Stairwell

Heavy were my legs

              and blistered were my souls

                      as I climbed

                            dropping stones and sweat

as I went.

An ascent, the carrot grew

                           sweetly downward

                                  in your striking light

                                         I rose to the events

put in my path.

Sequentially steeper

                          pushing me down

                                      the air thins

                                          and blood chills

glimpses in steam.

Packed and thrown

                            the key, precious ego sinks

                                         reaping its slaughtered pleasures

                                               deflowered by appetite

famished and sated.

Starvation and salvation

                                  the lighter the load

                                                 only to reach

                                                       destiny's plateau

wilted and near weary.

Well, I didn't know

                         as good as it gets

                                           is nowhere near Yet

Grace has wings

                         on Time she flies

                                            passively Bye.

Image by Caspar David Friedrich [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Owl on grave c. 1836.    

Eclipsing circles

The sky cracked

its crusty eye of

blue bags, purple circles

in a sign of deprived time.

The sun yawns,

peaks over the treetops,

energized and light.

The stars resign

their flares drown

to day.

The shining sea

crumples its satin sheet,

white-cap crumbs strewn

atop the surface.

The earth smokes

after a torrid night

promiscuous and still

perspiring.

The human hurries

for his mask.

Mistaken for a dream

the pale moon takes it all in. 

Composed 9/26/15.

Image By Donald Davis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1970's, NASA ID AC75-1920.

About Clouds and Me to Your Ology

As the pressure builds

                         high and low confront,

trapping in between them a compression and

                          depression, folded in thick layers.

A cumulus of collective thoughts

                          gather gem-like crystalline

shards that slice through thin air.

                         In a Doppler of cirrus

the stratus changes, morphing into

                         unstable mutatus Mother clouds,

hovering, heavy and thick with milk,

                          curdling and separating their wheys and way

lost, aloft out of focus like mist and blur

ragged ropes, pull and bind, fraying edges as taut by

                          knuckles under the pull of Virga.

Then-

letting it all go,

unnoticed into oblivion, minute like tears

                          reigning in sheets

down Fallstreak holes

                          through the ceiling

that bears an air of Nacreous ether up there, apart and

                          weighted by the moody swing fronts

of days and nights.

                           The phases fade, leaving

traces of birefringent dreams, seems like

                           floating behind the Fisher King and moon man,

who overcast

his holy net, his wind we felt

mingled with water

we breathe.

1st composed 8/5/15-edited multiple times.
Image By Sensenmann (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Clouds over Yucatan, Mexico.

Phantastic Piano Performance

It was during the intermission
we watched the best performance.
It was out in open the courtyard
during a Metromaniacs matinee,
on a sunny winter Saturday.

The public streamed through
the park with iphones out
snapping selfies and photo-
bombing against the facade of
replicated architecture, others lines,
inspired fed and resaid by other centuries
countries and similies reproduced.

When just then at the break-
a balding, middle-aged, frumpy man
with a black backpack, thick rectangle
glasses, wearing immaculate white tennis shoes
took a seat on the bench at a public piano
painted like our nearest galaxy
covered ephemeral stars.

And he began to play
and play feverishly,
and he plays himself away.
His head hung limp and
gently swayed, his shoulders
carried the notes.
Heavy wafts of ivory notes,
smoke and perfume danced.
And while he played
people paused
For it
was
Intermission-when
over, he knew, winding up
keying down, the piano man
stood quietly as he came,
and wordlessly shuffled himself away
taking his notes
with hymn.



Image of painting by Thomas Dewing, The Spinet c. 1929 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Composed 2/25/16.

Anchors I weigh

When I showed up

I learned from living on top of time

I was not welcome anywhere,

but hospitality persists

itself like religion

everywhere

there’s room.

My timing not convenient.

A detour is never the fastest path,

unless the destinations are the same.

It is safer submerged, underwater

where whims wont push you around

I found

After holding my breath so long.

She could have killed me.

I know she tried, more than once,

placing her baby bundle on the bow

rock-a-bye, like they do,

rolling for the wake to take me back

Her bare hands would be too brutal

and accidents are blameless

What doesn't kill you

lets you live exhausted

torch smothered.

Insisting on myself

I remain

S.O.S.

tethered to the life raft

that was never attached

to Her. 

Composed 10/24/15.

Image by By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Be careful what you ask for

“Was it really all for nothing?”

                                                “A beautiful tribute, nonetheless.”

“All the more reason to question why, or if I should.”

                                                “Always question what you should.”

“Why can’t you give me a straight answer.”

                                                “Perhaps there are none of those.”

“What I mean is, I mean, what I need to find out is...should I continue?”

                                                “Yes, we all need discovery. That is why we journey.”

“That leads me nowhere.”

                                                “Already?”





Image of painting by Nikolai Ge [Public domain, c. 1890 What is Truth? GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sundays with Mommy (Dearest)

Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
on my landline, she leaves the same message
if I don't pick-up, she doesn't call my cell
ever.

She calls to chat about her week
on speakerphone while my stepfather listens
occasionally making comments
frequently making faces
I'm sure.

It has been 10 years since they visited
my home, although we live in the same state
we are far enough apart
to blame inconvenience on transportation
and time

She speaks at me about the small town
I grew up in, the weather, the roads and wildlife;
Breaking News from Monday she shares and
sometimes she even sends me links, in the mail box
(newspaper clippings) that smell of cigarettes

She'll rave about the wine I can never drink,
she melts over the meal Mike made for her,
decadent and deathly to me,
insisting I am missing out
by being this way

She'll brag about her co-workers adult children,
everyone else's kids with a 9-5, who are
making a good living, while I am wasting my little life

My mother had only one child
and I was too much, she let her parents
do the parenting. She did this for me-
apparently this was better
for my future, sighting the hind

As my mothers' only child, the lineage is certain-
there is a 100% chance of never being good enough.

When my mother and stepfather became grandparents (twice)
I thought (once) they would become Grand Parents, instead
they adopted their neighbors' son, they go to his birthday
parties and soccer games, but couldn't make it for my sons
high school graduation.

When my grandparents died, I thought she'd be there for me,
but I knew, I was already too far away.
When my grandparents passed away, I knew she'd need me
and I went home right away.

After 520 Sundays, you'd think I'd find something better to do.

Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
a disappointment
Someday I should stop making
these appointments
and live a little (life)...
Although I know when I get home
her message will be waiting
past 1 o'clock
Next Sunday
for someone else
whose number she now has.




Image of painting by By Vladimir Makovsky, Mother and daughter c. 1886[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.