Sky stalker

He was close
      atop the next door
               roofline,
two doors and eight windows away,

I can feel him
not caring
but staring
              at me
              clearly
cocking his head
and aiming his
       attention my way.

I return his gaze
             between two crows feet
I squint
             and am unable to define
where wing
                    and feather divide

like the wind

no where
Now
how he can soar
               based on feeling
a passing breeze
across his breast
plate

I maintain my ground
feeling anchored
under air

the predator holds its breath
while the raptor releases
a piercing scream
before
he takes flight
giving one more glance

downward
I stay affixed
under this eave

awaiting a closure
of wing, sky
and the hungry eye.
         


    
Painting by Edwin Henry Landseer, 'The falcon' c. 2837 in Public domain.

You again

Why would you be
looking here
when you should be
looking
somewhere else

There you go again
anywhere
but furthermore
and curiosity does not
have nine chances
to land on a point
where you find
yourself
here
again

Still
stop wasting another line
It will always be here
nevermore
than at its worst
a waste of-
a treasure of-
private epiphany
helium to some.

Anyway, today is the day
you stop.
And now
it is an insult
to see you watching these words
fly away-
don't check-
yet-
they lie
unrecognizable by eyes
other than yours

How you can see
not all the words are empty-
but half full-
of themselves,
it is beyond further explanation.
You know what I would say.




Image By Internet Archive Book Images, described as Life of James McNeill [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Panthera poema

Crouching in the shadows

its form blends into the pitch.

Pads perching on pillows,

lightly as an idea as not

to break a thought...

Whose scent fills in the breathing air,

sourcelessly seeping like smoke

with out fire. The spilt perfume vial,

wafting with ripe open stamen

acid breeze that chills your nape.

Of carnal mists and earth dusts,

pores choking on essence

smoking roar that singes

leaves, flashing green torches

smoldering for three days-be four-

Envy eyes curious to find

fresh tracks laid and lining

the way to walk without a 

sound, reason. Knowing 

you know it's there.

Indivisible pre-occupation with you,

incensed and bemused by notions

elusive to all traps set, over-gliding

to terminal reality

true never twice.

I prey the stalking, we share,

means we smell the same.

Image by Singer Ron U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

“...understand the nature of that illustrious vernacular that Dante claims to be tracking down like a perfumed panther, 'whose scent is everywhere but which is nowhere to be seen.' (DVE I, xvi, 1).”**-Umberto Eco (From the Tree to the Labyrinth, p 297, Harvard University Press, 2014).

** “It was thought in the Middle ages that the panther had a richly perfumed breath and left a trace of its passage wherever it had been. But, for the hunters who attempted to trap it, it was practically impossible to locate. So they would smell its perfume but never success in catching it. This explains how the panther became a metaphor for poetry itself.”-Umberto Eco

Reading while waiting the world turns the page

The boy, who is 17, is dragging

a rolling backpack and wearing a red beanie

which covers his sensitive ears that purposefully cusp

thick rectangle glasses held by a strap around the back.

It is Friday, before the Winter break at the local highschool.

I was told the school brought snow to the quad-

and it is sunny, 70 degrees and the ocean is silver on the skyline.

It must not be real snow.

The boy, who is not soon to be a man,

wears running pants, is pigeon toed and shuffles on the sidewalk

sideways as fast as he can drag his backpack and hunched frame along.

He is covered in puffy white foam,

his arms, his butt, his back, like he just jumped out

of the bath, but is trying to get out of himself.

Marching off beat, planting crowded feet down the sidewalk, stomping

I hear-faintly-people scream, Zachary, Zachary, come back here! Zack-get back-

She is late, she is late she's LATE! is all he says

Over and over he chants while rocking himself righteous.

The uniformed school guard is now on his walkie, beeping, Over,

while he smiles wide at him, offering him a treat, but he does not bite

into candy from strangers.

Others come running and reprimanding,

fingers drawn, arms cocked.

She's late, she's late, she's never supposed to be this late!

He flings his words at them,

soaps flies like spit.

He is cursing at her in his way.

But how could she know that there was no snow

They lied, he’ll say.

which is why he was early today

but she was probably going to be late anyway. 

Composed 12/19/15.

Image credit By U.S. Air Force photo/Ken Wright/Released [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.