Sleepy head, dream your own dream

Something said Sleep, and she did.
Someone said she should Wake-Up, she did not hear.
Some people thought she should give up, quit it-she didn't...
Somebody believed her dream, somebody didn't believe in her, she didn't know whom to believe.
Some thought she could choose, some thought Bad Choices, she dared to try, to lose-she must.
So few knew-
she woke up.


Painting by Johannes Vermeer, A Woman asleep at table (1657) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A good poem is vertigo

(A good poem is vertigo)

                -As if I know. No-

not by my own leaky pen,

though

                 there are a soaring few

alphabetical alchemists

that throw in

words that are known to explode next 

                                     to each other;

elsewhere

you find fissions and contraries may agree

lilting toward lyricality and

honing in on homonymic epidemics.

True, virtues are silent. 

You cannot walk these off.

And even then, some braver explorers 

                  pillage the nether regions-

savages and murky poetry readers

mineralized and ossified, fumbling and 

                  kneading to make meaning of it all

softer.

Those insatiable prose readers, of us

cannibal wordsmiths savorers 

of acids and sugar

                                 find balance

together.

Neutralized, sodium syllables 

grounded us, home again.

The top spun itself 
                   out and ungathered threads

that make any thing, 
                           more

True-

when the poem finds its own end.

                 


Painting by Elihu Vedder [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hooker

I do it better in the dark.

Think-that is.

It could be because this is when my hair is down,

I can hear my breath living for me.

Most likely, it is because it is the only time

for me when I do not see...

Feel the sky loom its clouds,

the careless way it does so often rise and shine,

too bright for my light eyes that eat too much.

I am blinded by these opportunities and unknowns

of the day.

Overwhelmed. 

I say nothing I cannot see.

Overhead, empty as moon shadows I can be,

more thoughtful.

Night gales match my mood,

and pelting rain covers my sounds

in steam

across the taunting window panes.

I dry my face 

from dreams that drench the den.

Alone in my dark head.

Please-forget all I have said.

While others claim tight-knit sleep, 

I am loose and listening to every

one thing.

I do it better at night. 


Photo by Eugène Atget [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Visit with a vampire

Open and wide, not quite terrified,

cobalt and steel too delicate to coin those piercing eyes.

She knows secrets-not yours of course.

She feels fear-for someone.

It seems the light falls softer after all these years,

or forgiveness just called up from the understudy.

These days, I find myself liking the girl with the smallest lips,

more and more,

precise instead of narrow, these days

she has changed, but those wisps of lips remain

barely red and sealed.

Most days she irritates me-lividly.

Those same two snapped purse lips in pink

never bold enough to communicate, much less 

accentuate or attract attention, pathetic and meek.

All of the time I am reminded they are enough

to say too much, and though never again,

I say again, and again I will pause-at my reflection. 

Photo By Unknown (Life time)-First Selfie? 
The original uploader was Tsukiakari at English Wikipedia. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Treading in week sauce

"Only thirteen more days"..."If I sleep it will go by faster"..."next week I will get my license"..."I can't wait until"..."not this week but the week after"..."are we almost there"...

"when will we go?"

(life lines)

Does it seem like a fair agreement to you 

that we are unable to read the fine print 

until the ink is dry and we've agreed to live

this way...before we know how to arbitrate?

(tug-of-war)

Now that I read in Anthropocene

dialect, it seems to say:

You have been given four thousand three hundred

and some odd weeks to spend-

In total. 

You have been granted just one ball on which

to do it All.

Spend this wisely-

there is no saving.

You may keep

Nothing.

Some portions must be traded for sleep

and eating your own words. 

Take it all in and then promptly let it all go

to show progress and more or less, make more with less

until you think you have the hang of It, feeling the slack.

(a rope)

It may read like a disclosure,

I will take you as I made you-the rest 

is what you do with It.

(a knot)

In portions, we cut corners and try to 

walk the shortest line in distance by diameter,

it all comes around-again.

(a bow)

May the most deserved rise on Sunday,

marking the start of something new

weekly waiting in circles of seven 

waiting to get on the short list they call 'Heaven'

while dwelling on the never do wells, sex sells

guilt tells All

(a noose)

All you get-Terms-It read, non-negotiable. 

You will have it all on this one ball-

All rolling faster as it passes apogee, Its gravity

growing as It approaches just two thousand weeks

left on this tiny sphered soul, daze taking toll

I roll over redemption until next weak. 

(a skein)

Painting by Paulus Lesire (1611–after 1654) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Standing Ovation

Now we will see 

                         what comes next

by unfurling progression 

                         or Nows in succession.

Pick one,

put it in your pocket,

feel it with your fingers

every now and then,

until its edges smooth,

and you use it for warmth.

This Now could Be

more valuable later, grow on you

by inflation of your reflection,

                        mirroring idea in light,

this is why it startles us 

                        in unexpected color,

a stroke of magenta not man made,

                        Now speechless,

too beautiful to save.

Photo credit By Unknown photo: Mcowkin (Lychakiv Cemetery) [Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Stroke by Genius

What changed you, are there some credits 

                                                 you should roll?

Was it James or Pablo that altered Steins view,

smartly, she said Henry, but we see reality by Picasso,

who chose distance to close in his view, 

                                                 making imagery true

deftly in paint and tone and on monotone, she drones on

in her oboe wind; Williams drinks down the Dionysus wine,

loose lipped, they slur together...same tune, 

                                                  sung the wrong song.

Was there a moment you became you?

Who was there claiming responsibility for all 

that you are, you are, yoar, no more non-sense,

blaspheme by contest, in jest, we protest and 

                                                 already we have infested 

too much to undo, not saying enough, playing tough

                                                  and rugged,

this is New, as good as-gold-as good as dead, and it was 

                                                   Good.

Where sparks once flew, the artist extinguishes with 

                                                    billows of blue, it will turn-.-

Image credit By Wide World Photos [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.