“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 trust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trust. Show all posts
Thursday, May 21, 2020
My Valentine
Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.
Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear
and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-
a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out
but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-
clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.
Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
Should've asked first...
We were connected
to each others gaze
and more
deeply, once
we wished would last for-
ever.
Remember
with me
conversations, deeply
endless opportunity
being
together only-
beginnings.
I know
that was then,
but I do not know
when this
is-
more endings.
True, I only speak
most
honestly in poetry.
Saying more
than I could other-
wise.
I only ask
now, how we changed
focus-frequently
away...
Don't answer,
I won't repeat.
The blue-lit face,
red cheeks, empty windows
and presence-
elsewhere, I try to focus
on something
as intangible and
deeply infinite,
as sky only to resist
the falling atmosphere.
It is my fault.
I should've asked
you if you think
we get what we deserve
always?
Painting by Philip Hermogenes Calderon (1833-1898), 'Her eyes are with her heart' c. 1881, in Pubic Domain.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Electra en route
The skydiver sits with legs dangling
over some hazy sepia city, where white boulders
are really single-family houses.
The words in the sky-
The only open space-
mention the management of
Trust and Risk.
From the profile
I recognize the Roman nose and swollen lower jaw,
puffed up bottom lip.
The head is tucked in a leather helmet or bonnet
and thick black gloves meant for big jobs such as
holding on. The figure is slumped over, looks down.
I note how long it has been yet despite the gap
easily identified as the Pioneer Amelia Earhart;
whose good fortune in men and time
required no planning of retirement,
whose fate turned ill at forty-one,
whose security was not welded to stocks or
bonded to breed,
whose figure seems compatible
in that alien atmosphere,
who was never buried
whose sealed lips, stony gaze,
Pause one to wonder what she sees
in the shadowtrees painted below,
does this sky have depth perception,
or recognize
the Miss Appropriation, the mixed media,
the teetering between jump and fall,
I tear out
the full page newspaper advertisement
and fold it back into a paper plane.
"You haven't seen a tree until you have seen its shadow from the sky."-Amelia Earhart
Amelia Mary Earhart was born on July 24th in 1897, she disappeared in her plane Electra and was declared dead on January 5th, 1939.
1st photo of Amelia and her husband George Putnam taken 1931, By International News Photos (eBay front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
2nd photo By San Diego Air & Space Museum Archives [No restrictions or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Two gather a world
But you said they were neat and saw where they were going
Instead of seeing white as work to do,
You saw the space as everything
in a corner of infinite potential
You saw the all books pile up you cared not to read,
you knew there were poems being written you wouldn’t like,
but listened to all the summaries intently
as though these beamings held up the roof.
Needing you to say, I like this view, you did.
And on the Future we stood atop,
not under, Trust
and knew it to be seaworthy,
come a flood,
having sailed and proven so
in worse storms than before.
This is why they call ships She
sails catching wind, why the butterfly
has nothing better to do but change into more,
We can pitch caution
And roll on, we were on track ,
you said this time
let us be wreckless and lucky
like you little lady.
Painting by Arnold Böcklin, Villa by the Sea (c. 1871-1874) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
A round of a pause
Magic
elixir, quick fixer,
there
is no cure.
It
is fatal, even tragic,
there
is no real magic
in
metallurgy,
by
standard,
gold
gets warm to the touch, silver reflects
soft
and such-
Just
ignore
those
that keep score with trinkets
As
alchemists insist upon
what
is made is nevermore
than
before
enduring
and manipulating
the
use
while
passing through,
by
hand.
The
philosophers’ stone
Mostly
taken for granite.
Painting by Luis Ricardo Falero, Study of a Witch (19th century), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Holey Trinity: Lie, Cheat & Steal
Lately
I have heard
Every word (not said)
Calling your bluff
Hasn't happened (yet)
Each day, more regret
And yet-you continue
To think I don't know
Stolen moments, my
Trust taken for a ride, Dead
Ends
Await a new pure white
Little lie (by immaculate Mary's men).
Image of painting by Georges de La Tour [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. The Cheat with the Ace of Clubs, 1630-1634.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...