“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label salt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label salt. Show all posts
Sunday, December 30, 2018
tepidity
I said my feet were frozen,
he did not care
but took notice of my canvas shoes
atop the icy mud.
The fire he made,
started by Him,
should have been
enough-
but the wood was wet
atop the dirt that was sand,
the grass still green despite the dew
the smoke swirled
inside the pit.
His forehead and eyes settled into the comfortable scowl,
his red cheeks took upon themselves an orange glow
and I knew he felt
contentment.
I smiled at him over the inferno.
He often mocked
the speed at which I walked
on December nights near the open sea.
After explaining over my shoulder,
like salt,
why the air felt so distinctly different
between us
he said no more about what he could not feel.
Together,
we find our way
a-part
of accepting
differences by degrees.
Artwork by Felix Nussbaum [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
How salt takes to wounds
I made it-
not to say that it is done-
that I can breathe now
that I know this.
I am here
none-the-less
by the sea
all-the-more-
for me-
guilty
pleasures are all mine
in fine coarse grains.
I am aware,
consciously,
that the measure of success
is off the charts, the beaten path
off the grid,
infinite and yet most
definitely a direction,
like horizon.
It does not move me
along-
but still, I bother
to rise to each occasion,
daytime, in lightyears
despite the erosion, in spite of doubt,
the tides still rise
in order
to pull stars in
circular motions,
like me, reeling.
I am pulled back to sea.
The end begins again
with me
mixing carbon and salt,
separating oil from water
I found a solution
to stop the bleeding.
Watercolor by William Matthew Hodgkins c. 1894 in Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Sunday Dinner
Lasagna.
Wreck-tangle in layers of cheese,
Wreck-tangle in layers of cheese,
I add a pound of spinach for extra iron.
It is a production,
each layer has a plan, to become part of
an edible architexture, an assemblage,
full fromage, flagon, flag off
full fromage, flagon, flag off
in red, whine and green.
Read and cook, turning the page,
the fungi’s sizzle
the fungi’s sizzle
and The Hidden Reality outlines details
of jitters, making energy and arrays.
I stir, it pops, I read, it steams and
condenses sugars.
Put together, my job is done,
I wait
it melts
all together.
I wait
it melts
all together.
I close my eyes for the first bite,
forgetting all I threw in.
I think I taste nutmeg, but then remember
this often tastes like M-theory.
I must have forgotten the salt.
Painting by Jacopo Tintoretto, The Supper at Emmaus (1542-43) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Painting by Jacopo Tintoretto, The Supper at Emmaus (1542-43) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, September 30, 2016
Simple sunset sought
This is not life-it is living
hot for a time
wet for a while
until salt only remains...
the ocean swallows us
wholeheartedly we wait at
her ledge at sundown
remixing our urge to merge
in gold lights flecks flicker
a flame bathed in warmth
dazzling its prisms by hint
of change for photophores
Photo credit: By United States Navy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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