Galileo's Hearts

The hours carrying over one heart beat
                                to the next
which only make echoes of now and forever.
                                This crude hammer-
ceaseless-does not heal but molds to fit
soundness through all narrow passages
                                pushing breath aside.

This welcome breeze washes over
hot cheeks
with smile,
injecting light
where darkness filled up silence with stories.

There was once a time
when it was easier said than done.

Flutters and leap seconds could be folded
and kept muffled
in between a steady place
and were bound by revolutions
mistaken for revelations.

Now, as predicted
none looked further than necessary
and overall, it was universally agreed,
                                          inevitably
the shifting weight
would crush us completely
while the drum rolls on.


Painting by Arthur Hughes [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
                                        

                                         

First love, then night

The son

searches blindly in the thick shadows,

timid and thin, his alabaster skin 

fingering rays for warmth

where matters with heat may penetrate,

he lingered along

to feel the shapes and qualities

worth illuminating.

The son

gives off too much

light of himself,

but cools his burning core when worn

down from spinning out ideas, worries like water

for clouds.

Grey lightens the pressure of beauty in shades

of dilution.

The son

sets his gaze on the fine line,

balanced between now and then

an emerald spark, sometimes called Epiphany

flashes forward before

the embers burn themselves out

and all that fixation

loosens the belt of Venus

able to breath aloof in dusk.

The son

becomes sure

of being risen and having been 

roused, only to be caught 

in a brief glare, he spots 

glimmers of where love

lies and may be

beyond her dissolution. 

The son

will to morrow, who is

peaking at noon,

falls warmer than 

any moon who wanes

when the world was said 

to be done. 

Painting by Cornelis Lieste [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

kindling

Dirac asked Oppenheimer,
how in the world he could practice physics-
theoretically and simultaneously pen poetry
when one is aimed at the succinct center,
the concisest way
to phrase the nature of things
in the most approachable,
graspable way....

It could have been rhetorical or figuratively
proposed in such and such a way as Dirac
may say 'applicable',
and Oppenheimer might reply by
giving him an apple, alleging
he is the fairest of all
that are ripe.

These translations into a broader spectrum
of greater visibility from the sides, specifically
and beneath, the poet speaks in waves of ultraviolet
and enunciates his infrared best
when he said
experimental imagery was everything that
could be hypothesis-like this...

And making up metaphors as a means
to sight ones sources makes
Science sing
the song of itself in harmony
when it silences the man interrupting
the synesthesia
with perceptive interference.


Photo credit By ENERGY.GOV (HD.4G.028), J. Robert Oppenheimer in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Transmission in Transition

Freeway roars more than ever,

not because it is a Monday.

With August time is pushed against A/C windows,

glaring about where blind spots signal danger.

Only congestion is quiet.

The speedway whines under the weight of grey.

The police siren screams in haste haphazardly,

with authority, a cymbal, on its path of pursuit

in order to keep mobilized migrations

inside the lines.

The fog rolls by, pushing through and cutting off

the idle sun.

A red-shifting light through diesel smoke

imposed speed limits as a dare,

to supersede a sense of departure,

with one eye

fastened to looking back,

The other I

travels light. 

Painting by Joseph Stella, 'Battle of Lights, Coney Island' (1913) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Thought Angler

...sounds a little like
reminding, word choice and voice
in head unleashed runs back over
itself, like long winds of Jack Kerouac.

When some words settle
like boulders, impressioned and set on
making a safe crossing of white waters
for rock dwellers and ware sellers
of Cages. When Neruda was no longer
a border,
Lowell and beholden-There
I was only a Rae,
scaled into a small Armantrout
aiming upstream it seems
by heart.

Planning my path further,
the banks beckon me with moving silt lines
that shape earth
with a wand of whim. All eyes swim across all
those cummings and goings
making sparkles
above.

I take Paz at the reflection,
amassing stones
and skip the flattest ones
across the Eliotic surface,
Poundless and unpuddled,

noting ripples like run on sentences
that could race round forever,
yet are bound by body, only to be
settled on the shores
in the act of abating the volume
of poetry
with only the words of Emily,
finally.

I have caught a current in a collective
intention, wielding a hand
with a hook that looks
like a pen.
I wait, feeling for the wiggle,
a sign, message spoken
through fingertips-

this was when silence
was most sought
by the spear.






Painting by Martin Ryckaert (1587-1631), 'Fisherman in a wooded landscape' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A poet in prose

"Always be a poet, even in prose." 

-Charles Baudelaire

Succinct                                   Finger words attempt to grasp the shape

                                                or solidify some things that matters

                                                enough to cast shadows.

Withheld itself                        Where we have both eyes

                                                and this simultaneous process of thingness,

                                                the space it takes when ones eyes are closed

                                                or looking too long at any thing,

                                                turns to creamains, a small pile, still smolders.

In rote repose                           Mind over matter is when matter takes hold

                                                of our mind and an argument ensues,

                                                this circular discourse becomes a deep rut,

                                                here we go again, making a smile with left overs.

Umbra                                     The darkest parts, those chunky photons assembled

                                                from all particulars and are open to letting the light

                                                expending the conservation in equal distribution

                                                of temperature into background

Where loss of certainty           as love and mild.

Makes one move around         Musical chairs taught us how to listen

                                                while in a hurry to save ourselves and

                                                change our point of view without preference

                                                for any place other than staying in the game.

Look                                        Listen.

Within                                      Many layers of glass make mirrors. 

Painting By Paul Fischer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

ante meridiem

The first crows of day take flight,

Gliding across the cool metal morning sheet

Confidence rises cool and aloof,

Early raw and pink dissipates like sunrise,

awakening forges

Here to face another view of this again,

All anew and alloyed with quill. 

Photo By Hillebrand Steve, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (Public domain images website) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.