Rage is rabid

Rage is the creature with fangs
that cannot conceal those points
And snarls soft lips to show
not all poetry is Pleasant-but Passionate

And acute or cuspidate,
sparks spit fire from its place
that abstains mutation,
that ignites others-enflamed.

Insolence-I've heard its
verbal lashings, intentional trashing-
yet always with a lisp
as a magnanimous sycophant.



1st Pub.d 9/2/16.

Painting by Edvard Munch, Vampire, 1895 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

No Vacancy

I can no longer afford to submit-
this is why I Quit.
Does that mean I've given up?
I could not stop if I tried-
ok, I lied...
You see, these fees have broken
my wishbone.
I suppose I could try to borrow-
until tomorrow,
but I'd still be short the change
in dignity
Please do no take pity, I plead-
I have none left...
So, I have forsaken all
charitable contributions to self
I am finished offering solutions
of contentment
and reason-
there are more than enough
poetic substitutions and literary institutions
with closed doors to open minds and empty pockets-
except(ing) donations.



1st Pub.d 9/2/16.

Painting by By Anna Lea Merritt (1844‑1930) (Art Renewal Center) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Joy of Aging

Bubbles should be saved

for old age

after we have learned about 

Physics and seen many 

circles in life

when we have learned 

what Hope tends to do

when it hits matter

It would be something

to look up to.

Image By Brocken Inaglory (Own work Transferred from en.wikipedia) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Blue earth, Red sun

Earth will end on a Sunday.

The sun will have had its best days behind...

The moon, long retired, makes wax figurines.

So we are all stars.

Nothing disappears without direction,

even inside itself.

Concentrate.

The ethereal essence is growing without us.

Earth, like a sponge, porous

we take it all in until full

dripping with light.

And just like deja vu, we knew

Earth will end on a Sunday.

Drawing (pen, ink, graphite) by William Blake [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. The great red dragon and the woman clothed with the sun.

Sleeping suburbia

Suburban street night lights

show collarless cats on the dusky prowl

for others and Friday night laughter, squeals,

leak out over the rooftops.

Venus loosens her belt

of lavender lingerie.

It is called, Good Evening.

A front door closes, somewhere

down the block-moan and thud,

then a dog speaks up,

in protest or jest.

Kerrr-clunK, kerrr-clunK,

rolls a skateboard by my

bedroom window where my

bed is against the window.

I see a silhouette where

the belly of the open rose

is quietly collecting dew.

Beauty sleeping bloom.

Cast in the far corner

on my white walls, the moon-

light speaks, near the door

-Beckoning-

for more room fortnight.

Photo Unknown (not given) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Speed wobbles

Racing past

one gets the landscape

by an Impression-ist wrist

At the window, the color box spilt

noting the puffs on the palette

pushing by, running in streams

the mouth waters, dipping brushes, the tongue wiggles

if I could reach out, put my hand in

this water colored river, grasping

gasping for shape, I'd find only

orange

I’m afraid

to hold, still life

that poses as natural

representations of still-yet this is also

dead and buried plaster in acrylic

and the fiber bleeds, canvas cracks

like us, as personal whims

which color where

wafting pass a blended note

complimentary, nice to the eye

you catch mid-air, a mood, a tone

holding it there, while it is thrust forward

continuously, ever

taking souvenirs

wherever you go, grabbing

blades in the wind

at the expanse,

taking it all together

in-

distinct

as rain on glass

racing past.

Image by Georges Seurat, 1882 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pivot point: 11/1919

          

            ∞

Eclipsing theories it occurred Earthly,

by a twinkling of doubt-

might light penetrate that too?

Witnessed few-by degrees

scales of truth, by fractions-

a test, a hypothesis to rest

a wish we may, a wish we might

see if Einstein was right that daynight.

             ∞

Bending starlight towards the artists eyes

the heavy lenses have been adjusted.

Ephemeral epiphanies, yes these

have energy, fields that carry

to open spaces, finds minds,

where dark-grey-is shady mass

is recognized in its likeness, eye to eye

in poetry. Compression.

              ∞

Encompasses only Here

the ever widening, infinitely expanding

dynamic astrological points

of view, growing still

under the weak weight

of the world by volume,

softened by moving the arc light

finding its center.

Image credit By NASA on The Commons (Apollo 12 view of Solar Eclipse) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.