Make your point

Cradled in the smooth groove
stretchy slope, perched between
your pointer
and omniscient thumb
the hexagonal pole poised in position
and lightly pinch
its slender girth
slide midway down its length
or further,
depending on your comfort level
or prowess,
practice with pointed objects

It's metal headband
watches from behind, coaching
looking for mistakes.
Taking aim with the tip
the bulls eye opening is your mark
the electric desktop bladed machine,
a miniature tree shredder of sorts.

It will resist and rock, grind
and gnash,
vibrating and stimulating
to the touch
Five seconds will do,
enough to make your point
sharp and new
although you've lost some length likely
you've left some carbon footprints where
it whittled itself away
right before erasure led to its faded decay
ashes to coal, black dust in the wind
archaically, today the pencil is passe.

I still use one today
and I could continue on rhyming this way,
until my coal dark pencil turns light grey.
Then again-
I think I'll grab a pen.



Image By Juliancolton (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Clouded

“It is better to have your head in the clouds, and know where you are... than to breathe the clearer atmosphere below them, and think that you are in paradise.” 

–Henry David Thoreau

Wise eyes

Blink the drapes

promise me just a peek

into the whole you

Some light filters through

nocturnal pupils wink

in growing view

The horizon waits

posing at a distance

closer than infinity

Muted dimensions bleed over

open endlessly, unraveling 

before me, after you

Swallowing the hole

lingering note, an after taste

foreshadowing hues cast

between you and I

a line is strung

will you

touch it

with your

wise eyes?

Composed 6/20/15.

Image of painting by Paul Émile Chabas [Public domain], Nymph, (1869-1937) via Wikimedia Commons.

I should just calm down

Like you,
(I suppose)
I cringe at my poems
often
they seem sour
or too tart.
They have been called
fierce
But I'm too tame to tell
what that may mean...
I don't mean to complain and lament
vent-
No, yes, I do.
Poetry is my only place to put
pesky perplexing intellectual problems
(that make me insane)
and confusing confudling conundrums
(that cause me brain pain)
about what-nots and that's and i's
about love, and existence and
perishing...I wince too.
I'm not like my poems,
they are my comfy clothes
(without make-up)
And somehow this non-me
hiding in my poetry
is beginning to resemble
someone new
I'm not needing an answer right now
but I think you sense it too...
I smell a rat-but I have a cat,
I can be fierce like that.

Walking the waterline

A single trail
                    of footsteps in the sand
or snow
                                                         mark where you have been
                                                                                                       not where you are needing to go
the right way
                         left you all alone
                                                  to make your own impression
                                                                                                       stamping your day
while it lasts
                         before erosion, corrosion
                                                                  degeneration, erasure, noting you were never there

walking backward, the footsteps don't fit
   
                                                               the gait was moved, the way worn smooth
we rely on these directions
                                            safety in nonzero numbers

                                                                                       go figure, follow the instructions,
tearing along the dotted line,
                                             racing by
                                                             fixed on the finish
 
                                                                                          waiting in line
standing in someone else's shoes
                                                             you lose
                                                                               your stride, taken by the tide.



Image By Probably P.S. Krøyer, 1893 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sol Ascent

Learning is a peak, 

an ascending effort to change the view

expansive and panoramic, uncontained

by what is beyond being seen

from where you stand.

Discovery starts as a reaching sapling 

rewarded for breaking through the mire

by having its roots wrenched with envy,

a weed nestled in the woods

for resting, not reminding. 

Education is an island destination,

whose currents carved defenses

guarded by volcanic concepts,

corralling massive schools

in warm biodiverse cesspools.

Knowing is weather, temporal conditions

the subject of changing you, today

being prepared for the unpredictable;

knowledge wields power like a lever,

breaking in or out, the damage is done.

All the while we keep seeking

views we would rather lose,

the forest for its functionality,

learning the leaves, one believes

knowledge is a plucked flower.

All in reliance upon the Sun

whose punctured question 

marks the sky, answering all 

wisdom reaps its reward 

in the warm gift of a lonely smile. 

Image By Hillebrand Steve, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

 

Where are we going today?

Summer blues come in many hues,
               but a simple walk around the block,
can do more than just change your attitude,
                it tends to bloom happy rays of gratitude.

So, today I'll help make you beautiful,
            we will start outside
and work our way in.

This perfect summer's day,
             in that lackadaisical sauntering way,
we'll explore something new,
             at least it will be to you.

A simple stroll,
             exercise for the soul,
meandering our mind,
             as we wind through worded streams,
along wild city paths,
             overgrown with order.
You kindly asked what else was new-
            I promised to show you-

It had always been there-
            whether we were walking and talking-
or not even watching, while it waited-
            patiently for us to notice anyway
it still grew out of nowhere,
always on display, for days like today.

On a well worn path,
            footsteps all blended in one heel,
vaguely stamping all,
           or nothing in front of us,
around the bend,
            not knowing what lies,
right in front of us
            a pleasant surprise.

Together, however,
            we find the extra parts of ordinary,
in the sharply scented forgotten moments,
my yummy morsels of motherhood,
             lingering in the sweet heat of furrowed brows,
the summer sun easing our way,
              as it is so happily today.
By walking this way,
looking at the mundane in another way,
I knew you'd say, “Look at how beautiful it is outside! 
What a pretty day!”
And on the inside
looking in, I knew
All the beauty was coming from You.



Image of painting by Émile Friant, 1906, Maternal Tenderness [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.