Penumbra

shafts of shadow shrink
silhouetted slants shut
downward dimming,
the greedy gleam absorbs
its shade overbearing obfuscation
mimicking migraines on maps...
veins strained, pupils peel back
in drumming dilation-
the ground groans
under the wait
of light.




Painting By George Elbert Burr (Herbert F. Johnson Museum of Art) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Twenty-six characters

Have I repeated myself?
            Yes, to excess.
If it is any consolation,
that too
            has been done.
And if this were a real poem-
            it would be a brush painted kanji-
symbolically inexplicable
            by its symbiotic smooth strokes.
It is flow.

So seriously, let us not pretend
            emphasis-a stress-is an echo-as an anaphora
Although,
            the lines look the same,
they are not along the same lines
bound by words
imitating poetry
that is never new-
but you knew This
I have painted it before.



Image from decalrocket.com

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.