Anchors cut by angels

“O my soul, do not aspire to immortal life, but exhaust the limits of the possible.” -Pindar Pythian lii

I believe in little angels
                            although,
not those in Dante's Divine version
                            yet we all understand his grand design
poetry left letters lynched, hanging in his story.

I believe in angels
                           that are not molded from mortality
but leave tangible gifts
                           treasures we didn't know we wanted
like uncoveted luck.

I believe in bantam angels
                           that drop hints
and lift eyelids
                           shift the butterfly in flight
while waltzing with the wind.

I believe in angels
                           not as conspirators, or muses
I am not one of those poets, that would be insane
                           those who claim to hear voices
I believe in angels
                           that leave language to loons
whose call I understand, just as planned
                           like destiny's low decibel note
I believe in angels
                           that make time
to rescue, rally, recover, ruin, redeem, reiterate
                          remind us of what we must have known
already.

I believe the angels are our audience
                          listening to our poetry
reciting their favorite parts
                          while waiting for tides to turn.

Faith: “…a silent waiting on the truth, pure sitting and breathing in the presence of the question mark.”-Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury 

Image of painting by William Closson (1883-1978) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Plotting the Plantation

Held and read like palms,

written in red like psalms,

personalized in position

of coded clusters

Veins of maria

detail in maps, contrails of sap

stuck nectaring in the sun

whose broken plates and scalded edges

curl and unfurl-still

stoic in strength

preserves like

potpourri pieces

Sweet sips of dew

drunken and imbibed by steaming few

white or black; young and new

a bouquet made of today

under another ray that bows

and prays

kneeling and knowing

its character (in) profile

A silhouette caught in line

at the heavy end, pushed out

protruded

where the maker meets me

plucked and parched

licking lips

in salvation

...just a camellia waiting to be

a spot of tea.

Image By Melanurya (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Location Tea Plantation in Southern India.

Versmilitude

I have 3,463 reasons
to hate me
as seen through the spectacled
looking glass
learning pupils of others eyes
believing in
All truth be told

From inside the fishbowl
a ripple effect goes nowhere
waves of distortion
roll by in wakes
blown out of proportion

To see is to know
What you Do shows
I suppose
better than what you Are...
barely there
thin as a rail
hardly frail
by contrast
and that pale glow
(if you would like to know)
ghostly ashen skin
is not so thin.

Deemed some dame or debutante
with nothing to flaunt
talent, imbalance,
withstanding-
Despite the empathetic understanding
I squeezed into the mold
(as I was told)
now my metallic blood runs steely cold.

I tremble
at your thoughts of me
and the terrible what nots you see
that I cannot spot
any resemblances.

A two-way mirror
absorbs one reflection
shattering a reality
piercing in severe observation
a practice in futility
noticing the nothings
lacking depth perception
merely a dimension of what
you thought you saw
was me
was you too.



Image Guillaume Bodinier [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. (Confession c. 1826).

From Wails to the Shuddering Sea

When I wonder

do we first think

we Are

welcome to the world?

From the abyss

of a watery womb

we hear

outside

of Us

we know

when words fail

we wail

upon arrival

into blinding light

from maternal night

Immobile and trapped

in our scaly shells

worn by the tides

we call Time

we wither

from glass to grain

too small to complain

anymore

utter

nonsense

We forget

Shards and slices

pieces of Us

that cut to the race

humanity

drops of sea

expire We

at the finish line

of memory

shuddering 

blindly

in our final victory

drowned 

in revelry.

Image By Koga Harue, Koga Harue, 1929 (died in 1933) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

How a breeze can bring you to your knees

On olfactory memory
that can catch you unawares
at the speed of smell
which is faster than that of sight
I thought
while caught
today

How the waft
of a good mood
is heavenly perfume
(or juicy fruit gum
fading with every gnawing moment
sucking it in to sap the zest out
savor the sweetness
by drinking it in)

The scent radiates below
detection, rising up to your nostrils
in a pitch to high to hear
a good mood like the tireless Sun
penetrates past pores
gets under your skin
fingertipping, taps your soul
on its sleeping shoulder

I am happy
being optimistic
letting the pessimists
handle the problems,
carry the lead
drug like dead weight
some call “fate”

I am always positive
things will work out
for someone's best
as a selfless test
whose answer is always True

I am even
elated
elevated to cloud seven
by not relying on heaven
for a hand
it doesn't have
to help me up
or out or
the 7 billion and growing
people
being negative
obsessed with doom
(chewing on juicy fruit now bland
gnawing and stewing on doubt,
instead of just spitting it out)

I often smell something burning
that's toxic
commonly applied as a caustic
solution

Then
There are days
just like these
when a single gentle breeze
suggests a smile
drips drops of adrenaline
across my bumpy skin
letting butterflies go
in dark places
where beauty should be
places nobody else can see
released and increased
the passing smell of happy
arranged amidst
a mixed bouquet of crappy.

My soul remembers
smells like these well
made of unmemorable stuff
that never lasts long enough
like fading flavor
tasteless and gone
with the wind.



Image By John William Waterhouse, 'At the Shrine', 1895 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Fall (Haiku)

Inevitable

the onus of gravity

facing Truth and Time




Image By Kusakabe Kimbei [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cue the line (Haiku)

Hung in suspension

a marionette of me

doing the limbo




Image By Daderot (Own work) [Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.