Thorn Tree

I see the lack of resemblance
like you
I am nothing like my parents
despite always wearing my favorite genes
that fit like a glove
I still love
them
like kin.

Inherited place cards
occupy our dwelling
in life
and death,
where assigned
I never did mind...
until the differences
became clearer
than the need to be near
the trunk of the family tree.

Oil and vinegar
I live separate and away
in my own impermeable cell.
Peaceful and joyous, limitless,
I stored no blame
that my aim was just further
than their eyes could go
Alone, I continue to grow.

Mom made her bed
I said in my head
noticing her envious stare
his following her with a glare.
Stepdad's always mad,
but I'm glad for what I had-
pushing me far away,
finding my freedom today,
to say
it couldn't be any other way.

It is said I will turn into you
by the age of forty-two,
but my posture is still perpendicular,
my vernacular is particular
to my own family, future forward
I step into the newest version
of heredity conversion
with relational aversion.

The carving of a new generation
an artistically starved creation
the recipe for degeneration
juxtaposed by gestation
inherently bound by cessation
the state of our familial relation,
recessive by genetic translation.


 Image credit: By Luca Galuzzi (Lucag) [CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons, Thorn Tree, Namib Desert, Namibia.

Dinosaur Footprints

I have been gone
I was here
there
and
then
returning around
full circle through the loophole
suspending my rate of travel
to notice
now
anti-matter
wrapping my grey matter
around black matter
warped by white
the speed of light
taut with tension
pulled along a string
holding onto an inkling
a rope, a noose
to the letter T
a man hangs
swinging on his vine
ape-time-pendulum

I glance back
after collecting the
pitch morning dew
stuck on my soul and shoes
I stare intently
fixated
casually noting
the wide open gait
a first impression
that lasts
until
the mark
I made
is swallowed by exposure
atom slurping condensation
rising under pressure
of erasure
immersion
absorption

Then I was never there
I see where my wide left stride
travels through time
traceless
all over the space.

Back to reality,
the boomerang wanders
where I vacillate
and see
saw
between
cat gifs
and hieroglyphics,
making long To do lists.


Image By Augustus Binu/ www.dreamsparrow.net/ facebook (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Swelter in the Sun

The air hung nailed to the sky

like matted and framed art

imposing its image

on your view

Everywhere 

tiles of a mosaic landscape

are blurred by blocky pixels

The sun was closer

over there

and tasted like

drying butterflies

fluttering afloat

on wafts of wind

shifting its salty scent

under the stench of seaweed

seagulls plead

for more

humid places to hide

in plain sight

behind blankets of fog

rolled into the corner

banked against the wall

Prickling sweat seeps
out of pores 

through toes, by feet, notches

sand measuring your senses

by the multifaceted grains

Counting into delirium

the ebb and flow 

of aqua vita replenishes

reflecting brightly

blinded by pale optimism

of new beginnings binding me

I glare

back

parched

and drenched

moving on.

Image credit: By CopyrightFreePhotos CopyrightFreePhotos.HQ101.com (Own work by uploader [1]) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The New Zoo Crew

O the animals we saw
cracker shapes of travel
in a road trip box with wheels
ropes and bungees
tied down
on tall truck attachments
for handles
and hitches
on the highway
of the One
this time.

First,
the flocks
sheepishly stand
A herd of llamas
above
hovering hawks
kettles calling the cattle
black
lazing, grazing horses
switch tail
feathers fall
where the velvet
goldenrod
sheet of summer
drapes the hillside
The bovine still seeks green
where none can be seen

Away we arrive
and got gophers galore
nocturnal noshers
not worse than a snore
while raptors and rodents
feast and scream in the night
curfewless

We came and saw
and otter stay
but scheduled to play
somewhere else
today
we headed away
not on American safari
but saw a dazzle
of grazing zebra
galloping goats
and even I, excited
sea lions
everywhere we stare
flashless and mesmerized
by the negatives
microfiche of memory

Where wandering whales pass
dawdling deer
droop long necks
drinking mountain dew
squeaking squirrels scrape
little nails and big nuts
stashed for later
towed by trailer
in a wild week
at the new vacation station
with a view of the wild public
places, faces
on exhibit
also called a zoo-
have you been too?

Image credit: By Daderot (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons. San Simeon, California taken (@ Hearst Castle).

A Pinnacle of Stony Tries

A Pinnacle of Stony Tries

The mountain started it.

Imposing its challenge

upon sky and sea.

I must accept it.

I am compelled to conquer.

I've become drawn to touching,

sharing senses,

exchanging skin.

Stoicism is a rock.

Yeah, right.

Both are metonyms,

found in caverns up high,

like oxymoronic holes in the sky.

Spelunking down the spyglass,

on stalagmite stairs;

pointing the way

in collected columns,

that climb

like us.

Rocks feel pressure,

cave in and crumble;

like grains of time,

an avalanche of life,

too much for itself

to hold it together.

Ascending I dare to grapple,

with textures and temperatures,

gradients by degrees

of warmth rest

in the velvet granite

flesh, accepting,

caressing sand paper cheeks

I trust the friction.

Finding my weight

propped against the mass,

I hold the balance.

The weight erodes, sloughed

in pebbles of problems;

raining by rocks in applause,

anticipating their early release,

from master sculptor,

whose has been a model prisoner,

Medusa obeying and repelling.

A climb is not a race.

A scale includes the middle march;

all possible paths, knobs,

and steps fossilize.

Planning each step,

I am pulled up by my own

labored breath,

my stomach in knots secure my spot.

I am too heavy on myself.

Yet,

the higher I get,

the further away,

I like to stay

because now I can see

all that I've known,

becoming strange, deranged.

I strain to focus on all that is,

and it clearly became,

miniature and small.

It is meaningless,

without this fight

to keep holding on,

even if I never make it

to the top

and Fall,

forgetting

all about

looking back

down

at the waiting world,

I found my wings

while giving up.

Image By George Edward Mannering [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Photo of Emmeline Freda du Faur (1862-1974) first female mountaineer in New Zealand. 

Love at first sight

In that first sight
an outline is sketched
a pathway between
two possibilities
the pull of two bodies
magnets must make
contact
pulled into another's space
when time stops
the metronome skips
a jump
roped around and
bound by rapture
infatuation
with another's mortal shell
of man
salivating for what he has
not tasted
stewing on it, doing nothing
an opportunity wasted.

Like Narcissus
who ogled away
all sense
of deep reflection
the possibility of rejection
guaranteed a need
to never know
a scant scent
mortally wounded
by self-destruction
impaled by imagination
sinking in stagnation
of want and wait.

Who throws back
the gift of their gaze
full of meaning
speechless and loudness
settled in alternating currents
in concentrated beams
directed
knowing nothing
about each other
together
exploring the exotic
fields of face and trace
lips and lines
seeking signs.

Maps are naked ideas
taking a stab at form
coming together
sailing
enjoying the view
while gazing
transfixed
into
those deep sea eyes
exploring
the depths
of you.


Image of painting by John Singer Sargent [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Lady Agnew of Lochnaw, 1892.

Cat's got my tongue

While sitting outside

on the back porch

on a summer afternoon

in my mix-matched

cushioned lawn chair

enjoying a good new book

unsure if the sun will stay

Out.

I relax,

with my feet in the bluegrass.

Though, it's not a book

that you can fly through,

each page is a mental push-up.

You know the kind, I'm sure-

a bicortextual brain strain

with flow charts that clog.

When way up in the sky,

a small Lear jet flies by,

and I sit in its path,

it growls and is too

high

to even notice little me.

My cat joins me,

with her

un-in-purr-upting company

kneading affection.

A little tawny finch lands

on the rock fountain.

He performs his

flappers dance gaily, his aria flawless,

unabashed,

cleanly and

splashfully exits stage left.

We both watch,

she cackles

and I wonder

why the little bird doesn't care

we're both right there,

staring rudely, ogling even

at its feathered tweet show.

And those angry raven parents up in the pine

are screeching at their latest son,

again.

Impatiently, they squawk, he walks up the drive-

they are fed up with him, I know

even though I don't speak crow.

And even now, at full-grown, a juvenile-

He's more than slow,

we think he was dropped on his

egg-head,

that's what I heard they said.

A helicopter hovers around above wide

oval circles, chopping up the sky

like a Chinese chef, banging cleavers.

It is looking

for something or someone specific,

that is why

it's also called an ‘eye in the sky’.

Hovering just above the electric lines

it bangs, beats, and blows too low, unpleasantly.

Calmly, my cat licks her butt,

unafraid, she knows,

this flying heap of a beast

is just a loud hunk of metal made

by mere man, outside toys.

The leaf blower next door

dies down,

settling the matter

of fences and foliage,

spreading the abundance, she perks her ear

at the trembling leaves trying to run and hide.

From Inside

the deafening sudden thick silence

a grumble,

a rumble grows…

My cat jumps up

on her pads.

Looking up-she crouches low.

In a flash I realize-

it is thunder

and I wonder,

how she could know

to be scared,

although

the crow

still stands stark still, crookedly.

After a brief flash , I decided, I will go

hide

inside.

Now my cat is buried deep

under the bed

where she fled

just as soon as the monsoon

drum rolled into town.

Now wide-eyed and with electrified hair

I think the whiskers may be overkill.

How she chooses her fear

not by what she hears

but by what it comes from…

She is not so dumb

even without a…

She has no fear for what is Man-Made-

cat's got my tongue,

in cheek,

I peak outside and reopen the book,

Index finger smugly tucked inside.

The next chapter

is on

‘Natural Selection’.

Composed 7/5/15.


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