The breaking of day

Start here,

Where it is new and all fear, trepidation and caution

We called it

A scream it is untranslatable.

Symbols show

More than scars softened over imperfections

Below we know

It feels more than numb, sealed memories to tote.

Foretold in light

In eight minute increment’s, sentiments sent somewhere

Between now and then to pretend de ja vu wanted to remind you

Nothing new better than you to rise

Lightly.

Painting by Nicolas Poussin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The sylvan man grows in light

After watching what you say

In the way

of change

concentration

cures

our severed taste buds and

need for salvation is mis-

taken for thirst of knowledge.

Flavorless is so often

Distasteful.

With the impressions all-ready made,

castes cracks to make like-ness, best selves,

come rise to the occasion or surface,

holding up the sky for the stragglers,

last ones out-

So beauty is the last thing any-body sees.

Rather-build an experience stacking up

of extrapolated theories, compacted clumps,

we build like dutiful doozers

busy before the Fraggle ruins it all

over again.

A variation of pattern provides for knots,

gathering spaces and pulls punches with curves

unfit for naked kings.

There can be all or nothing

theoretically and answer is not the source,

it is a question of directed desire, of

questions and may-bes.

Fear and famine are inadequate seeds

of inspiration for a fish to continue to grow on

and on immersed in its own currents.

The air is different amidst change and chaos,

at the same time, it was always happening,

never staying the same-

except the way you speak

of change.  

I accept the way change 

speaks of you.

Artwork by Jusepe de Ribera [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bide and bide

Patience was a problem
he was working on
And so: Nothing Doing about it
All's well that ends in a day.

Around the bend danger awaits,
there was no other way out.

Asking about contents and swatches
make a myriad of answers juxtapose and
work without reason.

I still stand-awaiting your reply.

His hyper heart, the others tainted blood, the ill-tuned organs, the laced food, the zombie pills, the (mixed) media/ (missed) messages, the dumb distractions, the deafening volume, the vast emptiness, the toxic air, the yellow water, the rush, the summit, the plummet-----
Do it NOW!
That is-jump-the wait is too great to hold onto for longer than patience holds peace.
Later-it will be too late to learn of love
and its heroic acts that fail to think
before giving up
the weight
was over.


Painting By Gordon Coutts (1869 - 1937) – creator Born in Glasgow, Scotland. Dead in San Francisco, California, United States of America [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Gravitas

It was never about our dumb thumbs.
It was the way we stood up
to gravity
without needing to know what we have
pushed up against, the faceless force
of resistance that throws its weight in waves
that crash out of sight and none mind this weakness
the stacking of back bones.

The clock, the book, ape our names with a smirk and a stick
shows you his ant collections, meanwhile, the snake swallows its tail.

Pounds and heartbeats resist this ethereal oppression
that taunts us to compete with what we have,
as though a winner was ever chosen,
as if hope had more than clipped wings with whimsical wants
and rings only of brass cages,

only light easily escapes our local prisons,
with motion detectors triggered we creep
like suspicion
reflection and persistence and say we are seekers

what gathers as cumulous clouds all comes
back down to dirt before clay
this way something is from nothing

the spinal column rachets and secures its connections
between inside out, an idea, a step in the right foot first
direction of brave, giants leaps of grace
loss of place

higher than vertigo knows
makes me think
there was nowhere to grow
up is out.

I doubt our thumbs
gave us a free ride.
Gravity takes no sides.




Painting by Claude Monet, Heavy Seas at Pourville (1897) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

bed of coals

Enveiled, as usual
lifted my eyes by the chin
you invited me in

a place I know, have been
sitting by the fire-place.
And only on this hearth

have I seen illumination
made warmer
by generous raditation

over time and across space
between us-apart-of something else
that remains Otherness

between bonds like breath
we share aglow,
rekindled when struck together.



Painting by Santiago Rusiñol (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Free Will-but save yourself

The whole truth and nothing but the truth,
You can't handle the truth-
Truth be told,
If you dare,
I swear on my life
It had all been said before as time and time again repeats itself, this time is different,
as assertion or assumption that the old is new again-this time
there is no way all the way around without seconds-
You've tried before, before the moments meant more than muddled memory of cake,
a building block, an hour glass or year more changes things, dims the lighting while we change
and seek something original before sunset-
Yet nothing new or true has been said yet...
except we still try (and propose)
we still lie (and suppose)
we still die, believing legacy lasts longer than I told you so,
as though the truth shall set you free
to choose
just
one.


Painting by Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy-Trioson (1786) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The currency of pretty

How could you be so Beautiful
and not show anyone?

Why do you squander this Gift
doing nothing powerful
with it-

You don’t have enough to spend
frivolously, you said.
Our investments differ dramatically.
Meanwhile, I have been saving up
All my paper money
for disgraced tears
the old fashioned way.

Only trying to help you get
A head of yourself.

Your advice is not the flotation
device
I need to keep a heads up.
I think I am too heavy, too deep
to let it Be. Do not worry about me.
I would happily dissolve back into the sea
as in, dis-
appear
coming back again and again in tide,
leaving crumby trails of gold.

This was you being ugly,
or just one of many duplicates.
Monotony blinds anyone who sees just
silhouettes and small talk, grains as significant-

Personal preferences aside, you should see
Yourself in this light.

Instead we blow off the complimentary
and make glass castles or ballerinas,
all so fragile where thinnest.
If only we could trade
places
matter and Purpose
melt in twisted hands,

beauty was nothing new.

Photo credit by Graham Crumb/Imagicity.com [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.