A poet in prose

"Always be a poet, even in prose." 

-Charles Baudelaire

Succinct                                   Finger words attempt to grasp the shape

                                                or solidify some things that matters

                                                enough to cast shadows.

Withheld itself                        Where we have both eyes

                                                and this simultaneous process of thingness,

                                                the space it takes when ones eyes are closed

                                                or looking too long at any thing,

                                                turns to creamains, a small pile, still smolders.

In rote repose                           Mind over matter is when matter takes hold

                                                of our mind and an argument ensues,

                                                this circular discourse becomes a deep rut,

                                                here we go again, making a smile with left overs.

Umbra                                     The darkest parts, those chunky photons assembled

                                                from all particulars and are open to letting the light

                                                expending the conservation in equal distribution

                                                of temperature into background

Where loss of certainty           as love and mild.

Makes one move around         Musical chairs taught us how to listen

                                                while in a hurry to save ourselves and

                                                change our point of view without preference

                                                for any place other than staying in the game.

Look                                        Listen.

Within                                      Many layers of glass make mirrors. 

Painting By Paul Fischer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A good poem is vertigo

(A good poem is vertigo)

                -As if I know. No-

not by my own leaky pen,

though

                 there are a soaring few

alphabetical alchemists

that throw in

words that are known to explode next 

                                     to each other;

elsewhere

you find fissions and contraries may agree

lilting toward lyricality and

honing in on homonymic epidemics.

True, virtues are silent. 

You cannot walk these off.

And even then, some braver explorers 

                  pillage the nether regions-

savages and murky poetry readers

mineralized and ossified, fumbling and 

                  kneading to make meaning of it all

softer.

Those insatiable prose readers, of us

cannibal wordsmiths savorers 

of acids and sugar

                                 find balance

together.

Neutralized, sodium syllables 

grounded us, home again.

The top spun itself 
                   out and ungathered threads

that make any thing, 
                           more

True-

when the poem finds its own end.

                 


Painting by Elihu Vedder [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To Those Who Prose-

It is best to stay away from prose-
you may squint-if so inclined

It takes a few words to get to the heart
blame the onion

O how it makes many squirm
to live like a libertine-openly

If you must, take a deep breath
before diving in-
the wind is strong-

if you catch my drift

umbrellas are for sissy's

It is how proper prose
becomes-to sharp to handle,
inverted, in brief
                   
                    taking side-steps
where precise ought to be...

It is useful to let your mind wander
alone.



Image of painting:  'At the Writing Table' National Gallery of Art-American 18th Century (1790) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.