The weight of the world

My pockets are empty, no rocks for my swim today
I am armed still with each of these quartered limbs

The rope swing resembles a gnoose, or a snake
the mongoose was always me, miss identified

Eucalyptus tendrils squeeze out mentholated breezes
calling the monarchs, two come to court, tagging up in streamers

Perched in the sappy pines a murderous row becomes a mob,
volume and black plagues grow from the chain mail gang

Humming while hovering over a well, the nectar inebriates
bird and bee still in recovery, stalling in their stupor mid-air

The drum roll of wind, corralling the dead, noting the tenor of leaves
swirling in symphonic disharmony, sloughing and buffing scales

Laser beams between tall pillars scorching the dirt, releasing the
essence, crushing the spice revives, in particulates burnt alive

The serenity of the lakeside: The tranquility of Tantalus
eternally reaching, mute preaching, still teaching all of us.



Image credit:By Extemporalist (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Going along with Grandpa

I liked it when we walked around the block,
talked shop, nothin' doin', smelling grass in the sunshine.

You told me silly rhymes, fishing for my giggles,
which grew like weeds, like me, you said, a daisy.

That song you sang about the starving old lady, now seems sad,
she had 49 kids...Instead, it made my mouth melt for gingerbread.

And I still sing that stinkin' Navy song, that is even more racially wrong
about a girl from Yokohama then along came a Joe asking 'bout Tokyo.

(I rolled my eyes, I despised it,
but I memorized it, just a bit)

Your tassle-toed loafer swagger, in your plaid pants pleated a la putting pose.
The flagstick handle for a fuschia shirt on fire, your tongue pinned to cheek.

Dewy Sunday mornings were the best you said, when people pray
I caught you looking up too. It wasn't for the ball, after all.

Sometimes I can still hear your pocket change jangling and muffled
against your copper chain bracelet, I hear the handcuffs of ghosts.

After all this time I thought you were just entertaining me,
showing me to build fractals, but you were really gardening, planting seeds
                                                                      growing the chance of epiphany.

Prismatic Proliferation (Haiku)

                                                   Perfect

                  Refraction of  Incandesence

                Shining   ∞   Multiplicty

Image credit: Dispersive Prism, By Kelvinsong (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Times are a changin'

It's high time
climate change be seen NOT
as a problem of neglected ecology,
but of maligned chronology-NO-
that's the result,
the problem is this;
We equate ice cubes melting in water,
which creates displacement, a delusion,
with polar ice caps melting in the ocean,
which destabilizes our centripetal inertia.
The top no longer spins the same.
The bottom not quite pinned in place.
Reliable gravity keeps it all nailed down,
sucked in our atmospheric skin.
Astronauts must drink with straws.
I'm no rocket scientist, but I KNOW
plastic bags are not melting the ice caps.
That's just hot air, toxic agitprop gas.
Some Scientists and Astrophysicists,
have hypothesized;
a gravitational shift of gears
to centrifugal velocity,
changing the years.
Do you know what that means?
It's heavy.
When science finally solves the riddle,
they'll find that Time has slipped away-
while the plates pushed ahead,
volcanoes plumed and spewed,
major quakes are cued,
and the floods pour in,
then the aftermath...
Adding up the data (to date), the evidence shows
a climate change, (yet evidently no one knows)
whether the change in weather
is a climactic conundrum
for environmentalists and green thumbs,
for horticulture or a culture of horology...
What we would do if today's date is no longer true?
It's now May 48th, in the year 2032.
I thought you knew, Time was never True.

Composed 6/2/15.

Image by NASA taken 4/20/2013, Saunders Island, Greenland, Baffin Bay.

Wanna Rochambeau?

Like a street performer, like a trouper, (street: trouper)
I do my act if no one is watching,
                                       juggling my choices.
Mainly for free, or some pennies
                                       the Change not wanted.
With sleight of hand and plenty of practice, (hands: practice)
                                       it doesn't look like I try
Making Magic.
I am ambidextrous.
I am a woman.
                                      (they are one and the same)
                                      (Mother: Medusa)
Not every woman knows what's in her bag or how to use her
                                      Tricks
or treats themselves good.
                                     
It's dangerous to perform for others,
                                       without total trust in your skill.
In one hand I hold
                                       a folded blanket
to wrap around like hugs, a shield of
                                       warm love.
In the other hand
                                      I conceal a knife-
an appropriate protection,
for self-defense and public assault.
It scares people when I show the sharp blade(s)
                                      so I often keep it sheathed
its appointed place, razored edges inside.

I pulled it out of my heart one day,
                                      as only I could do,
wedged though it were,
                                      still dripping with gilt.
I am not a bull fighter.
I am a peaceful cow.
                                      (matador:grazer)
I do not run with scissors.
My blanket is a cape.
I am always begging for Change
                                        (performance : art)
From the stone that was my heart;
                                        I pivot,
                                        I spin,
                                        I begin,
again, two out of three.
                                       (the best of me)
The blanket as thin as a sheet.
The sword as sharp as scissors.
The rock that is my heart,
I ro-sham-bo,
(rock: paper: scissors)
(ching: chang: walla)
(ick: ack: ock)
leaving nothing to chance.
A woman will always win.



Image of living statue Kate Mior, performing as Angel of Good Fortune, Ontario Canada. 

12 Haiku for the Graduating You

I.

A graduation,

means two hands for beginners

starts all over again.

II.

A walk down the aisle

a cause for trepidation-

unless it's only you.

III.

Cap, gown and tassel

garb for the graduating-

leaving naked.

IV.

Lunchbox and recess

healthy lessons learned in school

useful blocks of time.

V.

The school house was not

your permanent residence

it is half way home.

VI.

Clique's are sticky groups

like fly traps, tarpits, quicksand

loiterers in life.

VII.

High school-That was it?

All that insecurity 

was not about you.

VIII.

Fear and loathing wait

outside the high school iron gate

I'll still protect you.

IX.

Twelve years gone so fast

tying shoes to getting gas

your childhood was such a blast!

X.

Over a decade 

of homework and studying

just the lesson plan?

XI.

The mirror becomes 

your friend again, instead of 

one you pretend not to know.

XII.

A proud mom, I beam

rays of opportunity

basking in your glow.

Image credit:By English Sgt. Ray Lewis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Bowl of Gigot

Excerpt from an Interview by Paris Review with Lawrence Durrell (1912-1990)

“I simply approached the three sides of space and one of time as a cook will open a recipe book and say ‘Let’s cook this gigot.’I had no idea what sort of gigot was going to come out of it…sometimes you have to take these colossal chances when you see a ray of light that beckons you particularly.”

A Bowl of Gigot
East meets West-
in this eclectic sweet and sour dish,
with an aftertaste that's beyond delish!

A meal cooked up,
stirred around slowly, boiled down,
its base flavor in the addition of the rue,

that pinch, an herb-of-grace,
mixed with a metaphysical lace,
depending on the chef's preference.

Secret sauces that stew,
Einstein's elan and Jung's Hindu.
It takes no energy to make, nor does it matter-

The way your soup comes out,
with more science than philosophy or art,
its all a matter of personal taste.

A confluence at a continuum-stop-where does it start?
Where Confucianism bumped into Foccault's pendulum.
Food for the soul.




Image of Indonesian soup bowl, By Taken by fir0002 | flagstaffotos.com.au Canon 20D + Tamron 28-75mm f/2.8 (Own work) [GFDL 1.2 (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.