Unfinished forms

The turned ankle
at this angle
a jaw line, the hip
parabola evocative of
obtuse angles and petals-
or leaves could be open
to holding light in colors

the movement blends
on the page, the note
hangs on the sheet-

precarious-
ly awaiting harmony
of echoes like blur and hum
where sound escapes crashing
into narrow canals, omitting any
consonants collected in the
folded corners

melt and fade under the sun
goldenrods spearing silver weeds-
maybe shadows will go there
and settle in

to stretching the fibers
into a conversation with object
and subject
interrupted by
chime and shape
to fit in

the picture would never

what it was
only what could be.





Image by John Singer Sargent, Study of Mme Gautreau c. 1884 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

4:14 (am James)

The darkness amplifies
any tiny tears in the thick screen
It is only i
that stirs the silence,
shuffle and peck.

A chime moves to hear itself,
setting a key
for Saint Ana to use today.

Behind the black, wind which is not,
the freeway tunnel blows and gasps,
cats eyes and downshifts, wind it is not
drops in the back, picks up strings.

The cats purr follows the rhythm
of his breath, reviving vigor on exhale.

The fountain trickles for effect
gurgling fools gold in the desert garden.

The birds all still abed in boughs,
have yet to set the tone.

The stars sparkle and wink wearily
in bursts that were sent
long away and far ago,

For this day-
whose silence
sounds
promising.

“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while then vanishes away.” -James 4:14

1st Image of painting By Wilmer Dewing, Before Sunrise c. 1895 (http://elle-belle10.livejournal.com/1795371.html) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cat Sunrise Image By edited by Mary Mapes Dodge [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1884.

We Will Wake

Maybe the rain will wash away the blood...
Maybe the wind will clear the singed air...
Maybe the ice will freeze the last time...
Maybe less(ons) does not mean mor(ality)...
Maybe our voices are all different...
Maybe we are all saying the same thing...
Maybe everyone speaking leaves no one left to listen...
Maybe our fingertips don't feel the same...
Maybe our Beliefs are all temporary...
Maybe I'm wrong...
It may just be
nightmares
are as important as dreams
at reminding us daily of real possibility.



Image of painting by Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta (1841-1920), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Coming out of Church.

What may be

We learn what
maybe means early
an intro to possibility
when taught to ask if we may
and not if we can.

We meet our will
timidly at first
with a
might

Maybe hovers between
Yes and No
not asking for direction
but offering two views
if you can conceive
per chance
each opportunity
is another
may be

Mightn't maybe
lean a little
towards
sometimes
now and again
in between was and is
are and am
evermore and anon
what may be

No, not now.
Maybe
Later the chance passed
Some time
asking is the action
moving from may and will
be
willing to move
inside the ing
of Being
just maybe.

“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” William Shakespeare

Image By Theodor von Holst (http://www.rossettiarchive.org/docs/op77.rap.html) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Love at first sight

In that first sight
an outline is sketched
a pathway between
two possibilities
the pull of two bodies
magnets must make
contact
pulled into another's space
when time stops
the metronome skips
a jump
roped around and
bound by rapture
infatuation
with another's mortal shell
of man
salivating for what he has
not tasted
stewing on it, doing nothing
an opportunity wasted.

Like Narcissus
who ogled away
all sense
of deep reflection
the possibility of rejection
guaranteed a need
to never know
a scant scent
mortally wounded
by self-destruction
impaled by imagination
sinking in stagnation
of want and wait.

Who throws back
the gift of their gaze
full of meaning
speechless and loudness
settled in alternating currents
in concentrated beams
directed
knowing nothing
about each other
together
exploring the exotic
fields of face and trace
lips and lines
seeking signs.

Maps are naked ideas
taking a stab at form
coming together
sailing
enjoying the view
while gazing
transfixed
into
those deep sea eyes
exploring
the depths
of you.


Image of painting by John Singer Sargent [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Lady Agnew of Lochnaw, 1892.