Victum de forte

Shadowed by the light that blinds me,

           Purple aura glows from head to toe,

I rue this Infinity

           For my limited role.

In the whirlwinds of change

           I face the gale, often fail,

Hidden behind circumstance,

           My body bruised, I break down-

Only to moor in the cove of Covetousness.

             Sharing in the commonwealth of golden sunsets

Still, those ropes of regret, tangled and taut

              Hold fast under threat.

Now I see, reflected in tranquility

              Of calm waters-grandaughters-

Cutting this rope, intrepidly, victoriously 

               Is my only strand of Hope.

(This poem was inspired by the poem Invictus, written by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) which was one of my grandfathers favorite poems and was included in his memorial, the original poem & audio is linked and follows below)

Invictus 
by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Image By Sidney Sime [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, The Ship of Yoharneth, (1911).

Growling Bellies (Haiku)

Hunger is not crave.
In a twist of distraction-
noise begets language.

















Image of painting by Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What's More (Haiku)

Nadir-ly nothing

lies-among the ruins

utter solitude.

Image by Charles Soulier [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, taken May, 1871: Soulier's photograph shows the charred remains of the once lavish audience hall of the Council of State in the Palais d'Orsay, a building begun by Napoleon I, completed in 1840 under King Louis-Philippe, and burned by the Communards on May 23, 1871. In the last years of the nineteenth century, these ruins were replaced by a new railway station, the Gare d'Orsay, which, in turn, was transformed in the 1980s into the Musée d'Orsay, the French national museum for art made between 1848 and 1914.

Skipping on the Surface

It is obvious where matter changes
its collective being lies
somewhere on top, outside of itself
so we can see it, making it matter

At face level, on even ground
I brace my stance at the waters edge
smooth wafer stone in flesh palm
before hurling it-out there

I pause to picture its path, knowing
the ripples go nowhere but below
I can see closely the other shore
this is how I touch it from here

Someone else is always over there
and they say the same thing, mirroring my
in between, where the details gurgle
over boulders blocking fish roads

Some words don't sink
linger at their own reflection
and babble along, afloat
without direction or depth

The stone wrapped in hand
remembers its destiny, making
3 giant leaps before being cast
to the Other side

visibly mattering
just beneath the surface
smoothly skipping over
in stoic silence.



Image By SAMIN (Own work) [Public domain] of Armand River, via Wikimedia Commons.

10 Things I Never Do (Today)

The 10 things I NEVER do (today) include:
                                              Clock-in-OR
                                              Clock-out-is that two?
                                              Wear nylons-
                                               Paint my lips-
                                               Say 'Yessir' or commute, anywhere, ever
around about noon
halfway through                    I stop listening, change the channel,
                                              fine tune the static ring
in the melody of midday melancholy
nothing important is this bright
no reason to wait until its safe
to come out, face it, say it, bleed out-Out with it!
Sleep tight,
at midnight
as the schedule shows
                                            I sleep lucidly dreaming.
                                            I dream the life of a poet.
                                            I live in the lucid poets dream.

*This poem was composed as a response to the poem by Ted Berrigan, 10 Things I Do Every Day.
Composed 11/12/15.
Image by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, The Earrings, 1891. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

                                       

I'll Be Frank with You

Strangers we are
and always have been
on other shores, lifetimes away
archived thankfully for someday
like this opening in my schedule.

I've done some looking in
to you, and wonder where you are
really from, I mean I get where you are
coming from, of the Hara, the place?
Or is it the Shiva or Scarlett's Hara?

I was taken in by many and none
the lineage leads to nowhere
but a sweet little eden, a valley lush
trees wearing afro dos, creeks trilling
through the dell-it clearly chose me
as you can tell.

I thought of a poem I wrote before
we had lunch yesterday, about a poet
who paints with words on white,
like still life, making space
more appealing. I forgot
to mention how much I enjoyed
Guadalajara, the pictures of Ashes Buried,
your instruction manual too, Mr. O'Hara.

Of course this was all before
page 163
of Secondary Colors
just past Orange
that banana split second-mutilated
dislocated from living just like that
taken away at 3-
on a beach! And what's more?!
It was not mine...
O the Horror!
These letters are just too much for me...

Pacifically.Stationed.
(this was long too early, I needed something like you there)

This poem was inspired by the poet Frank O'Hara and his poem specifically, Why I am not a painter.

Image by Sanford Robinson Gifford (1823-1880) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons,  painting described as Fire Island Beach, NY.

After You, I insist

If we conclude

that the cart can pull the horse-

would we arrive

before our name?

Say we saw the shells

showing

the chicken hatched 

his plans

first

How many baskets will we need

to not shatter

the image we

reflect into existence

consciously mirroring 

before me?

Just One

holding half

of the analogy

pulling the last straw

to see

who goes

first.

Image by José Ferraz de Almeida Júnior [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.