Blue blood

The heaviest ink
a writer bleeds
are a Mothers Eulogy
and the vows
etched for Matrimony.

These marks,
deeper than tattoo
annotate and commemorate
an expression of Life and Risk
All
Love to Lose.

We may say
nothing aloud
that sounds like what
It is
to trap butterflies
with a lariat.


Artwork credited by W.T. Benda, cover of Life magazine September 1923 in [Public domain].

l's and o's

It had been many revolutions
of a circular orbit
since the scribe had a
handle on things.

In such rapidly spinning
vertiginous times, you know
how hands go up
and loose things fly off.

It was still
that way,
the empty cavernous pages,
the sunken and smudged knuckle,
the barren creased hand
that holds a space
for words to line up with others,

and it won't happen today.
Again, the scribe refused
to record a statement,

for there was nothing left in the hourglass-
in the water pitcher-
in the ink cartridge-
in the world
to turn around
clockwise.

Undeterred, scribe scribbles through the days
of notation and inventory
until all is spent and broken with
vocabulary and slang pronunciations.

For the construction of solid thoughts and building
nations, do not rely too heavily on the current degrees
of angular trajectory
or wishes without a final destination.

The lines all disappeared, finally
nobody waited around to hear
the words that came before
Here, here
the echo never said who
I am
scratching the surface with lines none would read.





Image By Creator:Guercino (Giovanni Francesco Barbieri) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

How the paper crumbles

Tiny tufts of binder paper speckle the ground like bread

crumbs leading to the bulging trash bin.

A blotched tattoo on the outside of the right pinkie,

signal lines filled in and out, a writers stamp.

That far away look is not a place others may go.

Declawed and domesticated, the body observes

and stalks the other.

Taking it all in scraps left over much too much,

nauseated, not needing much more

than nibbles found inside spiral ring cages, 

scratches to self, all

half-fulfilled by my stunted scepter.

Thinking there was more than enough time

to put the ending first, to do the editing in trim tufts,

to say this is my home, this is lace, this belongs

and this is sewn to hold more

meaning, 

to say here is a poem

and poof, it is flown away.


Image By Anonymous [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Where Art thou Writer?

I tried to paint black cows on a moonless night,

it never came out right, 12 times out of ten,

but then I added blue and I knew

I was not a painter,

so I quit for a bit.

I tried cleaning

Once

I tried mapping, lists, and other gists of things,

All of which turned out were wrong.

then I wrote, and wrote and wrote

without periods,

and tried and tried to stop the words whizzing

by, arrest and test, to find the best ones.

I was fooled, I failed again and again

picking pyrite on sight,

my carbon spilt into lead,

took nothing out but blood,

a flood of it and died on the page.

Now the cows can sleep peacefully,

if only I could see.

Artwork by Paulus Potter (c. 1647) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Writing it right while the house was quiet

The duplex dreamt and the tenant typed

The reader was making a book; and not

Unlike emulation, was editing generously.

The building in the barrio with a tiny yellow light.

Worlds were created in near silence,

and destroyed even quieter still. The writer wrestles,

with choices and stalled situations, corners 

and trap doors until stuck no more, after all was imaginary.

The darkness provided the right light.

The writer made galaxies with aether.

Contrast and focus, like noise easier to see

when the dimness has long nestled in.

And the scrivener muffles scribbles, while snores and strokes 

of keys alleviate worries, working while the rest slept.

The word wizard cast spells, swept up by sunrise. 

The writer reads what the reader rights, a better ending after all.

*This poem was inspired by the famous Wallace Stevens poem, The House was quiet and the world was calm, featured (also a recorded reading) on the Poetry Foundation website.

Painting by Rembrandt [Public domain], 'A Hermit Reading (c. 1630) via Wikimedia Commons.

deScribe

   

       

   You write mystery

I heard-     Poetry-     that is

          the same difference.

Painting by Philippe de Champaigne (1602-1674) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Medium fits all

As the novelist is tempted to try
synopsizing and to nimbly stitch
a concise buttoned-up poem,

The poet reaches for the artists brush,
hoping his blended colors
will all come out in one broad stroke
as envisioned,

So does the artist become moved
by music in strokes of the latest
color combinations,
he paints a score to settle harmony
that escapes the canvas as a song,

And all are collaborations
of hand-eye articulation
expression in action,

As the photographer
captures realism completely
out of context,

The actor is able to enunciate
eloquently since he has had the script
beforehand,

interacting with his set he mimes
his role, the actor assumes his costume
as liar and professor,
adapting for his audience

The play,
what to think.

All artists play in living color, mixing
dead words and sterile symbology
waiting to be revived,
imbibed and misinterpreted
as original(s).




Image of painting By Etienne François-Eugène Lecoindre, 1882 (Sotheby's) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

From Experience

Work ethic?
I never stop working
on ethics, and asking, is it working,
aesthetically?
I know what I'm talking about
from experience,
in the past tense and future sense
I've done that and been aware
I was not cut out
from the same mold, jagged edges
don't pass QC, since praise
and raises don't have my name
on the double-check
dough and owe.

Oh, I've tried,
O how many I've plied,
bonafide with holdings
slanging sammies for many
new deli's, pounding dough,
hot and slow and the pizza parlor,
rise and shine, bussing and breakfast,
sticky sweet and greasy spoons
to rendezvous at posh hotels,
the grand in safe, directing your calls,
taking others vacations in reservations
before valet, all meager pay.

High rises collect
low lifes.
As assistant
two left arm(s), right hand, Girl Friday,
to many, many, many,
so many wealthy men,
that dropped the i
from the deal.

Oh the plethora of ends
that never met, quit and ceased,
fired, uninspired,
attendance was
unfortunately
required.

Dream jobs,
bookstores, cafe's library,
florist, sophist
tick-ated, métiered,
tending bar, mending egos,
pouring poisons, emptying passion-
flower, ugly and dry.
From fast food to soul food,
liquid lunches and
bouncers pulling punches.

Figuring it out, adding it all up,
frisk-ally, the audit shows
the bottom line, a negative balance,
in the red.
So before I'm dead
I will find the write
position,
the only occupation
worth my ply and in-
vocation,
my gift of storied salvation.


Image by Lewis Hine [Public domain or Public domain], Working on steam-pump c. 1920 via Wikimedia Commons.