Three Haiku between Us

Between Us-Nothing

but Space and Time, grow and shrink

reaching the same light

Now, it is too late

to take it back or let go

so completely gone

Two souls are mated

Being seeks itself alone

there was always More.

Painting by Martin Johnson Heade (1819-1904), 'Flowers of Hope' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Artist leaving residence

The artist leaves the building.
This time he is
wrapping up
his canvases, colors, and
hairy implements.

He loads and stacks,
lines and lays his tiles, some gently
until tightly packed
for transport.

Some of them,
he jams in just seeming
to fill in
any open spaces he sees.

His neighbor, the lady
living below him,
paints furiously-impressionism,
she is no artist.

She tries to finish
her own piece
before he is gone-
before all falls muted,

from above.
Heaven forbid,
the muse is moving on
to another scene, landscape

perch, set of white walls,
half empty canvases,
or another artistic
aesthetic altogether.

Painting by Thomas Prichard Rossiter, 'A Studio Reception, Paris' c. 1841,[CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

This 1 day, death is not near

It is called a veil
or shroud
for the way it
reveals itself
to be a cover
where the light
gets in
there was space for this
exchange
of dark(ness) and light(ness)
or public and private.

Lifted into a demanding
presence
we find ourselves
lingering
in graveyards
as though this was defiant
or exertion of our will
remaining
from youth.

It is between discrete moments
when the warmth moves through
the atmosphere
sometimes sinking in
while touching us deeply.

Our memories turn to life.


Painting by Miner Kilbourne Kellogg [Public domain].

In-dividuality

These few
need to be near me.
Draw themselves into the fold in-
creasing the density of space it-
self-personal bubble, but
flat out refuse to be
touched
There. Too in-
timate to be considered
delicately. Anywhere
these bubbles abut,
list and lean in-
to one another, there is
a bursting of the seams.



Painting by Peder Severin Krøyer, c. 1881 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Collection bin

Dust
has been built up
atop the grout, between every square tile,
darkening into mounds along the top of the base
boards, hair, tissue, lint, a leaf and pink peony petals
sneezes, boxes stacked like artillery, mortar, bricks and
explosives set just so-goodwill gathered in standard black trash
bags, a segregation of sorts, some have labels, tape, names, places
congratulations ribbons, important and fragile balance atop
the denser matters,
the walls leaning in on the things consume
all space never room for more than what has been collected in
between the seams, along the borders, under the foundation and
                                                                          hanging on the edge.


Photograph by Carol M. Highsmith [Public domain], 'abandoned gas station in Selma, Alabama 2006 via Wikimedia Commons.

Women liberated

Every woman becomes Medusa,

and learns how to become grotesque 

and malign with the glaring intention
to harm every fellow femme or fowl.

All the manly men demanding 

subservience, much more gratitude 

and adoration for being a Hero to 

Humanity.

Mind the Gap, they kindly warn us

of the space wedged between

World and Human-as if we could easily 

misstep
or fall in.

When an atom was split, 

when the uneaten apples fell,

we made matters worse

by being casual observers.

When women went to work,

when women drove-

when they chose-

the family would decay.

The women wanted,
the men desired,
the pairs all 
spun
out. 

"Translation is the art of failure"

Umberto Eco famously noted.

"Metaphor is ritual sacrifice, it kills the look-a-like" 

suggested  Rae Armantrout.

Between two 
worlds

the Space 
keeps us Safe. 




Painting by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 'Women of Amphissa' c. 1887 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.

Dark Matters

While spinning there inherent and centripetal,

quintessentially beautiful by its own conception,

Nothing was said. These are not empty theories.

The vapor, this quintessence, the aether, ether way,

dark matter mingled with dark energy

is not easy to pin down.

It is obvious we do not know what we are talking about

when we say All things considered

when we notice meteors demagnetized

space is growing, betweens are stretching out,

and strings were taut, meaning and knowing

never further apart, intent and entropy

inversely spinning its wheels. It feels like cold fusion,

almost serendipitous to say this is the way

We Science. And opine and profess

Super-precedence and Divine

Conception.

There is no immaculate prophecy here,

this time through.

Image By NASA/JPL-Caltech [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Glowing Architect

It is 4:02 a.m. and I am already boiling like an unattended pot,

raging my physical states away.

I smell putrid creeping out of every tiny cranny I see

and do nothing but type as look confident, experienced at this

control, as though connected to something, plugged in.

Meanwhile, I am spinning out, fraying and backspacing,

all that was ever tight in the world

unravels at my bare feet.

Materials and shelter, busy bodies building,

there is one right tool for the job,

so why 

have I 

not pulled out my own rusty heart and lubed  

palms or squeaky wheels?

It doesn't fit. May be the wrong size...

I realized this is not what was expected

from how it started, or turn out like

what I tried to right.

You are glowing, they said.

Fire. 

I like the warmth 

on my back as bridges blaze

keeping me orange and distant.

Tension is essential in trades.

Where you see space and room to grow

I have seen structures diminish these.

Cosmicomics mesostics

                                     

                                        he with the papers blaCk and white

            way space was when the galaxies were fOrmed and

                                                                           Space was then through the point Space

         undeniable in the glow whereas events coMe

                                                                    flowIng down without

                                                                          Cement

                                                               being pOured 

                                                                    coluMn next to the other

                                                                     withIn

                                   the other seperated by blaCk

                                                    and incogruouS headlines

                                                                          ☼

                                                                unconscIous is

                                                                            The

                                                                       oceAn

                                                      of the unsayabLe

                                                                            Of what

        land of language removed as a result of anCient prohibitions

                                                                   he wAs carried away by that mania

                                                      of the storytelLer

                                                               who neVer

                                                            knows whIch stories are more beautiful the

                                                                         oNes thay really 

                                           happened and the evOcation of which recalls a whole flow of past

                                                                              ☼

                    the pages of the space was wen galaxIes were being formed 

                                                             space was Then with 

                                 corpuscles by emptiness contAining no

             destination or meaning and how beautifuL

                                                                 then thrOugh that to

                     draw lines parabolas pick out the preCise point the intersection

                                                                            spAce and

                                      time where the event wouLd spring

    undeniable the prominenence of whereas now eVents

                                                                    come wIthout

                                                                 like cemeNt being

                                                                              pOured column next to other one within other

                                                                            ☼

                                                                            seCond 

                                                          industrial revOlution

                                                          unlike the firSt does not present us

                                              with such crushing iMages as

                                                                          rollIng mills and molten steel but with bits

              in a flow of information traveling along Circuits

                                                            in the form Of

                                                             electronic iMpulses the

                                                                                Iron

                                                                          maChines

                                                                                Still exist but they obey the order of bits.

                                                                               ♦

The stanzas above were created using the Mesostic Poem Generator and quotes by Italo Calvino who adamatly denied being a any sort of a poet. For formatting alignment this poem is best read on full screen.

Image by Frank R. Paul, A jagged beam of flame (1932) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Day dreams

The world is flat-after all.

From here on the ledge
of this precipice, crisp
ridges jut through hazy space.

Placed in perch, the pendulum,
humming in wide ether ebbs
across calm chasms float
ascending the abysmal
highs and neaps-
the watcher sleeps, while
I's skip across the surface-

It is good to know,
up-on deeper reflection,
if light were soft,
nightfall would not hurt-
so much as with onus-
we carry dreams, inklings
heavy enough for sinking stars.

In arches,
the moon bounces back,
putting herself away in phases
setting limits on the possibilities
of how far eyes can go in one day.




Photo By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Blank as a sheet

The white space
was where to put the truth
It makes some
uncomfortable.
Black seems more
accommodating
since dark energy and dark matter
abounds.

Night conceals and reveals all
color theory,
holes condense, space expands
whence we
subcontracted time
to finish
painting the picture
in tones.



Image credit By English: Clarence Hudson White (1873/1925) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.