FourFiveTwo: with scales

Greed is the creature with scales
that dwells in the darkest depths
slithering so easily around Humility
and longing for longer legs,

And with the sharpest tongue, cuts itself
and coils tight to stop the bleeding
that tension sutures and dies blue red faced
that fire would also feign

I too, have heard the low-lying rattle
and been prey to leers from low in the fallows
yet, always, a path broken
gives every thing away.




Artwork by Arthur Rackham [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What is:Mine

Ashen sky, late hour

we embers smolder low red

settled in the coal.

Painting by Frank Bramley, 'A Hopeless Dawn' 1888 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Thirteen billion miles

First, ask yourself-
is it interesting
or worth further exploration?

Truly we are Voyagers.
This generation of seekers
has reignited
a flame.

Now, put a price tag on 'Time'
or light years-
A full moment is three seconds
or pennies in hypotheses-
how much Life
you are allotted in diurnal
years of Julian speed,
minus eleven minutes
and some fragmented seconds
may be written
in a single sentence.

Told we should learn
to figure things out for ourselves,
memorize how to hibernate
for the future.
And it is wise advice
for one and all solid bodies
traveling through space
at this terminal velocity.

I wonder if gravity waves
make white noise as they ripple
or only when they crash...

Some say,
Exile is a death, a geographical terminus.
Knowing one's history is written
over, like footprints and
now traveling under someone else's shoe.

But if I have something endless
enough to keep me fully
occupied;
a tree, a rock, water, or the sky-
time does flutter a lot
like Hope.

At last,
I ask myself,
after every sentence has been read,
is this an interesting enough
equation to try
to solve?




Photo By NASA [Public domain], 'Farouk El-Baz, Ronald Evans and Robert Ovemyer via Wikimedia Commons.


NASA reported on December 1st, 2017 that the rocket thrusters on the space probe Voyager 1 responded 13 billion miles away in interstellar space.

The night that the Accountant

The night that the Accountant figured out poetry
was a simple story
about a man and a woman
and the stories they tell
each other-
About
who should and who should not
discuss poetry,
since there is no GAP
in poetics or likewise, alibis.

I told him a story about a poem
that was a story
I made up,
I was never really there.

He said, 'Of course it wasn't true.
Being pushed off a bridge was just a
metaphor-
for what-
I don't exactly know, but if I know you,
it was a feeling
you felt that day.'

I confessed
it was true, all of it.
I could have jumped.
He understood
more poetry
than he ever could have
accounted for.

Along this
line lying between non-and-fiction,
a subtraction connects us.
And we reconcile our difference
of opinions in between
heads and tales
black and read
to solve all word problems.




Photo credit by Mathew Brady, Long Bridge, Washington, D.C. in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

With the worms

Shaking off his jacket
spotted with purple dots of dew,
he unfurls his wings
and dashes off
to a new perch
higher up.

In the insistent rising sun
my head and shoulders form
an opposition,
casting shadows on
soft golden blades
rooted underfoot.

Stirring begins from the ground
where settled matters to-day
such as History and alternative pathways,
are made with each step one leg takes
at a time
to make movement or progression
of orbit

in order
to get there
only to see the selfsame shrinking
without feathers, but by a hair
and blunted nose not pointed beak.

This is sharp steel light
severing the warm body
from the sound mind.

A murmuration demonstrates
the reason
for gathering
our resources
but taking them
lightly.





Painting by Léon Bazille Perrault, 'The Bird Charmer' 1873 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Round the bend

At this time
change felt like the fog rolling in
and when driving into the road mirage
and not hitting a thing-

in a blur that stranges the familiar,
stretches out time a little
like a band,
rubber or air-the change

lingered heavier than mist,
more solid than virga,
icy in all the same clear ways that
when you try to cut it out

from what was always
called Now I am-
like routine and rut,
running along the edges fray,
more than decor, drapery, or flax
like flux, anticipated
or a natural change
of season.

It could have been
Only that-

At this time,
comforts naked shoulder
cooled in the exposure,

where same,
felt somehow strange
like never before.





Image credit By U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Thirteen ways of holding one's breath

I

Thru metamorphosis, emergence of

butterflies and frogs, spread and span

red cheeks, the gymnastic belly below

sticks it with

loins lurching

in love

untold dreams discontent 

unwonted wishes, woos and woes,

it comes and grows

infectious.

II

Heavy is the moment-

He is gone,

gone, gone, gone

Gone.

Generations gone by 

that beget her, 

forget her, the family moves on.

A casket, a Triscuit, 

another he dropped it,

and I put it in my pocket.

It is still there, in my jacket,

old as it is, new every time.

He was…

III

The spider, the car trouble, the anger,

the appliances, the curses,

the denial of utterance

which makes it so

makes it so,

laughable

as a bad day, a bad life, a stroke

of bad luck, 

against the odds

I would survive,

still born

dead. 

IV

All in. Cleared the accounts.

It has to happen now. 

It will be, what will be, it will,

still there remains 

doubt in the dregs.

V
Remind me:

You were never about you

were about them never being 

about you being you, or just you

and not them. They needed you

to be. You knew them before you

knew you were just being 

about them needing you needing 

them to be about being themselves and

not you being yourself to be by 

themselves, not you, being by yourself,

which would mean the end of you,
remember-

VI

Sow seeds are the things with feathers.

No, germination was more gentle.

Like television, what harm? What’s on? 

That’s always on.

And on lines, tapped for groundwater, mineral

rights and tracking cookie crumb trails,

I was being watched. 

I was being stalked, like prey, today.

A seed has been sown.

Murder,

she wrote, consumed him 

of her. 

VII

The same thing is

The same thing is

not 

the same thing is 

the same thing in

sanity.

VIII

Poison is in the food

poison is in the fear,

the body shrivels

the body resists

itself

healing.

IX

What has been done? What did you do?

About that-

Excuse us, excuses us,

in liberty, for just us,

to wait and seek happiness

coining it as pursuit

of private pleasures and 

philanthropic altruism,

we donate dirigible good

deeds, after our needs

have been met 

and mingled with resistance.

X

Go. I will 

meet you 

over

there.

XI

The next phase of the moon that wanes

knows how the shadows will fall 

before the darkness sets us in place.

XII

From inside the cave, gasping for air,

before light, 

unafraid of the burn, the yearning to yell

grips the mouthless beast 

hidden herself and longs to fill her lungs

with sound of feeling and exhale 

the pungent stench of death that goes

unheard,

the beast falls and the volcano erupts

with more of itself. 

XIII

If the sky holds you,

you will be carried

the rest 

of the Way.  

Inspired by Wallace Stevens poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"

Painting By Alexander Mann (1853–1908) (oil on canvas) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.