A lone danger

The more I am
alone
the more time
I am alone,
alone, a-lone
a lone
one
I am
late, so late, elated, and finally full,
joyful, full of over-brimming bliss
an energy to explore, a desire to dive down
deeper and intimately drown in my senses,
swallowing all self whole.
I smile at leaving a gaping hole
where the eye
is spotted, leaving it beheaded and indebted
for the fruitful loss of self, rare in its abundance
we never say we like me this way today...
We re-cognitize, recognize our righteousness
doesn't come without cue
We have been wrong
pre-occupied
so long, a good bye, even now
I tremble,
still
a lone
euphoric
one,
only, once-ly
lately
lonely
wanting more
of less.



Image of painting by Paolo Veronese, Muse with a Lyre (c.1561), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Re-gifting: Oh, that old thing (I think I've had that)

When we do things
absent, mindlessly,

sometimes our former selves

sneak out, like this one, 

in this way;

when yesterday, I was wrapping presents

folding and creasing, pressing 

Scotch™ tape on the folds, I noticed
my own grandmother's hands

there-doing all the work,

while I just watched.

Bewildered. Behind.

This happens at the strangest

times...you may find yourself

triggered by a word

or the way we say-

that thing, that way, that

fires memory cannonballs...

And at certain times its a-scent,

an agreement of essence,

we remember thick as a waft.

Namely, a single note that carries a key

and pulls levers of attention coupled with

spinning axles, smooth and in place.

Our brain goes on, rolling with the ripples,

uninterrupted-until going nowhere in places

seeing both others past-you-go-and comes-and

brings you back here

not knowing how
it got there...

It is a gift of now, knowing.

Lost was the life

that went unnoticed by motion memory.

The set was changed, moved around

by your own history. Draped in black,
this mourning-

which is why we cannot deny we trip

over moved memories

that enclose the past

in my presents

while I am not looking,

sometimes I see

my forgotten family.

The order of things

Firsts and Lasts don't make

good companions, They don't know

Who goes, First or Last?

Image By The U.S. Army (Waiting to board, 11/2008) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Was Wishing & Wondering

Knowing you could lie

whenever

wherever you are

what would you say

which way

would you go

if I asked if you think

of me

ever

when away

which is always

when you know

I'm elsewhere too

I think of you

wondering, pondering,

thinking and sinking

stones in a well

sigh, oh well

I cannot tell

what it means on purpose

if I could taste

a stone from your land

would it taste like your cheek

on a warm-blooded day

since we share the sun

wherever

would you lie

with me?

Image By Agriculture And Stock Department, Publicity Branch [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To use when the bunny nose doesn't work

For once!
For me-
For a moment,
For sanity!
For inspiration,
For productivity,
For peace sake!
For a chance-
To have
two
minutes (are minute)...
For crying inside-
(not) To sound cute,
but (no) more interruptions
distractions, diversions,
meaning(less)ful conversations
are (not) welcome when(ever) the whim may
blow your way. You can(not) just pick  up my scent.
and pull me out of your hat when(ever) you
are feeling magical,
For five seconds
of fatuous fame.
I place no blame, but if it's all the same
To You, I have very important stuff
To Do!



Image by By Scott Rheam, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service of Black tailed jackrabbit (lepus californicus)  [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Currency of Time Well Spent

Wavering in want

is wallowing in wait

for something to happen

while the world goes on.

Toiling the time

is the devils presence

when you are wishing

you were

some

one

else

some

where

else

who

saw

You

As

who

you

are

Now

and said,

I've been looking for

You

I've finally found

You

-they'd say.

And I'd see,

no time was wasted,

no time like the present,

when the devil may care. 

Image of painting by Joseph-Désiré Court, 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To: November Re: Remember

Looking back cruelly on the carnage of the calendar-

First, on the day of the dead, let us give birth to new slates traced with prehistoric calcite...erasure.

Secondly, “writing is aid to memory-the sentence…” He said.

Third, Robots writing literature? No twitter bots. Love Letters from Eliza make me grumpy today.

Fourth, Truck didn’t start, need a new starter, makes sense, costs bucks (I don’t have).

Fifth, Close Doors. Open windows. Filtering the light. Breathe the sunshine.

Sixth. Days bleed, the trees drip, my well is going to dry up.

Seventhly- It’s a UFO! A meteor! We are not in control of this universe?! Nope, just the Navy.

Eighth. Washer thrown off kilter (by extra ‘h’), Alex, my repairman, is Russian!

Ninth. Rain. Slow drip. Watch sky, blame clouds for dimming prospects. Real is a cumulus. 

Tenth. Parents 30^th Anniversary… all there is, never after. Under Happily.

Eleventhly, missing grandpa, working with his words, at least we can talk there.

Twelfth, “By denying me the seas”, “By denying me the seas”, “By denying me the seas”

Thirteenth of Friday: City of Love Lost and Lights Out. Oh Paris! You have taught the world of love and heartbreak, you are all made stronger. Love trumps terror over time.

Fourteenth, yardwork, laundry, cooking, cleaning, redundancies, monotonies, shuffle the deck and pick a spade.

Fifteenth. Sunday comes with a warning- of a storm-that never comes. Nap, read await.

Sixteenth, hollow menace in heavy heaps of leaves, branches broken, dunes of needles roll with it.

Seventeenth. Synapses firing bullet points of philosophy and poetry. The dentist drills my daughter.

Eighteenth, Mom’s birthday, ecard, thanks. Unproductive avoidance, errands and cleaning.

Nineteenth, nose in book. Reading. Anything but writing.

Twenty ways of being Social. Sharing is caring and blaring about “selfie”, tasks of wearing masks, wearing the day away.

Twenty-one, Push, fold, draw, brush, sweep, stay; filling the green waste on  (re) cycle.

Twenty-second(s) of rest.

Twenty-third. Mundane Monday, a myriad of myopia.

Twenty-fourth-Army to feed, fill shopping cart for one meal? Making mess.

Twenty-fifth. Appointments, Turkey and Doctor, I get them confused.

Twenty six steps lead to couch, thankfully.

Twenty-seventh. Not working. Nothing’s working. Nobody’s at work.

Twenty-eight days in, November is losing nerve, no more noshing necessary.

Twenty-ninth. Frigidly forgetting. Left frozen and unchosen.

Thirty ways to say this was a November I will now remember, bite by bitter bite.

Image By copy (18th or 19th century) after Joachim von Sandrart (orig. 17th century) (http://www.hampel-auctions.com) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Der November.