Respiration; Inhale

He said we are doing it wrong.
None of us take in enough.
Honestly.
As if this regulation
Was anything more than an expression of self-
deprecation
Whereby,
The Universe must be
Breathing us in instead of the other way around.
As if all were not made
in exchange
for what was needed most.
As if any-one was not worthy
of inhale.
I follow sounds with reasons.
It was said
We should only speak in exhale,
which blows treble
Over the top of a quiet rustle
A cacophony
Unanswered
Baseless breathing refused to unlatch
The belly of burden, to remember
To breathe.



Painting by Thomas Cole, 'View of the Round Top in the Catskill Mountains' c. 1827 [Public domain].

Buried alive

My heart thumps
apeish pounding
and I try to keep my fangs
tucked in.
Wired and winded
together, denial was the
black matter
we refused to identify.
Barbaric as it Be,
pacing ourselves
in our cages, deepening the ruts,
muddy we get
stuck
unable to climb out
of our graves.


Painting by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, 'Mountain Forest Path' c. 1919 [Public domain].

Namely

Archer is a good name for a poet.
Only someone intent on honing their craft
could sharpen any word,
with pro-
found in-difference that whispers
copper pennies of investment.

Whistling in the air,
important and pointed,
as it whirs across a perfect arc
the branches dance back
strobing light through
space.

There was infinite,
what did it all mean?
There were names of things,
there was the aim of
Things
and there was connection
with the target of meaning
Eros, all was Love.

 Archer is a pseudonym
for Anonymous, as far as arrows go.

Photograph taken by Julia Margaret Cameron of Lionel Tennyson with bow and arrow [Public domain].

Monkey bars

Vacillation in the non-
sense
of getting out of your
own damn head-skull,
not all oohs and aahs.

Fidgets and itches, twitches
pangs signal the need to flee
for your Life

But trapped-
as we are
to-gether-against
the wall closing doors
pushing on the pain-
body, as a name does
Nothing

to rectify, identify,
but objectifies, justifies,
the lies and immersion
in madness, a persistence
in
Obstinance

won't let go, cannot make
either one
unknow the chosen
words.

Painting by Evelyn De Morgan, 'The Gilded Cage' c. 1919 [Public domain].

Pray, Prey

"Praying is asking; meditation is listening"

At what point-if any-does saintly
become so sacrificial
that death is its ultimate end?

When, if ever, does the heart of an angel,
hit with its own dart,
concede this too
must be divine?

Whence and why does Spirit
move energy so intensely
it reverberates into the material
realm?

Maybe the middle is maddening
to mock me
for the time
I put into making such massive
messes.

I have studied for this test.
All of the questions cannot be known
before-
I have learned
only enough to get by
and yet I try
anyway
I can
to pass-
to move on
to the next question.


Painting by Margaritis Georgios, 'Sappho praying to Aphrodite' before 1843 [Public domain].

Whyte light

Lean out,
breathe in.
Step off,
take it in.
You will fly
they praise.
My wings must be wet.

Whyte, white light
from acme to abyss
this mountainous
poet dragon
echoed across
my blood river valleys

and Up
I aimed a gaze.
My eyes-directing
my eyes where I wished-

Like the flower
happy to bloom,
in bloom
noticing the ever-changing
view.

Left with these notions

what must come down?
Come down
what must,
what must...



Painting by Thomas Moran, 'Mountain of the Holy Cross', c. 1890 in [Public domain].

Chalk

Green, oh so serene,
            awash in heart
and yellow glow,
            gentle evening strength
And absorb
            the black smoke
and fireballs like shooting stars
             hurled in my direction
observing
             the energy, only-
I scoff-a slip-and then correct
my posture-composure-and breath
                   from inside the top of my
skull, I wait,
                   presently
for revelation
                    to show
nothing is real
but the indigo
                    I know.


Photo credited by Ross Burgener 2013 [Public domain].