Homo-stasis

Let me be beautiful-
but not so much so that it makes me
ugly to others.

Let me know more
than everyone else,
but not so much
that I am to blame
(for everything).

Let me be plugged in
but not all the time,
because it weakens the
battery.

Let me love water
but not so much
I drown myself
for want of it.

Let me take in all
the air,
more than enough
to hold inside.

Let me read every word
that means something
to someone,
let me hear
all the wisdom
that may be
profound.

Let me love.
Let me live.
Let me love life
but not so much
I fear death
for the love of
wanting it.


Painting by Matthias Stom [CC0], 'Old Woman Praying' c. 1630's-40's in Public Domain.

Episodic

My dreams had something (important) to tell me
last night.
And on the rare occasion the
Sandman sits down,
crosses his legs
and heart,
promises not to take more than a
Soul, tells a story, and
I get up
before he can get to the point-
of dreaming...

You know, some people believe that dreaming
is reality and the Real World
is make-believe,
comprised of the stories we tell
Ourselves-
True enough
to imagine.

Have you noticed that some people
live for their dream
even when they don't understand
its language.

If we dream we have it All
and get it,
would losing it
become a dream?

Between shades of light and dark,
shadow and body,
we collect impressions of what time it is,
subconsciously we know
all the has been dreamt before.

The point of the dream
the Sandman said is
that it never ends with
Us.

Painting by Franz Marc, 'The Dreaming Horse' c. 1913 [Public domain].

Miss Demeanor

Rather than
Not being good at
Anything,
I mistakenly over-
heard
People reading
The writing
I left on the walls
And instead of calling
It graffiti

They said it was
Good, they called it
Poetry, they read my
Name
and it became an
Accusation.

 Painting by Pompeo Molmenti (1819-1894) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The flavor of feelings

That horrid taste
is due to
the guts rotting,
turning sour
was like love
mistaken for instinct,
untraceable poison,
it seeps,
she weeps
and feels like the weak one
shaking under
the world.

But no.

That which once
quenched-
now toxifies
from inside out,
freely flowing in veins,
through valley's
lies in ruts
and where kisses
once planted
themselves,
now choking on weeds
telling herself
these
hold
the mud away

like selfish deeds

never survive
too long
now
tallest
in the forgotten fields
she chokes
on the view
and knew
this place
inside
was putrid.


Painting by Pierre Bonnard, 'Dining Room in the Country' c. 1913 in [Public domain].

as above

The bird flaps its wing

making the air above Light

falls from the fanned flame.

Image credit by D. Dibenski [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Another time

could you tell
the
pre-
occupation was else-
where
by, I mean, analogous to
investment, banking into
listening with the right ear-
I always knew
it was not wrong-
which explains why
I haven't given
much voice,
by choice
to what is left
over

this way
I can hear who said it best
and decide omissions,
sadly some adverbs snuck in
the cracks,

the poet recites
from fissures
showing the weak spots
matching voices,
what could have been
an echo
asked again,
could you repeat that?




Painting by Giovanni Segantini, 1892 in [Public domain].

feather weather

The awkward bird
arose from her branch
puffing up her breast
and shaking her head
discovering a burning
sensation
in her throat
which carried pangs
into her tiny talons.

She tried out
a few simple notes
to crack open the stale air
before asking
the question,

was there a moment,
a degree of light or altitude
a passing gale
ideal
for realization
for comprehension of wings,
to soar, to sore to try again
and again
when did it know
to sing in truth with only vowels

Where did the poet go
in verse?

The owl chimed in
wisely
turning nocturnal
eyes
with avian alibi,
refused to name names.


Painting by Friedrich Thurau, c.1868 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.