Finger prints

Fingers fly across the keys as wings would

cut through cloud space,

wishing everyone was watching

this dialectical mastery in the dicing

of an apple pip up, cubed,

without drawing a drop

of blood.

Beads swell and dangle daunting disconnection

of liquid self, wrung inside out.

Friction finds itself most magnetic

just under the tips

tapped dry.

The raised ink stains the held note.

Painting by Giovanni Battista Naldini (c. 1563-65) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Grainy Drops

The rain makes it better.

   The rain is falling.

The hour disperses into sky.

Does it?

Save your words-

The rain makes it better.

Smell space freeing itself...

You will see

          when the mist

                     settles   lifts

                  when the fog

it will be too bright to see directly

-until-

Due West             when the sunsets

            Pacific.

The tide takes it all in, licking and swallowing the shore

like an ice cream with crunch.

They taste the same. Put your tongue in the rain

drops.

Nothing is the matter,

only salt                    remains.

Painting by James Abbott McNeill Whistler, 'Sea and Rain' (1865) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Squiggly lines

Draw the wind for me

                                             That is a line

This is a wave

                                             It is a cloud

it is not raining

                                             It is floating

It doesn't resemble energy to me

Because it can fall or disappear

If I cannot see it, it is not there

                                             What do shadows show

Movement

                                   You must move-first to see 

I see stillness, yes

                                   this second, do I breathe

Alive, you must Be.

Not imagine

                                   show me the difference

where water and air masses separate 

conglomerate as clouds 

                                   demonstrating the movement

of nothing.

No thing                     that floats.

Now your turn to draw the water

                              well are not those tears 

Artwork By Вера Владимировна Хлебникова (1891—1941) ([1]) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sob Sonata

The rumbles around sound-
roars that surround--
no discernable locale---
indivisibly missing
musicality, pressing

pieces like piano keys
vibrations strung out
taut us to feel
the re-percussions
in our bones, marrowly
on tune.

Aural artistry struck dumb
by letting too many high notes
float
off the grid.
This is how it sounds
when tears chime in.

Unlocking grooved records
teetering on a clef and
caught in a cosmic web
solidified as steam,
in thin air,
the words will find you
on the treble
if you feel deeper
than the brute beating
of unsound bodies.




Painting by Thomas Eakins, Elizabeth at the Piano c. 1875 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A child asked Emily-

Where do tears come from?

Wet-I've been-Where

Tears come from-You have

dipped in the Abyss too?

Sprung from spaces-unseen-

Joy has never been-There

to melt away the bitterness

of an icy raw day

Seeping and Weeping push through-

guarded Gates-solid as Blinking

little trifles-Tears-like watercolors

Bleeding flowers drooping wet in the Garden

Image of painting by Winslow Homer (1878) 'Girl in Garden' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

It's a cryin' rain...

We had a gentle storm

(not quite the norm),

It was only visiting, meaning no harm,

not intending to cause alarm.

She softly blew in-

without making a din.

Tip toeing in, tapping outside

whispering wind unable to hide

Blessings for the desert parch,

weather comes in a March,

lining up for a show

as Natures spigot sets the flow.

Today, as we can unclearly see

just kissing full droplets, delicately.

She's in no hurry-

too warm to flurry,

in this tropical geography,

of maternal meteorology.

Silently saturating,

drip irrigating, saving,

seasonal wrath,

for a different path.

Anger saved for another place

as we accept her gentle mist in trace.

Rolling down cheeks,

pointing out leaks,

dripping from the eaves,

quieting the leaves.

Sparkles glittering on the grass

prisms of tears reflecting en masse.

Composed 12/5/14.

Image of painting by Robert Henri [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "Misty Paris" 1890.