The path is Brodsky

His sentences say

He never repeats them

With eye or I

How would we know?

He is only a product of

Progression, 
an obsession with freedom

Of speech and others

Sentences.

His composure, 
demure, muffled,

intonations

He shies away

From his fiction

Life. Sentences.

Written this way.

Point of Departure is too

Point of No Return.

Painting by Isaak Brodsky (1906) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wolf dreams

The  blood flows as current
through and around the brain
spilling into empty as I lay
down to sleep.

We say-Wheels Spin-
is this where we begin and end
that recapped thought, witticism, and dig
deeper as I have a conversation
with self, explaining
why Ezra Pound is not
considered
an American Hero-
although I fancy the lad,
I now understand and so
much evil clumps in corners
the sealed eyes squeeze and fold in
the car repair for son, the phone for daughter
colleges, dinners, stories and towels-
so many towels-folded, washed,
thrown down, tossed, appropriated in the rain,
picked up-creamer but forgot the bunnies
and the pain better not grow or settle down-
the ER is not OK today, I am OK, I say,
I am, I am, I am, I am, I am, I am
hear-not here,
my body belies deep breathing
and I still think
I sleep
too much.



Painting by Albert Joseph Moore (1875) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.