Truce in Puce

I remember tiny patches

of every day.

One

little lyrical line to savour

one 

poetic phrase to ponder,

a vague quote to consider,

a few hundred pieces 

of art that evokes awe, or something

equally confusing.

And too, one or two 

new matters of fact 

to digest as my own

information source

and all is in total

speculation.

I sought likeness in disparaging items

and was most often wrong

all along

I should have been a skeptic.

I need more 

random memory,

and a more efficient CPU

Of course, you are needy too...

I have finally made my way over

terminal money 
        and time circles.

Statistically, 

all that on the line, waves,

vibrations, striations, 

I thought were mine to keep,

I cannot fit any more 

in my baggage

so I leave poems everywhere

it is only fair

for Them. 

Image credit By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Biting the breeze back

That wicked wintry wind
sere-cut through
blew ants inside
made windows whine
slammed doors
and cause cupboards to swell
cold as-

Ruffles-too nice
a term to use for what it does
to the leaves and hips of trees-
raucous a more apropos word
in a nutshell...

Nothing gets done
and it liberally spreads crumbs
for anxiety to expound and nibble upon
and dwell on and on it seems-

I have not slept in years
I have no fears
I can spell.

And there is the calendar
-blowing me off
in the distance;
this instance the breeze takes all
the breathable air,
despite the futile grasps
at straw structures
-Nothing-comes
together in this weather
I yell.



Painting by John Everett Millais, 'Blow, blow thou winter wind' (1892) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The rise of casuality

Because we are the effects, not the primes

as in Primates,

we are moved,

as in affected.

Because we breed

maladies and machinations

we create

as in Creatures

more than was there before Us, 

as in BC (Blind Carbon).

We infer our differences 

in grand designs and poor planning

or preferences and likenesses

as reflections of self-expression

and omit the other view

to simplify.

Why do we need to know

Why

as though living without question

helps with this affliction of mortality

or enlightens eternity...

Shall we give up and let it go, as though

we influence more than our mind 

-do not answer that-

Instead, let's suppose 

the conclusion 

need only a new name 

or learned skill for our adaptable

immutable

Fin de siècle

or inability to sit

still...

We move On

and are moved ever more,

for even though in an odd way

the Word made it the first 

to day. 

Image credit By Strobridge Litho. Co., Cincinnati & New York [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Implement(ation) (misc. Haiku from Journal v.3, 2016)

Self identifies
by letters strung together
make names from scratch(es).
                 //

Write with felt marker
in the morning; it will be
pencil by nightfall.
________________________________

Butterfly and moth

are one chrysalis away

by color of death.

    ±             

Naiveté is

a bumble bee whose life

is heavy with lust.

☼     

Territory, as 

a place you feel most at home

outside of yourself.

                  ♦ 

Enough already

the tallest trees drink slowly

take in the new air...

         ↑

Photograph By ZachT (Own work) Bernese Alps in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Thick Skein

Have it together?---Hah! What poet does?

Fight this way, blistered paws

                                        limping along by prosthetic ego
battered by submissions...

I could go all day,

with myself

                     uncooperative, self-ish sot

              & yet I say I simply need more

time (alone) to not distract myself; (space) place to dwell, to go to

deeper than time (allows)-and vow to get itthe first Time
...All...withdrawn
Well...further from form-to gather to-gether

                                                              the 

                      scattered                   thoughts

I strew all about, coins and alms, the book of changes,

I knew no doubt

                         and yet could never finish (the plate, the bread,
butter, indulgence, opulence and chance)

                                                        what I never began officially,
a la carte (blanche)

Poetically, I prose with white 
which shows where will weakens voice

I'd have to pick up the line 

                                       later where I left it 

                                 loose and 

                                                      too long,

unraveling

at the slightest pull.

How it is all made 

Full 
                           of nothing (itself) is something to undo
(& make it knew) reuse and refuse to cycle

So it is sown into the soul
                                     bereft I be
seeking sustenance in vowels,
lighter than care and ever aware 
This is All...  

Painting By Samuel Lovett Waldo, The Independent Beggar (1783-1861) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

deFragment(ation)

not late enough

to start now

the sky periwinks

lashes brush over

lids lay overwhelmed

in light shades

I am all melted 

matter that moves

and thinks not 

in solid states

no thing

could hold me here

for more

than one may take

away for another

day

un finished...

Painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Mouvement (1935) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Her voluptuous parabolas

All
who have seen her
swear they have never seen her
happier, lately
while she laughs, letting crickets go.

Her curves always know
how to smooth things out
and the way she walks begs forgiveness
as her karma rounds
every corner.

Softness was her style
to say it supply-

it could stem from her blooming chest,
crimson raw cheeks, her velvet bleeding lips
or lilac silvery strands


her glare goes right through any apparitions and by
body, somehow she knows the bright angles
to the long equations...

At night she paints
the smudged sky on her arms.
Before sunrise she weaves weak
words stained black. They don't smear-
she won't use them-in the light by day
she tends to others angles
in her smooth parabolic way.

It seems she just sashays away,
her every day face
acting as the fulcrum for all others
a round nowhere to stick
around.



Painting by Edgar Degas, After the Bath, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.