Ether Between (or a part)

The known is seen
when the pine cones breathe
even severed and separate,
opening in the sun as though
still
a flower.

And about the rainbow
trout, whose beating heart
placed in my hands
after it had been filleted
and gutted, throbbing
as though 

despite this piercing act
that still
held power.

The birds neck cranes
before it snaps
limp, little legs stiff
yet it is an act, to relax
the cat only to escape
still
prey
to become devoured.

While a chicken,
it is well known,
hurries for pecking order
placement though far
removed from body.
It runs frantically,
unable to keep its head
still
it cannot see.

The sudden shudder
a desperate gasp,
noticing the sky,
a place to ponder, a rest stop,
a moments notice pends
on eternity, the energy
still
suspended and supposing
nobody will notice
what you do not have.




Image by Valentine Cameron Prinsep c. 1897 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ben Thare II

Been there, have you?
Done that, did you?
Why (not) bother
Practice make (less than) perfect
pitch a no-hitter-you must
(pay) Play to win
dry runs and walk-throughs
for the Final (test only)
of Faith and aversion
to Failure who
(makes) grades
and Frames
nth degrees
Proudly
Been meaning
to askew
how it (all)
Went
Wrong all along
I thought We
were straight?



Image by Édouard Manet [Public domain], In the Conservatory, 1879 via Wikimedia Commons.

Weakday Wether

On a cool lilac late afternoon
high stratus pass over
aloof and sparse.
The sea shimmers silver
reflecting rosy cloud belly's,
bodies move slow and deliberate,
leaden legs with distant gazes
heavy under hanging haze
our orbit blurs the way
of Monday into grey Tuesday.
The way the moody matter may
flux and such and such a way.
January jumped on fragile February,
leaping on faith,
landing on elsewhere.
Doing days in oscillation
wether
weakly such as;
Mundayne,
Chooseway,
Mostnessday,
Hersday,
and fridaylie,
Why(not)play.
Alternately,
try,
calling each day
new instead of namely
what you always knew.




Image By Pseudopanax at en.wikipedia (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Driving Ms. Crazy

Push-push-push

the words away-

Not Now, I'm driving-

Go Away, I say

to some voice who speaks 

whenever cotton choosing

time it strikes, 

fancy that

despite the 

distraction and cost,

I lose

my place

I will remember that 

later

I think

and try to trace

that thought I thought

I knew-flew

out the cracked window 

and is stuck back in traffic...

A bump in the grind

passed over like a pothole

or just a poorly patched-

over up poem. 

Image from 1902 publication, 'Motors and Motor-driving' by Alfred Charles William Harmsworth.

A novel nosh

Hungry for something good to read,
(a never ending need)
my nose went sniffing over the shelves
seeking something scrumptious-
after my last four hundred page meal
I simply wanted maybe
a metaphor more,
another piece of poetic prose
to satisfy my insatiable nose
for narrative
(like food, how I live).

So I crack open a new
book of morsels,
after reading the back ingredients
briefly-advertising its
nutritional value.
I put my fingertip in it
and get more than a lyrical lick
or a great idea for a story-
this one is tough to chew
on, a grisly allegory
about a girl and a black flower
but the middle is missing...

Then the next one I choose
is about a fantastical mythical 
rabid Time eater-
then I learn it is really about
an avid reader.
Like a bad nut, the taste
can only be replaced
by something yummy and fabulist,
like a sweet and savory fable...

So I grab a good old classic
about some animals on a farm
and take a seat at the kitchen table-
not quite considered a fairy tale
but unprocessed and easier to digest
than that hormone injected one
with the wicked white whale.



Image of painting by Jehan Georges Vibert, The committee on moral books, 1866 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Look it up

Label and Libel

are one i away from the

same definition.

published 1/9/16.
Image Warpath tobacco label, c. 1885 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sponge Rob and Kitty Pants

From the East, golden light pours out over the
sleepy soppy treetops.
The raw fence slats all smoke in the sultry sun
after a rough night of being naked and exposed,
unstained as of Yet.
Loitering lumberly after the storm,
the weathering of wrinkled wood
lining up swollen.

The injured cat laps the rays up
like this warm milk from my fingertip.
He has been hurt again,
he is healing in the soft morning sun,
and smiles like Buddha or Krishna,
with milk on his chin.

The topaz sky looks newly buffed
and polished, it holds no dark veins today.
Offering up another chance
to dry out and soak it all in a day.
Porous (Poor us), all stormy moods have been washed
away, now suede-ing softly

in the strong dawn honeyed sun.



Image By Photos Public Domain [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.