Fuel for me

You must exude your

brilliance, the world needs to see,

He had Faith in me.

Painting by Félix Vallotton (1865-1925), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Finding my way to say

Knowing the words doesn't count for much.
Some sayings are worn thin,
and should be treated delicately,
like I love you.
As far as directions go-
make your own map,
my destination is different than yours.
I offer no solace, I cannot save myself.
I have quit only to find one must start again,
this is why you must love what you do.
Holding on is easy when your life depends on it.
Well-being is a verb that goes past tense.
I know all the words, this doesn't help much.






Image of painting by Pieter Claesz (1597/1598-1660) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Noon at the lagoon

I tried to walk it off
                               (instead of keeping me in)
                             heading afoot toward the lagoon
                                     (a Tuesday at noon)
For peace sake,
                        with the marine layer pushed back
                            convinced, I headed onshore
                        (at times against the salty breeze)
Attacking it sideways
                       and I knew my grandfather would have said
                                              Invictus-perhaps
                                                  (I plod on)
Not exercising, I stood out,
                         with my pedestrian thoughts
                                       (aimless wandering)
                             but I find sense sometimes...
At the lagoon, bright blue-green
                          speckled with orange
                          Garibaldi all along the riff-raff
Ah-the smell! Simply incredible, soulfully edible,
                         (through rose colored glasses)
                                        savory and savoring the solitude...
And I did find what I was not looking for-
                                        On cue-loudly from the rocks below
                                        a ground squirrel stood chirping, erect,
                                        ear piercing, his body jolting- he sung
                                        (bellowing for none)
Happy with his little self,
                                         a lone mammal on the precipice
                                         squawking on a Tuesday
because he had something good to say,
in a barking beechey marmot way.
                                          I think he said I should stop
                                          (chip) monking-around
                                          I heard him, loud and clear.

Mountain Men

Listen,
It said to
Stop & Breathe
Forest
For the Trees
are lain out like a lumpy quilt
pinned to dry under fiery skies
of patchwork orange,
a citrus of sepia
trimmed in sheeny emerald
sat in
wonder when a wind yawned
wide, stretching cool brisk air
over my shoulders
gently stirring the quiet giant
in his bed of canopies
where he lies leisurely
tickling the sky
who cries in merry laughter
some times
while nobody's watching
He must have just turned over
and fallen back
in the deep
thickets, amongst
the dark womb roots
settling down
lulled by
a song
Foresting.





Image titled 'Orange Forest' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bells & Whistles

Ah, a gift for thee
        a token of my love
           a bit of magic by mans making
Look and see
         the face
              the hands
                    the delicate machinery
Of the precious dial that
          is alive
            it beats
                its face reads with guile
Please, carry it with you
              always keep it
                  close at heart, handy
                      it wants to feel your pulse too
A handcuff? No!
                a shackle-perhaps
                    for some its a ticker, a fuse
                         Coded lines that sign in analog tho
watch its powers,
                 you'll see, this little clicking gift, a tricky token
                            from me, will count unto eternity
                                 all the ways and each of the hours
of my love
making time
trying to be
when it was
is all
we needed
(and a piece of time for thee).



Image By Seriykotik (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

(wee wonder)

What can we say
in One True Sentence,
said so-the Hemingway?

What can be
eternally true-
except, accept,
What is thought
by the poet...

What can the poet
paraphrase and contain
in one line taut
itty-bitty with immensity...

What can we imagine
and utter as real
What can we feel
and express as solidified
What can we read
that has not been said
What can be True
when nothing is eternal
except, accept,
what cannot be named
love.



Image of painting by Alexander Mann (oil on canvas) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Salty seeds

Across the street tall sunflowers loiter casually
erect against the discontent grey sky
dropping back to night.

These evening hours offer no glow
save the ineffective citrus streetlamps,
whereby all black birds along the wires
wring out some final notes, an outline.

It's safe to suppose
the sun wont come out from its heavy covers
tomorrow.
It is June already.
There are no high noons
or bright summer blues.

The cat peering outside
the window with me
just opened the door and left me
for more real things
than light projected
imagery.

And as the grey becomes plum
I lay and delay entering the fold
for fear
of waking in tears
again, chest heaving and caving in
to-night.

When the sunflowers slept
standing up to thick dew
I wept
with my salty lips persed
quivering and inept.

My substance too,
tiny inside.

The promiscuous sunflowers
stand their opposing ground
as phosphorescent agents
of small seeds at eye level.

Despite this disposition,
knowing blended night-
it is tempting to drop everything.

Their swollen faces
turn away from me too
in defiance of summer sun
and still bloom in full gloom.


Painting by Claude Monet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.