They carry no identification

The lost souls could not
have been
                -strayed-
unwillingly taken
from their way,
meaning-intention.

Did I mention
they found Us
in sad shapes too,
(round bodies in square
boxes),
what to do

about maps that don't make a clear path through
tough terrain
& letters that refuse to column, justify, paragraph
or add up to cents?

I swear atop the nameless grave,
I saw the spirits, the others
looking away, must have been
confused by their own disparate
directions toward the destination
all call
'Home'.

There was always more than one way
there and back,
although there never stayed the same.

The tree markers,
bleed and breathe,
resembling each other,
unlike the stone
every body was required
to find
a building for the soul.





Painting by George Elgar Hicks, 'Gypsy girl' c. 1899 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Paleolithics

The professor professes all he knows

The light in the room stretches its narrow rays

between the pews and up the tiered aisles.

His word, Pedagogy, 

saunters through the active scene

where footfalls succumb to silence, 

the thought sits

Outside of the time

it takes to experience

a revelation, commonly mis-

pronounced as Revolution.

The mind drifts while his voice 

rests its laden brow

on grainy monotony and concrete definitions.

Meanwhile,

the insatiable self-seeking creature recites

all he has seen

and heard about phenomena like

boiling water and stunted grass

thereby giving his dark pupils

all the more reason to run

back into the cave.

There can be found familiar

mountainous men, rigid in their routine

for survival, passing time by

holding their profile up against the heavens

in order 

to demonstrate the concept of 

contrasting outlines

and where they meet

without becoming the other. 

Painting by Thomas Eakins, c. 1844 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Obscurities

Dense fog rolls across the chiseled terrace
steps from West to East.
Downtrodden and quite oblivious
of Man's conventions, this mocking
mist, as in a gathering of ground clouds,
shrouds the serial sequence of events,
entrances and exits undefined and occupy
our focus, hazily
we get stuck
when we cannot see
ahead.
Shadowless spaces between,
scoff at the series we expected,
anticipated
of Inventions and Evolutions
and Apocalypse.
We've tried to rise and plunge
gradually
to adapt
in this solid state.

We seem to seek the End as if it were
the top.
Admiring an ascent out of view
despite our narrow window
to appear or seek
escape and opportunity
everywhere but specifically
over there.
Such low lying obscurities like
grey matter gathered in this way
concealed the landing
so we may walk across the clouds
making us feel mist
the most, despite always Being
invisible at certain angles.






Artwork by F. Childe Hassam, 'The Spanish Stairs' c. 1897 in  Los Angeles County Museum of Art [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Green copper pot

When a woman has
One child and makes
Zero investment makes no
sacrifice(s), contributes
None,
the yield on this bond
does not depreciate
into negatives-no
this product multiplied
Itself,
condensed and compensated itself
entirely with exposure to the elementary,
the obvious and raw goods,
thereby taking its own shape
by directed collisions
with steel objects,
only adding
character and patina
values molded with age.



Painting by Martin Dichtl, 'Still Life with copper pots' circa 1639 (Public domain), via Wikimedia Commons. 

kindling

Maybe the best way

to keep love alive

between two

is to

always start

but never end

with a Maybe. 

Artwork credited by Charles Jacque, c. 19th century in the Metropolitan Museum of Art [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Blind i

Losing one's eyesight is the prelude to
insanity,
indirectly.
The words lie there, lined and
blocked,
and the Brain knows what to do,
but can no longer sharpen
the peripheral
imagery with ease.
Poor lighting perhaps
not more than denial
that it was all a blur.

My grandfather had Alzheimer's,
I used to think it was called 'Old Timers'.
My grandmother got glaucoma,
we don't know when it started,
nevertheless
we never saw each other's point of view.
Makes me wonder which is worse...
I think up and makeup
for fading memories, visions,
and finally, recall, I remember
what I came here to say-I now see
Time erases All



Image credit By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Mis(s)worded

Since
I couldn't
no-wouldn't
stand the voice
No-noise,
the incessant barrage
of worded white noise,
I wrote poetry
(for constraint).

What does happen when
2 pennies are rubbed together,
a spark
of sense?

The sound that silence plays
while filling in the gaps
has become louder the older
I get, as if I get
something.

Who is the I
that claims to Be not I-
the poet

The words with an alibi
from elsewhere
saw how small and narrow
the mark Itself made, and made
more width and depth
to shroud the naked nouns.

When I went
quiet
you covered your ears.
My two eyes narrowed
even more,

the poem burst and dissipated
in front of us, like memory
maligned
for lack of metaphor
or something nice
to be noted.






Image credited by Edgar Degas [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
Title: Louise Halévy Reading to Degas, c.1895