Leave it at That

"I am That, Thou Art That"

There will be
many
that ask how it came
to Be

So
I will answer
Yes,
it seems
Impossible
to Be
born
questioning

yet we Are


Image credited by Fré Sonneveld fresonneveld [CC0].

reception

I was called upon
to light the candles
I arose first
to a voice
in the dark

and listened

Over my right shoulder
and above
whispers
as a breeze
would hum

and falls across my skin
like daybreak

It was not necessary
to know
more than could be heard
and I do not ask
for repetition
as in prayer

for a sign

a flicker as sure as
aglow,
I kept
quiet, in order
to Here myself
saying 'Yes'

while carrying the flame.


Painting by Godfried Schalcken, c. 1670-1675 in [Public domain].

The light from stars

The sun had yet to rise
Still; inevitably it occurs
to us
it will never be the same
when we embrace this day
that tries to run away
from us

Not to notice

A sky
contains hope
levitating
as atmosphere,
permeable to light and
always open
to being caught
unaware
but ready

like the eyes
that see from here. 


Painting by Paul Klee, ;Horizon, Zenith and Atmosphere' c. 1925 in Public Domain [CC0].

Thine

Certain she was an angel
so no questions were asked
in exchange for quiet
observations
like rites

And I do not believe
in these divine beings
anyway

Her presence
provided a feeling
to pray this reason away

For proof is sought
inside realms invisible
for them to see

Gratefully, I step out
of this shell,
noticing the sleeping orchids swell
while the red breasted finch
thinks of a new song

the angel noticing Him
may know.

Painting by Marcantonio Franceschini from the Dulwich Picture Gallery [Public domain].

Draw out

It must have been
one of those crossroads
that Dante found too dark
to penetrate
and I find myself
sinking
to the depths
of Tarot,
whereby a spark may be
cast,
only one strike,
like sipping one toe into the
Inferno
and you know
I drew;
The Emporer, The Hermit, The Lovers,
The Devil
and Strength.

There is something
strait-forward about
a cross, a sword, empty cups,
perhaps
the pathway, and a Virgil,
that may say
directions,
like selections
when lain, like steps
a hand
is dealt and there lies
choice,
namely,
to forget
The Fool.



Artwork by Dante Gabriel Rossetti [Public domain].

the gazing tree

Words are my mirror.
In one frame, there Is
an accuracy and simultaneous
Alienation,
projecting from This compact structure,
such as a singular dimension,
as in Ego,
ergo sum
perception.

I pointed
my gaze
out-
side-
this Home
provides no shelter.

I wanted to pick the words,
like weeds,
carefully including the root,
which is a sure sign
of eradication, or hope
of never returning.

So my eyes and hands scan
scan the sky
but only a breeze
could find meaning
There.

What does remain
Solid
after trying to convey
an idea, to prose?
Must be made with
origination,
in other words,
something like; a black box, a red wheelbarrow,
13 blackbirds
and a parched poet
scratching tan paper under an old oak tree.


Photograph by Dietmar Rabich / Wikimedia Commons / “Senden, Venner Moor -- 2013 -- 2305” / CC BY-SA 4.0.

Clear as mud

Enveloped, as I had been
         folded
into the dark mournings,
one after the next stroke of
grey palette,

And when standing
         upright
among the five foot stalks
of daisies and poppies
where painted ladies
couple up twisting aloft

precipitation,
and what precedes,
a worm, a cloud, a momentary
          levitation
inconsistencies become solid

Silver change strewn across
the steel
sea,
sense
              the bottom
of the well, whereby my feet
have sunk
in.

Artwork by Umberto Boccioni, c. 1902 [CC0] in Public Domain.