Infectious

The overwhelming experience of taking it ALL in
Now, is an overstimulation of the senses as in the expectation
to make it so as we hold it in to the very top of this slippery
second the moment we notice it gone
and are left with what we do with and to this
experience
or sense of should-be-doing-
exhausting ourselves of our possibilities and
ultimate potential
contentment-
of being O.K.
or not okay
but still-
moving-thinking-feeling-not-
thinking-re-aligning
ourselves with being
ok with who
We Are


Trusting
ourselves
to heal
while we are busy
choking ourselves in the experience of
our environment
while the soul
caresses the wounds and whispers ways
to keep clean
while exposed.


Artwork/memento by Frederic Edwin Church, inscription reads "Remeber the ashy light, the black rocks and brown grass" Ecuador, Andean mountain peak [Public domain].

A turning of the Blind I

It would be
an act of empathy
if only
we were able to turn a blind eye
inward
when feeling
our way around
soft dirt
and sharp diamonds
with only our bare hands.

We focus
on bettering ourselves
Daily
instead of making ourselves
feel
better
daily.

From the first mud pie
we are taught to make
to the first brick of the fortresses
we build around our heart
to keep out
more than intended
being
the eager makers we have made
ourselves
to be-

merciful

we
wage battles,
venturing outside our dwellings
for a time
feeling our way
a-round
the perimeter
tempted to go
as far as the I
can see.

Eventually,
we arrive with new visions
and
without any tangible evidence
of our travels.

Painting by Paula Modersohn-Becker, 'Self-portrait with hat and veilt' c. 1906-07 in [Public domain].

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.

trails

Vengeance makes a map

old wives tails and medicine

man show now how X

crosses paths never worn away.

Image Title "After the battle Company G 32nd United States Infantry' c. 1898 in [Public domain].

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,

harmonium found itself

outside sound and dancing

in full color in the deepest
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.