“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, June 8, 2019
Body
When composed
I have been most like a
lightly punctuated piece of prose.
I recently noticed this
when asked about tendencies
and putting ourselves into forms
or shapes.
When tasked
under grammatical conditions
we need not justify
why we do
to be understood through all the
various transitive verbiage.
Assembly was always required
of us
but never easy.
Only a certain grace found in
a harmless poem
could reflect lightly
a likeness of Others.
Our bodies of work
lie
in the white spaces
where there is room for the shadows
cast by the words beheld
and there are more than enough
glimpses of more
meaning
to be caught-
in mid-air-
afloat where we see
more than the sun setting in
(a day).
Image of writing by Joseph Carstairs, penned c. 1820 in [Public domain].
B4 PM
Before private messaging
there were the numbers
on the clock
And those moments
were magical
when we could predict
(make occur)
the future
with its interminable revelations
And knew
All Souls
past by-when it began
its first
Revolution.
There were many times
All numbers
changed what they meant
and how they appeared
in passing.
Artwork by John Singer Sargent [CC0] in Public Domain.
Saturday, May 18, 2019
trails
Vengeance
makes a map
old
wives tails and medicine
man
show now how X
crosses
paths never worn away.
Spring palette
Some
nights such as these
in
Spring
the
crispest ones forebode
dramatic
scenes and
will
only be appeased
with
warm words, the genteel kind
unlike
those dark corridors linking
hollow
rooms to alternate realities
and
how easily
we
may be misplaced inside,
one
sees clearly-
Poetry
possessed the palace,
the
chorus charmed themselves
considering
changes
are
made in continuity,
contemplating,
contemplating,
harmonium
found itself
outside
sound and dancing
in
full color in the deepest
dark.
dark.
Painting by Henri Le Sidaner, 'Small table in evening dusk' c. 1921 [Public domain].
Prince of charms
I see him clearly behind the wall
furtively tending to the ritual
of opening wounds
while he wields his favorite knife
which resembles a bottle of Tequila
and he stabs himself
repeatedly
with audible barbs-
the kind that go in and you cannot
pull them out
you must pull them through.
And when I forced a look at him,
I saw the glimmering round shield,
blood spattered red cheeks,
his brow beaded with sweat from lifting
the load so long, carrying it wrong,
he ached, he moved in pain.
And the artillery unleashed
with words flying like arrows
and feelings popping like brittle
burning wood while smoke
circled his buried head
and instead of his precious blade,
he pulled out a small smile-
sweetly
in his shining armor,
while looking away from the glare
he managed to mumble-
you know I love you.
I was never sure
who he was aiming at.
Image credited by UVM Libraries Digital Initiative 'Sword_sharpener_practicing_his_trade', published asa postcard c. 1909 in Public Domain.
Settle in
Gathered all
I
could manage
to
ex-press-
an
in-audible
scream
that left the bereft-
ness
expended
under foot.
under foot.
See
me
as
I never was.
I
am only
Now
as
can be
good
enough
to reach.
to reach.
Not
a word would match
the
fiery-ness,
not
a wet thought lying
around
to ignite
the
waxed wick
convinced in ambiance.
convinced in ambiance.
Shivered
at the losses
when
the blood concentrates
on
the speed it needs
to lose groud, to blur
the lines.
to lose groud, to blur
the lines.
It
was always time
and
matter to dwindle the days
back into a neat stack.
back into a neat stack.
Meanwhile,
my
toes curl
atop
a thin sole
inside
the shoes I have outgrown
I am misshapen.
I am misshapen.
One
day
I
will feel
the
temperature of the earth
and
find it
just
right
where I happen to Be.
where I happen to Be.
Saturday, May 4, 2019
Respiration; Exhale
Late afternoon, predusk
Crystal beads balance in between blades
And I wonder how the dew does
Survive the day,
Like me.
All the change and energy
exhausted.
Exhaled more than I took in.
Eyelids spread wide
I steal the last flakes of golden sun
And hold my breath
Because it's all I know I can do
and besides
(myself)
my heart is simply too heavy
To lift this evening.
Painting by Henri-Edmond Cross, 'The farm, evening' c. 1893 [Public domain].
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