Listing ships

Had I been listless,

Done. Nothing To Do

for lack of wood pulp, or would

and pulp,

for want not to float upon 

facades, skirt on edges, to not

feel the marginalia and rip rap

hit the sides,

holding back

the body,

there would still be 

an attachment to enough rope

to go around.

Without implementation,

rudders, or other such

contraptions

to head our aim, ply and slog,

drifting

is all that is done right.

To go on 

observing instead of 

commanding, holding 

on to the rails

with fingertips and first

knuckles only, lightly

the self adjusts

trading winds

until all seems leveled

up, like glass or calm

glimmers that dance,

smoothly this rock

glides underneath 

carrying its own weight

violent and jealous

of the flotilla holding up-

right for a fragment of time.

There was nothing left

To Do. 

Painting by J. M. W. Turner, 'Rough sea with wreckage' (c.1840-45) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A jacket is a cover

When my mother told me
about the day I was born,
she said, besides being too big
and born late,
it was a dark a stormy day,
grey, wet, cold and nasty, and
dreadful as ever for February-

And since I was there but did not see,
I trust this is the truth
she saw
with me.
Although, due
to my mother
never reading, she wouldn't have known,
it was a great day
to start a new book.



Painting by Mary Cassatt, 'Sleepy Baby' c. 1910 in Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

A genda

Today, I will write,

Paint, read, make marks in space(s)

Empty of purpose ( ). 

Painting by Nicolas Henri Jeaurat de Bertry (1777) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

First things Last

Attracted to the outfit at first,

we eat with our eyes first,

we taste and extract flavour 

from smell first

Impressions last.

To start, somewhere, set up things outside

and around your space.

In the end, what comes out

all started inside with

No-things.

The words, the scene, an act,

the play, will write itself

when it is right.

When emulation is enrapt with

blending in

costumes and charades

fade to black back in.

Practice makes no promises.

Barefoot, one can learn to feel the heat,

through the sole.

Headstrong and radiant,

the title will fit the work.  




Painting by Rembrandt, 'Man in Oriental Costume' (1632) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pond(ering) growth

If I am doing it wrong
how does anything change?
If I don't have what it takes-
what do I have?
If I fail
how will I know?
If it was supposed to go this way-
who made the agenda?
If it was all for
bowel movements and humor,
should I have laughed more?
If letting go takes practice,
why fall in love?
If I could never be good enough,
should I be becoming
increasingly imperfect?
If I need more
I should be content with less.
If I am to be trusted-
it must be said this way.
If I am wrong
which is the write way...



Painting by Monet (1877) Pond at Montgeron, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Damsel in distress

When the guards eventually abandoned their posts
this is when, creeping out of overflow,
the words gush forth in a rip current-
coalescing in magnetic links-
weaving white sheets with
brown knots, by her dirty hands;
the escape plan finally hatches
and she knew she would now
let it all out.
Deliberated and free
to mouth the lyrics
all wrong.
She sings them
hums them along
in sweet harmony with self,
knowing all the words
had been mis-taken.






Image of painting by Evelyn De Morgan, Hope in a Prison of Despair (1887) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

As far as echoes go

I suspect I write for the same reason
a whale sings a song
(more than mating call)

I wish we had sonar or echo-location.

I guess few to none understand
me either-a bit of a riddle

I sense something more
than words can trap temporarily
always around, like sound.

I comprehend not wanting to know-
ergo-filling space with empty waste.

I wonder where others
put their excess words?

I feel we all have them,
a medium waiting to be heard
largely by you
alone
without a pod
in the abyss.

All of our words salt the sea
with trace minerals
of meaning and glimmers to glean.


Photo By Rwendland (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Balancing Banality

It's too early. Only 3:20.

Now I'm late, it's already 4:18. Up. Slippers, blanket, shivers me limber.

Coffee on, kitchen-sink light, electric fireplace on, computer, charge phone, let Smokey in, let Bandit out.

Log in, open tabs, feed cats, get coffee, stir, sip, must pee, wash hands-warm...

Go through stacks on desk, left to right, read, reply, read, save, share, send, read, post, drink coffee.

All done, next?

For daughter waking up, more lights on, TV, News on, make more coffee, write, watch, read.

Poetry, philosophy, physics.

Stop. Take daughter to school. Thoughts…

Kiss. Goodluck on your test! Rah, rah!

More thoughts.

Done? Home? Yes. Next.

Take shower-towel-smells moldy. Hot water hits head, goosebumps.

Get ideas-hurry, hurry, hurry!

Warm soapy shave in fast strokes, lather, rinse, rinse, rinse.

Hurry...what was it...down the drain-

Next. Clothes.

What do I want to look like today? Someone else, for sure.

Preening Takes Way Too Loooonnngg!

Done getting ready for nothing. Next?

Shoot, chores first. Head down. Sleeves up.

Laundry, dishes, straighten, sweep, trash out, beds...8:17. What's for dinner tonight?

Do crossword puzzle, drink green juice. Nourished. Done. Next.

Shoot, where was I? Who was I working on?

Learn, learn, learn. Write, write, write, there-right there

I am, somewhere

aware.

Nope, Stop. Drop it. Head Down.

Pick up daughter, lend her my ears, shoulder, back.

Stroke pretty little fragile ego. All better.

Done. Home? Already? Okay. Next.

More laundry, more dishes, check the mail, bills, bills, bills.

More coffee. Read. Write. Read.

Interruptions-water plants.Done. Next?

Dinner, studying, Jeopardy, read. Think that I should be writing.

Read in bed. Still think that I should be writing.

It's too late. Read.

Escape, wander free!

Oh! There's me-right before I sleep, a peak, the top of

higher consciousness

falls back into the deep...almost

Done for the day

until the next

thing I get to

do over and over

and over until it's all over.

Unless

I look Up and find

it's a brand new day, never

Done before...

but will I notice?

Image By Marc Stone [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1939.

Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe

To write!

Marking and mucking it up

not ambidextrously

although it may read thusly

manually, this is searching

I write.

I feel the ink flow

I make it come out so

dark and round

bilingually between

print and cursive

encrypted, now I write

more in pen, coded cursives

and dismissives, symbols 

instructions only I know

making living language breathe

O how I want,

from my pens' tip to your sweet lips

How so sweet do I know?

I taste the words first.

I write

sometimes it gets loose and away 

from me, high and inside

-if I can grab it

and show you-

if I can find it

I can write

until nobody reads cursive

Ye olde quill

becomes nill

turning to teletype

telepathy script better have Edit

Well, 

I will write 

still

cradling, holding, pulling, drawing out the words

needing to bleed it out

in tendrils

of untranslatable text

while thinking of what to write next...

Image By "Tichnor Quality Views," Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. Made Only by Tichnor Bros., Inc., Boston, Mass. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.