Grief is the thing without feathers

Keep going

an hour longer than you think you can...

Strength 

is not how heavy the load

or capacity 

to measure up

against the weary

whose Joy

dwells in Nothing-

of want

Everything back,

as though undo was a direction

from undone.

When Lost;

the Way, the Hope, the Time,

the trust

the will, the want, the why-

The sun rises its warm cheek 

lighting the low flame

of a fresh poppy 

bursting through the winter mud.

Anyway the next step,

the next moment

finds me

empty and lighter and

unable to grasp ahold

of any-thing-any-body-any-way

right or left

or stay 

strong long enough

to make sense

of Beauty. 

Painting by Auguste Allongé (1833-1898), 'A Walk in the Forest' c. 1873 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Homo-stasis

Let me be beautiful-
but not so much so that it makes me
ugly to others.

Let me know more
than everyone else,
but not so much
that I am to blame
(for everything).

Let me be plugged in
but not all the time,
because it weakens the
battery.

Let me love water
but not so much
I drown myself
for want of it.

Let me take in all
the air,
more than enough
to hold inside.

Let me read every word
that means something
to someone,
let me hear
all the wisdom
that may be
profound.

Let me love.
Let me live.
Let me love life
but not so much
I fear death
for the love of
wanting it.


Painting by Matthias Stom [CC0], 'Old Woman Praying' c. 1630's-40's in Public Domain.

Thick Skein

Have it together?---Hah! What poet does?

Fight this way, blistered paws

                                        limping along by prosthetic ego
battered by submissions...

I could go all day,

with myself

                     uncooperative, self-ish sot

              & yet I say I simply need more

time (alone) to not distract myself; (space) place to dwell, to go to

deeper than time (allows)-and vow to get itthe first Time
...All...withdrawn
Well...further from form-to gather to-gether

                                                              the 

                      scattered                   thoughts

I strew all about, coins and alms, the book of changes,

I knew no doubt

                         and yet could never finish (the plate, the bread,
butter, indulgence, opulence and chance)

                                                        what I never began officially,
a la carte (blanche)

Poetically, I prose with white 
which shows where will weakens voice

I'd have to pick up the line 

                                       later where I left it 

                                 loose and 

                                                      too long,

unraveling

at the slightest pull.

How it is all made 

Full 
                           of nothing (itself) is something to undo
(& make it knew) reuse and refuse to cycle

So it is sown into the soul
                                     bereft I be
seeking sustenance in vowels,
lighter than care and ever aware 
This is All...  

Painting By Samuel Lovett Waldo, The Independent Beggar (1783-1861) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Close your eyes and blow

Close your eyes and blow

Your wish is my command
The voice would
Beam.
Thy Will Be Done-
would be added
for reassurance and
-brace yourself-here is where
CHANCE (in mighty fine print)
stands
smalland(wedged)
b/w Now and When
what you want(ed)
blows up
to the surface, swerving
amongst chandelier blades
whipping cream
making a breeze
Come and Go around again,
Like karmatic vengance which has
been like you, doing like that
never this now
never this same alike (and again)
selfsame
as wishing thy will
Be come
some one
over there
who Will want
every thing you have
right Now-
for wishes, all ways
(taken for)

granted.

Image by Marjory Collins of Dionne quintuplets, 1940 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

You take the Wagon, I'll Walk

Call it a compulsion, some do.
A dependence, that's a little strong
for a need that's called a want.
Can't help it, I'm not in control,
something takes over me,
its always right there-I could...
and all these have me consumed.
Obsessed, I don't see it that way,
but others do, see signs, like theirs-
the jaw gives it away.

The blame game is fun too,
it must be that the jeans are too tight.
Sometimes breathing is the hardest thing to do.
If you try to quit, I know desperation, infatuation,
give you a raise you can't refuse.

Stimuli, it is called physiological.
Personality, is embedded, biological, maybe...
and might there be other habituals and rituals
toxic but not intoxicating-tolerance is discouraged.

I don't deny my own flesh and blood
has been sacrificed for my own cause.
It's my body, self-satisfaction and
distractions from your dutiful employment
as a clean-coming human whose sobriety
is always a right when given a choice of
life with poetry, its pain and withdrawal
or an existence without the possibility of significance.

Since its all in my head,
any-which-way,
and there's no shortage of excuses-
I will wrestle with these wily words,
wanting more, needing a fix, hating myself,
hiding and using, manipulating and placating
going broke, being ostracized and advised
until there is no more poetry left anywhere-
or I'll likely overdose on what I've said.





Image of painting by Arthur Nikutowski, The broken wagon, 1852 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Currency of Time Well Spent

Wavering in want

is wallowing in wait

for something to happen

while the world goes on.

Toiling the time

is the devils presence

when you are wishing

you were

some

one

else

some

where

else

who

saw

You

As

who

you

are

Now

and said,

I've been looking for

You

I've finally found

You

-they'd say.

And I'd see,

no time was wasted,

no time like the present,

when the devil may care. 

Image of painting by Joseph-Désiré Court, 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.