Those are not windows

We know the difference between screens

And windows

We have seen panes and cracks distort the image.

The daughter of a poet was tasked to pen a poem,

perceived as silly, she wrote it off.

The line led one to believe Heller Keller

dreamt in color-
and Kandinsky painted music

And they laughed-

The black and white words were lost

on the newest Tech-no-extinguish-allingo for rhythmic rules

Class, (the new Beats 

by algorithms).

Photos sans filters, simply

unaltered-in the past-by contrast

To green and blue screens that project a

Headline(r) to the stars.

A theater student herself,

She laughs at those old over-acting 

talkies before Technicolor, whose

lame movements, I justify-

are compensations for lack of color.

Well, faking it was fun. 

Forts and refrigerator boxes

worked for pretending elsewheres and make

believing in speech-

Until we started to believe 

the sounds were real.

As though everyone knows 

colors come naturally

to all things reflective

Only-

Is it touching that tells the truth?

The poet has no sense.

Painting by By Juan Gris (José Victoriano González Pérez), Spanish, 1887 - 1927 (1887 - 1927) – Artist/Maker (Spanish) Born in Madrid, Spain. Dead in Boulogne-Billancourt, France. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Self-driven

Bipeds-we have walked
with our soles touching the earth
until grew tired and found
limits to how far we can make it
in a day-
and just how much, or little
one man may carry this way

until we tamed
double duty quadrupeds
who lightened the load
a little

when we saw the wild steed gallop
our fancies flew and we felt
there is a better way-
so we broke them and started over,
land-locked and loaded on beasts
this feast lasted longer than a day.

It was not long, remember when
Four legs was not enough,
we wanted wings
but got stuck spinning our wheels.

We hatched plans to get there faster
than the crow flies-
ill-suited for the skies
we want back to fire.

Today we fly anywhere,
drive up to the edge of lands end
teeter in between atmospheres
propelling people mindlessly about
still holding the mules lead

our soles ungrounded.

We needed directions more than license.

Now, how to get around
the fear
of not being in control
of cruising and steering and nearing no
better ways
of moving forward
without needing to know
how we arrived or when we will be
delivered.

Painting By Mary Stevenson Cassatt, American, 1844 - 1926 (1844 - 1926) – Artist/Maker (American) Born in Alleghney City, Pennsylvania, United States. Dead in Le Mesnil-Théribus, France. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Monk-ee-See

The Dalai Lama traveled to talk
at the University, and it was good
to hear it was no celebrity.
He spoke of "dialogue"
let me repeat-
He spoke of "dialogue"

Not many of us wonder
or need to know
our full thoughts

The way we treat
Others
could be better-granted
territories are gone-
None go out of their way or think
of crossing invisible lines

Surprised to see none like me-
not unique-just unanimously rejected
for some thoughts of me
I didn't see
coming or going

Not knowing our position
we listen to Others
who guide us to Do Unto Others
as if we knew the same treatment
worked wonders on Others.

Conversely,
speaking drowns out listening,
when we worry about what we will say
when it is our turn

The Dalai Lama was dripping like a wet sponge
in the high humidity here.
He was not yet acclimated to hear
his humid reception,
and the excessive
precipitation of June gloom.



Painting by Peder Balke (1864) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Act your aim

When we stay in line
like good little pixels
stacking up our boxes
edge to edge
we may notice
the oval, all circularity
is pointed, adjacently
and saved, if needed.

Connections and karma
are just
arrows attempting to be
boomerangs.

Hunters and gatherers,
acting in accord
with the right angles,
took shape, called it chalice,
and carried it with us
empty-everywhere

beginning and ending with "Fire"
-there was nothing-
to hold us together but the sphere.

1st(Top) Painting by Douglas Volk, 'The boy with the arrow' (1903) in [Public domain or CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons.

2nd Image Info: John Gower in a portrait from a book with his Vox Clamantis and Chronica Tripertita in Glasgow Univ. Lib., MS Hunter 59 (T.2.17) folio 6v. This is from a revised edition of the book published c. 1400 (before Gower's death). Gower is depicted as an archer with a bow and arrow. Gower prepares to shoot the world, a sphere with compartments representing earth, air, and water.
Text on the above image in one version of the Vox Clamantis reads "I throw my darts and shoot my arrows at the world. But where there is a righteous man, no arrow strikes. But I wound those who live wickedly. Therefore let him who recognizes himself there look to himself." 

I was framed

Words wouldn't come
so I went with paint,
but the body was too thick
and the primaries screamed
even when kept apart

Those threads I cannot read
through
the prepositions and problems
drama and canvas scenes

in media res, centripetal
room at the edges
so bubbles don't pop
as tempting as black is

Purple pretends perception
like lines of sight
the same lines that bind
up brains and I's
omnisciently we see,
underneath it was red,

with light
become plane as day,
in a literal sense.



Arttwork By Michael Sevier (illustrator) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.