“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, December 1, 2018
Fertilizer
I distinctly remember
being told
when I was very small,
the plants and leaves,
of course flowers too,
but branches like
to be touched,
it moved me.
I wanted to spot
the stem bending toward the
rising sun,
I wanted to
believe
all things would benefit
from this sleight of hand,
a touching moment
or the gift
of genuine introduction
to irradiating warmth.
Painting by Grigoriy Myasoedov, 'Forest Spring' c. 1890, in the Public Domain.
The hardest directions are the ones we follow
Take a left, or a right?
Go West-toward the ocean.
So, left or right?
Where are you now?
I'm in your neck of the woods.
I think you have gone too far.
Left or right?
Straight-toward the ocean.
I've come around the bend.
Drive-thru to the dead end.
Are there any land marks? I am lost...
If you keep going, you will find it.
Painting by Michael Zeno Diemer (1867-1939), Pera Museum [Public domain].
bird braned
small minded man
only capable of moving
one limb at a time
one a single plane
some said Stanley
explored out of his
comfort zone
and yet he is known
by other names
irrelevantly so.
The circle is wider than the sun
or, as the crow flies
across the radii
it would be a straight shot
between sight and
understanding
potential
the small-minded man aflit
fills his hands with too many
occupations,
he is past the limit
of how far eyes may be
set apart for depth perception.
After observing the same flight path,
year after year,
the soar-
ness sets in
and feathers fall off
my sides.
Painting by Paul Peel, 'Bringing home the flock' c. 1881, in the Public Domain.
thingamajigs
Call it crude
if you insist
to designate
that whose design
and functionality
seems rudimentary,
basic shelter
remains enough
for those requiring
little more than
distance from destruction.
Wallowing as we do,
from time to time,
the space becomes so small
between,
our feet become our shoes
and it was as if this was
plentiful,
the question of survival
posed as neither
safe nor sound.
Not saying
there were other ways,
and more than enough
to fill blanks
with trinkets.
Painting by: Anonimous french master previously attributed to Trophime Bigot. See official website. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Dem bellies full
When the fridge is empty,
I crave paper money.
When my pockets are stuffed
with receipts and detritus
there is nothing more to buy
into.
Love does not accept
money as tender,
yet it seems to alter
chemistry
dissolving this exchange.
As compelling as it is
to appropriate,
as we must, everything
has a place,
the toil never ends.
Pockets of air
take care of filling empty
voids and holes
and we are all full of it-
Language to gnaw,
gristle and by the way-
none of the above
ever satisfied the thirst
for our own consumption.
I will find a way
to take smaller bites,
preferring less
seasoning
or taste in love.
Painting by: Pyotr Ivanovich Subbotin-Permyak. Down the river (1918).
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Cat got my nose
I lost another
poem last night.
It wasn't more than
a fetus
or a couple of lines
strung loosely together.
It never had a chance,
much less a second thought,
until now when
I was sure
it would be there
when I was-
ready for it.
I could assume
it was never important
and would not amount
to anything
significant.
Yet, a feeling lingers,
like scent
from another-
who was here?
Germination
So they go on, doing the deeds,
rolling the ball they tossed
as if it were not obvious
they were following
where their eyes aimed.
Like an animal behind a tree,
they think I don't see,
and I am partly to blame
for this charade,
a willing blindness,
suspension of attention,
inescapably-
there is a stench,
as overturned dirt
insists on being known
thereby making its presence
the heaviest air in the room.
And like the elephant Ganesha,
she leans in, the earth tilts,
her trunk drops
an apple at my feet.
It is my choice
to open mouth
desirous of a tree,
or keep the seeds inside...
Photo credit by safaritravelplus [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Tres (trace)
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...