Tuesday, September 5, 2017

September steams


There were stars too-
and of course, it was clear as crystals
with a full ball of mercury rising up
near ninety degrees,
moon shadows with a blue halogen aura
shrank and shriveled,
well before sunrise
everything hung in place,

every breath was held
and humid from being inside the body
where courage gathers
like a photo collection,
(in single dimension)
that could be assembled in someway,
in chrono-or-logical order like constellations
that slip and slide down time lines,
yet no sense would penetrate
nor make land fall.

There I was, looking for something else,
out there
with me
dropping leaves
like I let go
of every thing
on dawns tip-toes,
through light night
pretending not to notice
the disturbing peace.





Painting by Martin Johnson Heade, Passionflowers and hummingbirds c. 1870-1883 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Monday, September 4, 2017

Venus visits


Lying here
In darkness,
That is never heavy enough,
I lift the leaden pen
Towards tissue paper sheets,
The scratching sometimes helps-
But it doesn’t get to it
There is no focus
Under this solar eclipse.
I mark this occasion,
With singed retinas,
A scar to never forget
The sight-
It was just the words
That found me weak and feebly forgetting
My lines and knots,
Loops and circularity, entanglement and
Coincidence,
Felt as a brush of the lash, a butterfly effect
Of heavenly bodies.


Drawing By From public domain book, Solar eclipse, Corona 1870 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Best wishes


Awoke enraged, not so abnormally early, 
as of lately, over the years.
It was
when the pieces of to-day come 
to-gether, jagged edges
fit like drifting continents

Mean-while 
I feel the Red Sea churning in me,
a chemical nadir or lake-effect
chill, the miasma of yester-day
post-comatose and 
it all seems circumstantial.

To each their own:
Reaction, dreams-re-action, re-sponse
in a more vulnerable way,
most appreciated
On Sundays
with all the
preaching, humility,
and alms, atonements that sound
off, and on
faint echoes-chants of fury flare up
As I smolder

screens and screams of forgiveness
do not alleviate the weight,
some may say, silently changing forms

from matter to steam
was all one should wish for
one another.




Painting by Frank Buchser, 'Portrait of a young woman' 1868 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Choral motes


Doomed to repeat,
Implies inherent circularity,
As if our orbit
Could interrupt
With just knowing the segments
Of hilarity,
Propulsion just doesn’t work that way.

In microcosmic scales
Up and down, within spins
All is held together
By this
Revolution

From cloth to cloud,
White was ideal as open, pure,
And alone
The maker makes more mess,
The observers became obsolete,
And cursed the eternal stream
Of colorists, art and first impressions

And one was moved
Spun around again,
Up and down
Came together
As if they must.


Drawing (lithograph) By Odilon Redon (France, Bordeaux, 1840-1916) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, September 2, 2017

(Indebtedness)


Do I owe an explanation
For the lack of contribution,
A waning flow to trickle to dry
Of petty profundities performed
with choreographed complexities,
chaos and an absence of exuberance 
exploded in
gesticulations,
not i.

Where my arms dangled limply, 
bulging and blue-tipped,
there was no more holding on
to words like wind and when
yet with
all loses I have gained
a fine-tuned 
moment-hum…




Artwork by Fernand Khnopff, c. 1883 in [Public domain or CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Draining the tank


Forced to shut it down,
I could blame the mind
and its tangents, divergents,
detours and erratic rays-

It was required, however,
silence inside,
the volume became unbearable
under the waiting 
behind healing.

Glances stolen by cocked arrows shot
straight from shoulder blades,
and daggers drawn across the word
arched with pain in glass sand
esses like snakes smolder

And some vacancy was needed, 
a clear horizon line-
some bleach, for feelings.

Yes, White-
now
Angels swallow song-
birds, as I sing along sharply
re-citing
the poetry written in the sky.



Artwork By James Yunge-Bateman, c. 1943 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Reconciliation: Numerical Solutions


What could be done
with off and on, yes or no
and one and none

became endless...

In two
given the same gift,

neither desired nor deserved
and each put it away
for as long as possible.

By laws of conservation
and arts of distraction
feats of nature and the
zen of (un)
doing

the present hovered over them

one never looked up,
the other
empty

inside, the same
blue blood rushes upstream
unseen in the light of day.

One would begin to spin
and find equilibrium in this direction,
while none could take it in
without wobbling
off kilter

bi-polarity divided into each other,
choice by reckoning

Balance with Being

excepting no gifts
without a creator.


Photo credit By Brian W. Schaller (Own work) Acadia National Park [FAL], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tres (trace)

Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...