Photo-graphic memory

Obsessed with photo graphs and charts,
we point our longest sideways glance right
away
and shoot for the best, hitting hope
happens square in the chest,
stars also aim for the numbers.

Numbness by position,
this poison saps our steady grip,
an aching up the arm from the aorta.

In this contraction,
we miss the moment around the image,
the time between sight and capture
or full appearance formed
in our human haste

Roughly,
to see and to show how it should look
from our island view,
by entitling
what was then as now.

The pictures portrayed only figures,
we made out images
believing in lines like these
holding black and were definitive
made by an arrangement or
juxtapositioning.

Framed in theoretical suspension
of time to believe in what we see
as all white.



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

Miss Agnes Martin

And Agnes spoke.

After all she had seen 

                            and failed to portray accurately

“It seems to me, I am a greater destroyer than creator.”

The inspiration more reverent in potential than intellect

She suffered it seems.

The quiet part 

                                 a-part 

from the living with her art.

Agnes assembled some reason,

with color and line, like us, listening for the tone.

A message was delivered via postage stamp imagery, 

she found this in the box with the red flag

                                           too tiny to see.

So she was required to extrapolate 

and re-scale 

to make larger

than the letter

addressed to Resident.

Perfection, as though always made the same-

This one template mistranslated 

                                                 in the corners.

The migration from idea to ideal,

lost in most blending, space, silence, room, makes too much

semblance, geometrically so much more than medium.

All that

depends upon a nail, a red wheelbarrow and leaf capacity and

a multiplicity of task or cause.

Yes, Agnes knew her arithmetic.

And Agnes tried to forget rules, axioms, theorems

and the half charged radii she never saw as encompassing.

Less can be greater than

too much inspiration.

Agnes said the envelope was empty

but she received the message.

I know, I sent it. 

VP

This is how we Do,

This is how we Don’t

                in this

                house

             -of Poetry-

An atria lets in light

& emits extra 

pillowed noise.

It is the vanishing point

we should be focusing on,

imprecise lengths and indivisibility,

where dreams

during the day dull too acute states.

First, it was

the writers fork,

sourceless drops on the forehead,

all the hand stains, bruises,

and finally settled in the wrist vein, 

sharply-

no longer embedded 

in the life line.

Do this-concentrate-

Indirectly, gather all the colors if you can,

hone in on these speculative gradients,

Do not notice this indifference, it may be

that you see succinctly

how beautifully

                         -all points vanish...

Image credit Tenshō Shūbun [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

community pool (Haiku)

The hungry hippo

does not roar but weights a round
edges to blend in.

Photo credit By Don Juan, Comte de Montizón (1822 - 1887) Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

This grace

There is no such Disgrace.
I do not live inside or choose to
put my dwelling things
away there.

There is Here to one else,
while I cannot touch it with a tip
of glance-on accident
these matters made solid.

Their way does not cross
my own,
or break through my gait.
Thier way becomes unknown
with wind and soft feet.

There is gasping, a vacuous horror
at the senseless flexing to hold nothing,
constricting itself, There,
the worst that would be too atrophied
to rest here.

I do not dwell in Misery.
I do not consider
my self
part of
Disgrace.


Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, (1870) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Forwarding

So, he almost died.

Almost.

He is still in the hospital

almost dead.

His life will change

if he lives

through it.

He is in a world of hurt.

Give it time.

It is all he has.

(neither of us know him)
Yet we knew why
he almost died.

There is knocking next door.

Without an answer,
it must be the wrong address. 

Image By Tore Sætre (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Where silence lies

If you read me close enough

you may still smell traces

of a word meant

to echo in only you.

If you heard the way

it becomes spoken with my own lips,

a taste may not be enough

to say you have tried.

If you ever wondered

where the essence has gone, it is cold;

I only ask you to exhale me enough so

I may hear you near inside thick air.

If the silence were not

as sublime

as the word,

would we have this between us?

Art entitled, 'Woman at the Piano' (1889), oil on wood panel, 26.0 x 13.1 cm) by Tom Roberts (1856–1931).

The painting is in the collection of the Art Gallery of South Australia.