What?

Hears drums and crosses lines.
Mumbles to self, too loud.
Listens for source, finds growling inside.
Forehead furrowed after thinking.
A grey hair, an old mole, an ache, a hunger,
a new sparkle, an old ennui, or lack of
commitment-
Where screaming will come in
side, when it is safe, and if the space
is able to absorb it All.

It All sounds tempting.
Obsessions are relentless.
Remember how images dissipate
when held under sound waves?



Photo by CEphoto, Uwe Aranas via Wikimedia Commons.

To sing the Plague song

Too thin to help now,
with your lacy veil
a white sinew
you see through
the darkest of times.
It is clear
little can be done
to make it any lighter.

Two threads easily slip
through your shining armor.
The stars know they are the
pommel, the knot at the end.

To ashes, all that remains
can only be folded back in,
the way the body blocks,
and a shadow cast.

Only to catch
a crescent moon.

One twisted wick will
melt the whole ball of wax.



Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Perishable

The sieve separates us into fine counterparts.

Although, too many settle into miserable lumps.

Refrigerators and house pets no longer entertain

thoughts while locked indoors.

It was easier to break back in than swim

across the guarded moat, risking It-

It was all about how the timing 

lined up, or expired for you, 

risen to an occasion or 

rotting away.  

Painting by Jacob Jordaens, 'The Feast of the Bean King' c. 1640-1645 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spoken word poet

Your mouth carries clues

crosswords, in pen-you project

ink-stained ideas.

Painting by Yeghishe Tadevosyan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spasm

Silence sucks me through this narrow tunnel and only

in my knitted spiral, soundness burrows behind flat walls,

I am pulled down or out, never to get all the way

through to where

it is all white

there. 

Painting By Jean-Guillaume Carlier (1638-1675) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Translate-or not

This other language I speak 

-none understand 

outside my elfin ears. 

As if I mumble incessantly, compulsively,

as if I am fumbling my thoughts with stone words.

As if I were

seeking to release crystal clear meaning

from in-side the hollow geode.

If it looks like a rock…

Those wild words were all dear to me, 

took muster to say in such a way as to blur the 

sharp edges, land softly, sometimes it settled

in, others not.

The consonants were the hardest parts, 

the little lilt only the muttering of a passing bird,

waving its wings overheads.

Emulating butterfly kisses, lips

blown away

with all my meaning-

missed-dismissed.

As though the goal was only to tell you

something-

to commune-

icate, instigate, dictate-show and tell

about, something I have lying around.

Yet, I make no sound

like feathers.

Since I can no longer speak

in pure poetry. 

Artwork By Hills, Laura Coombs, 1859-1952 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Flower Fairy) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Maxim Poetical

Grandma said
                Always wear a bra
                -even to bed.
She said,
                Put liberal
                amounts of lotion on
                everywhere every day.

Grandpa advised
                looking up every-
                thing I did not know
how to use or say
Smile
Grandma warned,
               those are the better lines
               to make.

My heavy skin agrees
                with these
                ad(d)ages.



(This poem was inspired by Lorine Niedeckers' poem, '(A) Poet's Work')


Painting By Mohov Mihail (1819-1903) (Mohov Mihail) [Public domain, Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.