gwen John [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The night that the Accountant

The night that the Accountant figured out poetry
was a simple story
about a man and a woman
and the stories they tell
each other-
About
who should and who should not
discuss poetry,
since there is no GAP
in poetics or likewise, alibis.

I told him a story about a poem
that was a story
I made up,
I was never really there.

He said, 'Of course it wasn't true.
Being pushed off a bridge was just a
metaphor-
for what-
I don't exactly know, but if I know you,
it was a feeling
you felt that day.'

I confessed
it was true, all of it.
I could have jumped.
He understood
more poetry
than he ever could have
accounted for.

Along this
line lying between non-and-fiction,
a subtraction connects us.
And we reconcile our difference
of opinions in between
heads and tales
black and read
to solve all word problems.




Photo credit by Mathew Brady, Long Bridge, Washington, D.C. in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Six Reasons to Never Try Poetry

They call them mockingbirds, some are nightingales, a few may be owls or ravens,

but all are really pretending to be the pursuers

while they are in fact the ideal prey.

All are moths-

of which there are more than 160,000.

Drawn to their own demise, despite the heat, they repeat the fire dance,

a Danse Macabre in verse.

In all fairness, one should be warned-

1. You will never be good. Or done. Or get there. Never, nevermore. It will always be wrong, could be better, you should have never tried, a waste of your time, a sacrifice for nothing. If you want to feel a sense of completion or accomplishment, this is not the way. You will never be able to make it go away. Get a drawer, carry a pen, try to forget. 

2. You have only copied others far better than you-who copied those that were far better than they. 

All the words that are strewn about and unsorted,

the ones you polished up and put together and

something spectacular, or smooth, or morbid,

were not yours to put your name on. 

You were not the first person

to make your bed.

3. Warning: Also-they All die beautiful, decrepit and anonymous, poor and misunderstood. They pass away, they are evoked and manipulated, worshiped for saying one thing-over and over-apropos to those who know how timeless interpretations remains. They keep their keys. They take thier fortunes with them. The published, finished, are boarded up, condemned-to looting, pillaging and squatting.

The moth never learns from others smoke. The moth must devour the leaves and petals from poets of other seasons if it is to survive famished and cleansed by morning dew. 

Some say violets capture a certain raw nature, many others pine over roses, and there are those of silk, that bare no resemblance to prose, without punctuation or stamen. 

4. The night is shared by good and bad voices, loudest to those who listen.

5. Color is not necessary for presenting a beautiful display. Light and heat are most attractive when removed.

6. A moth is a critical link in the food chain. 

Fake eyes, ink stains, shadow, ash and dirt colored, clicks and sonar are extra like lyricality. Both predator and prey are symbiotic as reader and writer, both flock to the light despite the smoke and despite the act of dying every night. 

Painting By Michel Bouillon, Vanitas c. 1668 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spoken word poet

Your mouth carries clues

crosswords, in pen-you project

ink-stained ideas.

Painting by Yeghishe Tadevosyan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Maxim Poetical

Grandma said
                Always wear a bra
                -even to bed.
She said,
                Put liberal
                amounts of lotion on
                everywhere every day.

Grandpa advised
                looking up every-
                thing I did not know
how to use or say
Smile
Grandma warned,
               those are the better lines
               to make.

My heavy skin agrees
                with these
                ad(d)ages.



(This poem was inspired by Lorine Niedeckers' poem, '(A) Poet's Work')


Painting By Mohov Mihail (1819-1903) (Mohov Mihail) [Public domain, Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What is Black & White and Not Read

Dear Poet,
Thank you for your diligent inquiries.
While we appreciate your work, it is not right for us.
In addition, we encourage you to continue to try to fit in-
stead fast, stand under a lone wolf moon at the howling,
or some-such-thing.
Please note-our open minded period is very, well, narrow.
Also, know that you will not be known,
yourself unfit for traditional shapes, bodies of work
form @s.
I almost forgot, Notoriety. Silly me.
You must agree, you will be not known to anybody,
you are generic,
in the white flimsy boxes with the black sans serif
font-ain't it close enough
to alternative nutritional facts?
Anyway, we hope that you are more than satisfied with this
onerous offer.
Please do not let us know later than possible.
(there can be no changes or credit).
Respectful to others,
Them.


Image credit by Marjory Collins, described as-'loading sugar in a grocery department' July 1942) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Thick Skein

Have it together?---Hah! What poet does?

Fight this way, blistered paws

                                        limping along by prosthetic ego
battered by submissions...

I could go all day,

with myself

                     uncooperative, self-ish sot

              & yet I say I simply need more

time (alone) to not distract myself; (space) place to dwell, to go to

deeper than time (allows)-and vow to get itthe first Time
...All...withdrawn
Well...further from form-to gather to-gether

                                                              the 

                      scattered                   thoughts

I strew all about, coins and alms, the book of changes,

I knew no doubt

                         and yet could never finish (the plate, the bread,
butter, indulgence, opulence and chance)

                                                        what I never began officially,
a la carte (blanche)

Poetically, I prose with white 
which shows where will weakens voice

I'd have to pick up the line 

                                       later where I left it 

                                 loose and 

                                                      too long,

unraveling

at the slightest pull.

How it is all made 

Full 
                           of nothing (itself) is something to undo
(& make it knew) reuse and refuse to cycle

So it is sown into the soul
                                     bereft I be
seeking sustenance in vowels,
lighter than care and ever aware 
This is All...  

Painting By Samuel Lovett Waldo, The Independent Beggar (1783-1861) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hand me downs

I never claim to know is mine, 

                                                     alone.

Perhaps it is a preference of plagiarism,

a nose for improper prose,

an insatiable appetite for 

all ilks of altruistic anthema

I could not think 

of a better wheel design.

We have learned.

Where there is smoke was once

                                                    on fire.

Needs and devours

as borrowed without interest.

Solutions are simple echoes, 

                                                   echoes

what you said you heard

and comes back if it hits the right note

accord.

You know how others wrought words 

                                                    work

more harmonized than mine, 

in truth themselves together 

as wording that works

for real-ity-itty-bity life-like

                                             Projects

and Practice.

By stretch of imagination or by the life-

span of a metaphor

                                                    by suspension 

and leaps

abound archaic and built to last

for a time-as taut truth

entwined in tension.

Look 

out. 

Given eyes 

                                                    to see, 

Only art may remind us why

color is requisite to sight.

And why white space is free 

breath. 

To covet a glance, off the top 

take without change 

of rubberized opinion

or overcharge for overdrawn spirituality

                                                    from a paper One.

I imagine 

remembering clearly-

                            some scattered lines of poetry

in tangled threads, 

rags over-stiched spines, 

poets opine over each others

dead bodies doing it wrong

turning the soil, lying there

and re-cultivating the Garden of

                                                   I Will

re-Discover.

                                          Know only 

slowly may one go

to pull open space we need

vacancies never free, but insist

on appearance and flow from Others 

Currents

pulled into time by tide. 

                                           Drifters

we are all sifters, thieves 

of sureness,

presenters of possibilities,

tailors 

                                           of time-

space,

altering whose in whose

reality-one time, 

rerunning reminiscences

and savoring our own essence

familiar

in-decadence in fortitude

never mine in any time-frame

                                           alone.

Image By Charles Robinson (The Happy Prince and Other Tales) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Quicksand

Since poetry is up to interpretation, meaning-wise-
how does the poetry reader understand the Poet's intent
with certain-T's like Truth and Tale
divided unevenly...
Mostly, we knew the poet forgets these two
So how does a semblance come together as a sense
of justice, (common sense) or was it just us
who smiled at the cool plums...

Electromagnetism asserts its charge,
Gravity resists a zero,
the Poet's ears are taut
the words that wobble and worry
about none
poetic and pathetically undone
in ink.
Welcome All.
Let that sink in, a lifeline.
Try this barefoot
with a poem,
touch the earth with your toes-
read it again, it will tell you
its potent-ialities
softly, poetry
tart and juicy.



Painting by Ilya Repin, Tolstoy Barefoot, 1901 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.