No More than Four

It may take some time for our water 

based eyes to adjust 

                                   in the dry air

and filter out what it needs not.

The first train blares its horn 

          as it pulls through the sleepy town

tucked inside the fluffy grey marine layer.

The Amtrack gains its momentum 

          and kicks up clay sand in dusty billows,

                         while we lie stoic in its wake. 

A little later today,

as usual.

When we come out of our nocturnal coma

we start straight away, stacking up tasks, 

                                   left and right foot,

breathe and blink,                     -stretch

and then 

the mind quickens to find more 

                                         just to say

                                   no more than four

things at one time...

No way.

If I had five children- 

why the pinkie and not the thumb?

If I could split my brain in two,

perhaps I could keep track of eight...

Why the biggest brain 

                                if we are so dumb?

This one time, the same as today

while walking to the market,

                                   left, right, left, 

bread, bananas, cheese, water...

I heard the train coming,this was the light Coaster 

and I knew it was only 10 to 3.

I have time-I remember-I thought-

I smile at the passers-by, a grandmother with child, 

                                                  umbrella for the sun, 

a leash leading to a tiny dog and multiple bags in tow.

With my hand plunged into my shallow pocket 

I think I have not enough money 

                                                 for the bread. 

                    Sweat beads built on my brow

and instead of going this way,

                         corruption of a lovely day-

a needed

interruption, a line break in my path.

Now

the copper church bells peal back from atop St. Patrick's tower

and I listen in silence...

four more

Still 

my heart beats,  

with a falling 

                       bead of warm water on my cheek,

                                        and I remember to breathe.

*The number Four is based on an article from brainfacts.org.

Photo credit By "self-made" in  [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Dreams casting shadows

One needn't try to demystify
precisely why the shadows lie
the way they do.
There is always an excuse.
Dare not to ask the old salt and pepper nurse
how she came to be the sole caretaker
of crows
and a single cockatoo
every morning, every single mourning,
she knows
they are there for her too.
The brown boy that is now
a milk chocolate man
still slices cold cuts and fresh white bread
at the local sandwich shop and a decade later
still says 'Hi'-
don't ask me why
the police roll by
and I am reminded, it is just a job.
Do you remember that riddle
about what is black and white-
I've read too much...
Speculation bleeds ink.
I think
I will never ask
why my dreams are now in vivid color.



Painting titled Cloud Shadows (1890) by Winslow Homer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

O' Frosty Well Wisher

On a crisp October morning
                                pondering
For Once, then something,
                                and walking up to the
Well
knowing-this space of Sunday-
                                light like water
can be contained
in a soul cup.

A leaf
          Bob's on top, floats,
ripples rile his rite to disillusionment to-
day,
the way
some seek these shimmering somethings-
Although, as the pessimist already knows
the echoes
                                 signal emptiness,
or
depth
perception.

When he peers down
                                 beyond superficial self-reflection
he alone wonders
why water doesn't wait
                                 for focus
or stand as straight as a
Wall.

On Frost,
with the-
               well,
                        frozen over,
whispering whiteness wonders
when it will all become clear again,
For once,
then nothing
                    but wishes taken for granite
reliable as a wall.




This poem was inspired by and in conversation with the poem by Robert Frost titled, For Once then something.

Image credit By Syed Usman Ali (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

In-syndication-Nation

The stream of unconsciousness is now paid by subscription,
binge zoning, apple watching vegetable-arians
we see and squat-what plot?
With over one hundred high definition channels
something new, something true, something not blue-light-
or that you've never seen or heard before,
the source says it All.

And another rerun-
that one you know so well you mouth the final words
better-off dead
in your head.

That poor real child of the child in the old episode
of that Forensics science show-
you know the one whose mother was murdered
brutally because of her baby,
Plays over and over,
like a bedtime story.
And the child knows the last lines
by heart
because the last name is the same.

What about that Robert Zimmerman,
commonly known as folks 'Bob Dylan'-
boy-back in the day-he played that rebels cause,
changed his own name to comply-
in a word
Why,
I heard
leading double lives can be prized as Nobel-
isn't that swell, a dissidents dream so it seems
easy to win and lose
(poetic expressions).

Again and again, we trend to be
episodic and neurotic, we act
on impulses
wanting and willing
to forget we know the end,
we can pretend this is a new one
We watch it again, bewildered still
by old made new,
again,
and again and again
in-continuity
of the remotest control.

Shock and Awe
(the sequel).




Photo taken by Cecil W. Stoughton, May 5, 1961 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
(Description: Watching flight of Astronaut Shepard on television. Left to right: Vice President Lyndon Johnson, Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., Admiral Arleigh Burke, President Kennedy, Mrs. Kennedy. White House, Office of the President's Secretary)

It's Who and What you Know (about them)

We know more about people we've never known than ever before.

Before now, you did not know who you did not know,

and who you knew mattered mainly to you 

and only those who knew you

mattered more.

More than ever 

whatever you think is known. 

They know you 

and know what you think, or think they do.

They do know more than ever, 

not about what they know, but about what others think they know.

They think they know something about whatever, 

and whatever they think they know 

is something to think about. 

The ones that now think they know you, you need not think you know, 

even though they think you know you know them.

Think about how we know more now than ever before

about people

and maybe people are still learning.

Maybe learning 

whatever others think isn't knowing anything.

Knowing anything is better than not knowing what you know.

Is that what people think? I don't know.

You know, without knowing anything about you, 

I bet you know more about me than me...

who knows nothing and nobody 

ever more than ever before.

Painting by Abraham Solomon (1854), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

This way to today

The sun burst forth its light of day

from the desert floor and climbed white-knuckled over 

the frosty rooftops

                                                   beaming a widening smile,

exhaling puffs or clouds 

                      released in a distinct triangular way.

It dawned upon me, 

                                      low lit in golden rays, a sea of 

silver hairs and etched face lines, wisps of cirrus water 

                                       afloat, I am Just

                                       in Time.

Mercurial matters as these at sunrise

the ambience of obvious juncture

                                       enlightenment-the way-

the light leads the I -

Back to the horizon.

Yet again...

This must be the first

genesis

                                                                      Trinity taking the shape of day

like this one, our only Sun.

The Bio

Her tepid clay pigeon pen

Unresembling wings or other flying things

Flows

She strangles its narrow neck, interrogation by noose

                                                            Loops and scratch

lines. Facts. Only the boldest,

                                                            truest statements

apply. Condensed herself in this square space she avoids and

skirts the far edges. Newspaper crisps in the October low sun

and pollen makes her more 

Miss Chevious.

Her plump pinkie smears tracks while the pointer pushes on, blame, and her thumb has its privileged back-

space-deletion is better than insertion.

They want to know-she said-Or do they?

Write a Bio 

or abbreviated autography, They have requested                                                                              do in process…

Theories sound better in white, she writes and smears-

-Eternity in a paragraph-

History at present, is blurry. I have aimed at Life in a picture.  It is coming in-and per-fading, presently-the eye-just passing through.  That she-writes poetry. She lived there, has left -no forwarding ad-dress. She still dwells, not here, not She. 

Miss Chevious. 

Good? He too-with two shoes walks the same line. 

Post-haste. 

Mister Place & B. Gananew

Painting by Florent Joseph Marie Willems [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.