The Glowing Architect

It is 4:02 a.m. and I am already boiling like an unattended pot,

raging my physical states away.

I smell putrid creeping out of every tiny cranny I see

and do nothing but type as look confident, experienced at this

control, as though connected to something, plugged in.

Meanwhile, I am spinning out, fraying and backspacing,

all that was ever tight in the world

unravels at my bare feet.

Materials and shelter, busy bodies building,

there is one right tool for the job,

so why 

have I 

not pulled out my own rusty heart and lubed  

palms or squeaky wheels?

It doesn't fit. May be the wrong size...

I realized this is not what was expected

from how it started, or turn out like

what I tried to right.

You are glowing, they said.

Fire. 

I like the warmth 

on my back as bridges blaze

keeping me orange and distant.

Tension is essential in trades.

Where you see space and room to grow

I have seen structures diminish these.

Remains to be seated

I had been staring at Van Goghs empty woven seat chair,

where he left his pipe, and all the aesthetic advice

of others alone, given room.

Is this pretty, accurate, I wonder

do we really agree to disagree,

I can no longer hear any one.

Yet in this instance, my tile floor is the same,

I wonder where we went…

I wonder would I listen to opinion, like onions,

what makes a beauty, is it unami?

Does beauty know it is some thing

special, sees ordinary and adds extra...

I have a mark on the top of my left foot,

Some call it a mole, I spy on it more usually.

It is often under cover,

unless I am caught barefoot.

It is pretty to me.

I also have a strawberry-

patch that I myself cannot see.

I came this way. Stamped and stickered.

Lately, my blue eyes have turned all grey.

My hair grows on, twisted and tangled.

Overtime,

It helps to see excess skin. Our outfits are now

hanging out of place, dangling heavy dead dreams.

Aging strains our vertebrae,
and wrinkle releasers wreak havoc on new software.

Our critical updates have failed.

Like you, I despised my body for far too long,

it has only gotten worse. It has gotten old.

I wear it down
to nothing.

Somewhere between scars and black

tattoos, my tastes have changed

and details have grown
and fascination falls short.

Aging is pretty when felt deeply.

Somewhere down the hall lies
Beauty, the ugly frame
hangs empty. Which are we,
classically posed
beasts of opportunity
making white
walls
more colorfully...

(non finito)

“I would define the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the intellect or with the conscience it has only collateral relation. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever wither with Duty or with Truth…” 

-Edgar Allen Poe (The Poetic Principle)

Painting by Vincent van Gogh (1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Less is More, More or Less

There have been difficult times
I knew the right thing to say
and I honestly don't know how I knew
the exact words to highlight what had been hidden.
There have been less
trying times, I said
                 Nothing
not knowing right from wrong.
Between these
Ends
all the good times evade precise
meaning
over
time
the bad days try to remind us
how easily opinions change in the sun.
The only words left
spaces between.

Painting by Edward Robert Hughes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Firmament (Hi-Q)

Why always the sky?
Does your hair move in the wind?
Breath is not just mine.


Image credit by Brian W. Schaller (Own work), Windy Day Great Sand Dunes in Colorado (U.S.A.) [FAL], via Wikimedia Commons.

In the Rain Singing Purple Poems for the New Year

Another one

bites the motes, spits a clod, 

and is claimed by fame, all in a name.

Again, not I 

anonymous

let the book worms crawl in

and out as though it were all natural

and biodegradable over a lifetime

to deteriorate

this way

all of us bound in romantic tragedy,

we try to forget this poignancy

with age.

What comes

are words not unwise, nor mine.

Summarily, I listen.

My work is done

a hush has fallen.

Including this

one there were four hundred and sixty-nine

times I’ve stabbed at Truth-

only to burst bubbles, finding nothing

inside. I wrestle, is this not episodic

or just melodramatic...

I can guess. 

My pen is dull, I have no credit to my name.

What feels right in living like me

is all wrong for others

(monetarily). I owe them one

for their certainty. 

I feel no Nationalism

or sentiment

may be strong enough

to overcome

its little people. 

And here we are, another orbit around,

One (more) Earth year

To reset

our broken watches and records. 

Play it again Sam. 

Let us dance.

It may be our last chance 

to take it in

Memoriam.

Let us hum(an)

auld lang syne. 

History v.1,792

        What if we learned our lessons backward

instead of ignoring what lies ahead,

would we start at the end and dig ourselves out

from there

or is Here too near to Now to know?

What if we learned language primary by poetry,

as in, taught this way, 

if we made an educated guess 

we would we think more

if we understood less.

And what about what the ocean says, its native 

cetaceans, their migrations…adaptations.

We would find a place 

in their tragic tales, perchance

see ourselves in the eyes on fish tails,

mermaids and white whales.

Yes, hard to translate

some things don't

clearly. 

Well,

what if we listened harder to things that seem

indistinct,

do you think we could hear the earth exhale 

say deep in sleep, could we focus then

on the multiverse-

But here we are fracking up.

Waiting for a guide out of some terrestrial curse.

Would it be worse

to know we were too little to hold on?

We have cumulatively uncovered

more historically,

we have yet to discover

meaning,

we barely understood

what all of this implied-

No 

Time to speculate

about Grand New Beginnings 

By starting at the infinite Endings...

After all, how could History be 

far too long ago and have not nearly enough

relevance or reverence for Us

by glaring reflection,

with Us reminiscing about the great old days

adding and adorning, making the old new.  

We like changing the story as we go,

we can know just enough 

to make it up

to you.

True-

with no good place to start

chaos will return,

before it was missed. 

Our Resilience is rote,

Granted,

we have witnessed starting over

and elliptical orbits

again and again.

And I insist, as the diluted optimist,

we are still learning

on a curve,

spilling as we spin.  

Shall we take it from the top?

Painting By Joshua Reynolds [Public domain], Fine Arts Museum in Argentina via Wikimedia Commons.

Book covers and titles tell all

If they saw the Bhagavad Gita what would they think?

If they knew any thing or two about truth in fiction,

or which was the stranger 

of the two

If they knew respect is not a costume anyone can wear...

if I cared 

they don't think of me

If they knew my ears were not sensitive enough

to hear small talk

would they only speak louder...spoken over thought.

They were not here when my daughter said we needed 

more bookshelves, requesting wall to wall coverage would be good,

she envisioned this plan, we have more than enough

needless to say, she pleased me greatly.

If I had not been buried in stacks of books

I wonder if she would still want this,

to save me.

And 

If they knew about being a parent-

is it obvious they could care less...

Apparently knowing would never be

good enough

                          to be great. 

Painting by Giuseppe Crespi, c. 1725 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.