A genda

Today, I will write,

Paint, read, make marks in space(s)

Empty of purpose ( ). 

Painting by Nicolas Henri Jeaurat de Bertry (1777) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Leave a message at the tone

The universe has a way of hearing the things we say,

aloud, Eliot knew this too.

No matter whom we direct it to, sound waves ripple

the atmosphere which hears this 

stretching--of---imagination

into speech tones, a whistle from the kettle of

the thermoshpere or body-cavity.

The rising sound, or the Doppler effect teaches us

the source

is closer than it appears,

-omnidirectionally-

It absorbs  itself and replies

as a twinge, wave or spasm, clenched

in the sinking feeling of a heavy heart

that beats on itself, calling everything an echo

of what was thought, solid enough to move bodies

into empty spaces and fills itself with volume

from heat, or by imagination.

It conceives these shapes and translates them

into words or wishes

which will settle for a collection of particles we

have  heard before

we knew the source. 



Photo By State Library and Archives of Florida (c. 1948), [No restrictions or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Danger zone

I got to thinking-
maybe we were doing it wrong-
facing fears-meaning
why not let the demons in-
hell, welcome them hordes and all,
feed them well, find out what they want
from us,
so when they leave
it is-
for good.

What if what soaks in our pourous mem-
brains, is what we ooze out-
that is All,
like Nothing is ours,
or New,
we just reiterate or refute,
repeat or recreate, take credit
and run with it like a baton-
on fire,
And the longer I live,
the more I've seen,
heard, worn, thought, been there before-
it seems All
stolen-
moments-that is.

Furthermore,
does one dare to consider entering
such dangerous zones as the solid realms
of love or death, one and the same,
before one has tasted
it on their own lips?

No. Not in poetry. It would be tasteless.
Alas,
beautiful things
are most draining.


Photo credit By:Henry Peach Robinson [CC0], c. 1860 via Wikimedia Commons.

RPM

She had been running like a top for the past 100 years.

All pistons were firing, the timing on, it was simpler then,
without all that electrical wiring and webs to get caught up in.

Everything started with a spark,
which caused the requisite chain reaction
needed for thrust and to accelerate
fuel through tubes and get the veins conducting
enough heat to signal friction, life, and movement
along with the exchange that lungs do, except
inside the dragon's breast, under the hood
there is smoke
where a heart should have been.

A simple jump was not enough.

It can always be fixed, we are reassured. With Parts
and Labor, the estimate is always exceeded.

Rebuilt,
She might have run forever,
had there been no end of gas, parts, expertise-

Or had the rules been followed as in right of ways
and merging. Had they not crashed, recklessly
leaving fumes, rubber, bolts and broken glass strewn,
we may have made it a little further along the road to civil
ization.

Aside from all the accidents and operator errors,
outside influences and distractions,
if we stopped all four ways, blinked Right and turned on Red
we would translate the road signs and Marx made,
as symbolic of the passed
and find a new way
to revolve.

She was broken down.



Photo credit taken 29 January 2005 . . Bogdangiusca . . 396x271 (52947 bytes) ({{PD}}) in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

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.