Nonsensical

As we explore the depths of the oceans, 

seeking the ends of eternity as

conceived by space, 

mapping the matrix of the mind,

We hope 

we are making sense.

Some more sense of what may be 

behind the Divine and beyond evil.

Veiled by our vanity,

we can only hope to master

some special skills.

We are instructed, 

we are given-with grace,

five senses to use, freely.

We all know better.

Untapped potential, 

the vein, the mother lode,

these things that we seek

are lying here

not waiting 

for us to see,

not weighting

to matter.

Now, tell me about touch…

Can you feel me looking at you from

where I stand?

Can I make you cry with words, 

or laugh with only

black and white?

How do you know something has been moved?

Do not step there! Slow Down! Watch out! 

Has this voice

ever saved you before?

And pray, tell me, mind over matters

like these explosions of energies that spin wildly,

may we tame bursts by will, tempt with them with time,

temper these with new neurons

and cast off-the surplus?

Is it all too much?

A little release travels faster than light

yet always

dissipates all ways 

with so much space and water

between bodies

empyrean expanses, abysmal astrodynamics and such.

It was current

thought, 

that the thought wave and the wave of gravity,

ate projected invisibly, the unseen senselessly

Ignored-

As if maybe,

it didn't make sense, as if

'may be' meant there were more ways to feel

than five, or how do we know anything is alive? 

None believed in what they could not see.

With no matter to feel, to put a name on,

with nothing to touch us with shape or edge,

with so much space, with all the emptiness

making up all the meaning 

It is all the more touching

that we find our way by feel,

getting somewhere, 

After All.

“Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea?

Or hast thou walked in the search of the depths?

Have the gates of death ben open unto thee? 

Or hast thou seen the doors of

the shadow of death?

Hast thou perceived the breadth of the earth?

Declare if thou knowest it all.

Where is the way light dwelleth?”

(38:16-19, The book of Job via Primo Levi) 

Painting by Martin Johnson Heade [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

No vacancies

It is the voice, or sound
as far as limits and ripples can----
as loud as the noise altogether

static, each wrinkle folds under
the aging and erosion,
older than dirt lays claim,

lighter than air, dust-skin,
settled palimpsest
on rice paper arms, 

by shreds of rags and stitches 
to cover the cold.
Shivers scream inside, 

turbidity of the spirit, malicious matters
needing shelter; brittle now
by leaves, dry twigs,

words, thorns, starlight and smoke
becalmed back to the senses
in a murmur of metaphor,

rewritten as revelation. 
Must Have.
Must Heard. 

Image credit By Scan by NYPL [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Nocturnal trees

See these
These are nocturnal trees.
Smell them.
Smell them
in deeply. Take thier scent away. With you.
They are not disturbed easily.
They are the kind
with night vision
in tones of chlorophyll

if you trust inklings, as in sense,
hints like notes of new saplings, young.

And it is simply our symbiotic nature,
a pair, apparently, a part.
These people.
These trees.
The leaves.
Branches, hands, bark
wave with symmetrical measures.

They, they, all day,
stealing each others breath away
naturally. Dancing. Aglow in green envy.
Tiny white feathers fly
the falcon feasts naturally
the tree is happy to night.



Painting by Caspar David Friedrich, c. 1819, Two men contemplating the moon, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Name extraction

On the tip of my tongue

I close my eyes to differentiate

sensuality and recall

only to get a glimpse

of another thing

I had tried to re-member

by conceptualizing

behind closed eyes

aimed upward toward the starlight,

the expansion of the universe 

is demonstrated before me.

There, dark matter doesn't care

about bonding and periodicals

or a sense of stability.

The first thought dissolves

into the next

continuum of generations.

The name I need jumps out

shattering the dim bliss.

It has been used before,

it is thinner now

in this event

not solid enough to hold more space

for future

consideration.

Painting by Isidre Nonell, Thinking (1906) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Isn't that touching

Felt again-
it will never go away.

Now we know. And must go on
even more
This is just as important

we hope

everytime more
can be enough
for now
-waiting-

We live
all the while we say we feel
Alive

sometimes, like memory
of morning sun in autumn light
cast down on dry dirt
heating up
the surface
even more than before
the first
time

And Time
again

open to the sense of it.



Painting by Alexei Harlamov (1840-1925), Portrait of a young girl, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.