Sure line

With these borrowed hands still unrecognizable
I have learned to poke and preen this vessel
taking exploratory measures
only within reach

None of the pieces fit together
like hands holding hands holding hands
This is what I got

I need these as is,
collectively
to see, together,
to gather
keepsakes

this is why the shells scatter near the jetty
by the sea
by the tide, from sand, into sand, by grain
by the hand full, glass full, by the hour

which explains why we collect empty dollars
one day,
we may fit in
beautifully.


Painting by Julian Ashton, 'Summer morning, 1899' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Write hot, edit cold

None of it was good enough.

So you see, here, admittedly,

I understand the fire, a self-starter,
it makes decent fuel

the words work better than well.

It means I too- must end this way,

plain as day, Cremation

and yet

Fire scares me honestly.

It may be a miserable moment,

the next page, the new leaf, the blank slate-

Wait-never mind-what was said-dead-again.

Each time it becomes easier to name the wrong noun,

confound even myself, crosswords no longer help.

In other words

I shall not say,

See me

and I will match you.

I am simply sulphuring,

reeking with green steam.

Saturated, and I am too porous for this

laughing at my whole self,

the incompetence I relied upon 

and moments reborn

into better than imaginable-Memory.

Pretty-

All ways worth the weight in white.

Angels giggle at these simmering sounds

mistaken for a narrow fellow in the grass

making coils warm,

it was all the write words

fuming in the sun

without a bone to burn or pick

the ice ages will do the rest.  



Painting By McCord, George Herbert, 1848-1909 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Aeration

The spiders all scatter when the rock is pulled up,

worms wiggle 
desperate foreigners in terrestrial elms.

Well, it made me think of what they had been doing

before being caught off guard.

It hails this summer,

so they scream and say-All Parades Postponed-

& then the others look at their calendars and cross out

& cry looking up to the sky pointing green stems in vein.

Kites and clouds occupy the canopies,

caught in the whisk of wayward cycles
and lofty expectations, 

it is only pressure applied in decibels of thunder.

White petals all tremble, rose and lilly blush

at the smoky voice chanting in Gregorian tones,

a language lost to Time and wilt,

where these new colors cannot comprehend

so much red earth and black sand-

& then whispers round
like spider legs,

Trailing off, 
earthworms evacuate

I, Aye, eye

mist the warning

but held my breath. 


Image credit By Royal Air Force official photographer, Hensser H (Mr) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Turning over

At 2:24 dark, the mockingbird, and moon

Conspired to wake me,

I rise, finally, compulsive-

By three thirty both have fallen back down

It is only me awake

Again

In this nook, near a shelf in the world.

The cats all sleep deeply at this hour,

The only ripple above is me.

Already, I have sought in the low light

And scoured the flat surfaces for the source

Of the voice-

As though if I knew this

I could sleep through the music

Conducting words my way

Some sink in

Such as

-Begin and Again-

i-am-hear.


Painting by Oscar Florianus Bluemner, 'Moon-Night-Mood' (1929) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Her yin

The woman saves babies.
I have seen her catch one
in midair with one hand
as it was falling out of
a walmart cart.

The woman I have seen
juggles jobs, hats, dishes,
bills and priorities,
shifting her wide hip weight
when necessary.

The woman stands in front
of her own children, taking bullets
and returning aim, she puts her arm out
when they are driving
still
and says it is reflexive.

The woman always worries,
I have seen her furrowed brow
she has origami secrets folded
up in there,
she uses up more than she has with nothing
left
of self

The woman knows her cliches and expectations,
she recites them easily if you ask,
and somehow
day to day words assemble easily for her,
she may manipulate these into weaponry,
unless she sees
some innocence,
she proposes poisons leaving bodies
awake.

Painting by Bronzino (1540) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sara Nade

Here is that same night bird taking the top of the stage outside the window

Singing light purple notes alone and unashamed of his thin lilting echo

Pitched out and rolling down the quiet village lane over fences

and peeking in windows,

Disturbed 

and proud I would be

if I had feathers to wear tomorrow…

There are no reasons or songs the avian knows

by heart, I listen, still interrupted

under the occasional bassos auto rumbling past, 

the bird usually waits for the concrete to cool

back down

Before the night bird at the window

hops himself back up his perch to scale, 

topping his previous arias and picking at

new notes

The world rises in mourning ovation, 

the inevitable death of knights

or a little light disturbance,

I will get used to it. 



Photo By USFWS Mountain-Prairie [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Degrees of profession

Develop a certain

-skill set-

as in business, with cool callousness 

as in karate where

the belt be the crown, that designates 

the title or rank, currently

The executive balancing his arches

strapped acrost the tautly

ill-suited rung to sole,

checks his elevation, adjusts the white collar

and gauges

                    his next move.

Now, 

undo what was taught to you

as a rule, reject the ready-mades-

the artist sees these to steal everywhere,

his palms itch and brow drips with want, 

keeping it in,

he delicately destroys his visions,

brushing this distorted imagery away-

missing the point

                               of manipulation.

But by degrees of depth

-perception-

These Two, these too,

Race like Humans

to make names

that mark more than maker, dreg

on the bottom

left

worse off

The blue suits are more, deflecting danger,

The artist, unafraid of crimson, leaves a line

tethered to nerves

that steal

and is broken 

down to blur.



Self portrait By Manuel Pereira da Silva [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.