Chlorophyll-ed

I am as incomprehensible as the granite

underfoot as I stand on the fence,

teetering on the post tops,

scrambling across the jagged riprap,

lava on my left,

ice on the right

wondering if I will ever touch down

and it will be enough.

Sometimes, I lean I little too much to one side

and become painfully aware of needles stabbing my cheeks,

and of the physical struggle I wage

against gravity and giving in to the wind.

My eyes hold a glare, grazing across seas of green,

hungry, nauseous.

I remain the thing that sticks out.

I pretend I can hold my composure.

I pretend I am mending, securing and building

back up

the differences between sight and seen, observed and obscure,

between then and now, overhead and right under the soles

heat rises.

The sky blended primaries and found 555 nanometres

restful to the eye. It was a gift in lieu of fight or flight.

A boulder in space time adds up,

this occupies me

for a time
as if I was getting somewhere.

Photo credit By Sonja1982 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

All complementarities aside

We tapped into the human genome

And are now mapping the brain

But you know we won't find love there either.

They scared us with the hole in the atmosphere,

Cosmic rays, acid rain. They tried terror

By burning down the forest before the cure

For cancer was cultivated.

The ice melts and minerals reinfuse themselves

Ionically with purpose, freeing radicals to cleanse

Surfaces.

Then this standard A brain met a utilitarian snaggle-

What’s it for? What about changes?

Yeah, the gold was soft after all.

There was common wetware

And we always knew how copper conducted itself

Generous with friction and actions without touch.

Entangled in the overhead wires,

Thought is under webs, like lines that meant complex

Life that we thought

we could emulate all the folds and it would comfort us

knowing love was no there to be found

nestled in tight corners and, residing

rather closer to a paradox between intelligent design

and first thought or dream.

Image credit By Smithsonian Institution from United States [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Info via Wikimedia- Chandra telescope x-ray (2005): 

"The Chandra image shows a bubble of hot gaseous supernova debris (green and red) inside a more rapidly moving shell of extremely high-energy electrons (blue). These features were created as the supersonic expansion of the debris into interstellar gas produced two shock waves - one that moves outward and accelerates particles to high energies, and another that moves backward and heats the stellar debris. The relative expansion speeds of the hot debris and the high-energy shell indicate that a large fraction of the energy of the outward-moving shock wave is going into the acceleration of atomic nuclei to extremely high energies. This finding strengthens the case that supernova shock waves are an important source of cosmic rays - high-energy nuclei which constantly bombard Earth"

Proof to feel

Exempt from Rule three
'Seeing is Believing',
poets have felt gravity waves for centuries
before proof,
evidenced in the condensed packet called
a 'moment', that hits him square in the numbers
chest-wise.

Arresting breath with bondage attention
the neck braces itself out there
nearly knocked into shadowed fear-
don't look here-
it seems safer to watch than feel.

Despite the blind faith and electric lights,
the poet reads the ultraviolet signs as liminal,
hairs will rise only to settle in an
oppressing scream. It thinks it is escaping in
reaching for its own echo, those
vibrations shake the sound loose
from source.

Entanglement matters most
to poets without deflecting further penetration,
those background noises were called white
for lack of definition.

The poet lights his metaphor,
inhaling all that remains too minute
to make time.


Painting By Charles Furneaux (Hawaii Volcanoes National Park archive) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

X traction

The pen becomes a scalpel,
gleaming with precise intent
on sterility and removal, via
extraction from entanglement,
in order to sever-ate the corrosion
before it seeps through to stain
repellent gesso with black tears.

And although the layers piled up
their rolling waves of light,
it was the implementation of movement
through space that fills in the blanks,
we went further
discontent with no white way
to think this through
with outlines.



Image credit via Wikimedia Commons, in Public domain (Gift of Felix M. Warburg, 1928), dated 1605.

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.