Grains

More than once

you find me

Open, accepting

of the visit, intrusion-

Not that

it is-you are

-unwelcome-

Insistent, indeed and once

I look at you again,

One begins to recognise

A feature-

There-it is-pushing into

view, a rise out of you- 

and I felt I knew you already.

Somehow you seem different, today.

You seem bent by paint, 

or diffused light through crystal as

strung up window ornaments.

It is that smell that tells me

You are close enough to see the

expressions, stretches or sweat, 

through thirst and famine.

More salt is needed,

Wouldn’t you say?


Painting by Valentin Serov, Portrait of Olga Trubnikova (1886) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Sculptor recoils at the mess made

♦

The stone may remain
a mark, a mary,
an adam or a bone,
and thus, it surpasses us.

Immortal or always dead-
This
does not explain
heat retention
or justify the cold
kept on and in.

♦

Medusa met her match in a mirror,
a moment forestalled by the vividness-
as perpetual disturbance or hair on end-
as in, the felt self
never having been
so repulsed before

She,
sentenced to see, only.
Muted.
She makes more matter
for company-posterity,
as in a collective semblance
with what is given.

♦

By stone, in stone
the smallest settle
together. Bolder.

Be-cause con-crete crystals,
gold dust flecks spark-les
closer to the smooth surface.

Reflection, like passing winds
erode the images cast in like-ness
breaks down
all That
the stone hoped to be.

♦


Painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme, Pygmalion, and Galeta in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Soundless garden

The word noose hung in my head

Another dead

                        body

                                    sways

goes away

A pretty pendulum taut under a knot beam

strong enough

I cannot convince myself

Ends are here

                        I feel them approach nearer

draws on

a bead

my unknown heart

my heavy hit

                        ear drums

                        top snares

his rhythm speaks to me

                        alone-

                        who left-

                        who-

Speak up, I’ll clap my bones,

bang my head

until I snap

off

my fate

my wave

                       crashes.

On May 17^th Chris Cornell, an American musician and artist, took his own life-and his art-leaving behind a dear family, a large extended family, close and distant friends and fans that span generations, leaving us all to thrash in the crashing waves of his music awaiting a sense of full color sunset on his vivid passionate life. I hope he may be resting peacefully. 

Painting by Albert Joseph Moore [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A handle on things

Of course her hands would eventually

Change, I accept the adaptation

And know I must let go of the little one.

Trading the paper and the pencil, manual

We labor, we trade and I watch

The same ring on me, though this one

Is rose gold-

And I cannot demagnetize my eyes or

tear them away from her new woman hands.

It is

The way she holds the pencil

The way she hovers over the white page

The way she hopes it will be good

I am confident

She is in good hands. 


Painting by Marie Bashkirtseff (1881) in [Public domain, Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Trees before forest

Long ago,

I relished, savoring that golden hour

In which people so often flock to the sea

Eyes set on the dipping radiant sun

And me now

Caught completely off-guard, unarmed,

By the bright gold glint reflecting upon

The beige page I cradle,

This glare that makes me lose

Place, interest, grip

in, on, or about anything

but this propositioning, this pen

and a poem

waiting for me

to see it there.


Painting by Tom Thomson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.