Recital

On a Sunday without sun.
A day of Revelations, 
-without all the Light.
I think of how my elderly mother 
is likely being beaten
down and on 
by her husband...
I think of how the man 
who says he loves me 
is likely cheating
on me and is always down around me...
I think of my adult children 
and how they have struggled with me 
and grown still
suspicious
all the more-
none the less,
I think of all of the sandcastles I have built, 
now perfectly indistinguishable from all 
other failures;
grains, hairs, skin flakes and ashes 
that I have left 
strewn around trying to blend in...
I think I have been told my whole life 
to put it down-
I think I misunderstood.
I wonder how 
I could ever think
thoughts could be read 
like a sermon we share
or the psalms we hold 
in memory. 



Painting by Claude Monet, Camille Monet on a garden bench, c. 1873 in Public Domain. 

Capital T

It was coincidence that
Truth hit the margin so hard
it made the big
T.

The answers were always,
just lying there. True or False.
The truth was filed away,
in the oven,
on ice,
just beyond the horizon,
outside of our reach,
out in front of us and
most visible on our fore-
heads. Indicators of attention
-span.

Granted, little u's
the q's so well,
as if wedded to one another.
Infinitesimally too quantum
to separate
from the microclimate
too minuscule
to divide or conquer
or entitle affectionately
Grand Fallacy.

So the tee's were crossed and
the eyes forgot
where to aim
the sentence.


Painting by Henry Stacy Marks [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

following

in fews and some succinct
far betweens
where seeing is belief, a chasm
yawns

-wait-
let me reassemble this and that
together

it will come

Open

in relaxed moments, boxes
like these
corners

converse

wait and see
or not
and never mind-

prophecy, like karma
thinks
a lone to only one

conclusion

there is no watcher here
a wake.




Painting by Charles W. Bartlett, 1908 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Implementation

This pen writhes
hisses and spits
poison darts
from the bow of my fingertips.

I wrestle and choke
it down
on an empty
page
the feeling bleeds through
the collected pulp
smearing the white sheet.

Against bone,
the pressure to cave in
begins
at the first period.

Etching the paper
so that complete erasure
is not an option. I strangle
the words, Go On,
in the process.




Artwork credited by Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, 17th-19th century [Public domain].

Watch your Tome

I am holding it.

It has soft deckled edges
as I desired.

And it is small enough
with a hard protective shell
to fit in a woman's purse,
even if women are wearing
updated backpacks
to make them look
younger,
I suppose,
judging by the cover.

The cover is just an entry point,
if interested.

I hold its
girth and heft
knowing it is more than mine.

In crimson foil shapes,
I recognize the letters lining up
down the spine
as my own.

It moves me
to turn the page
while cradling this
creation and holding it
to life.

I can smell it
as though it were my own
perfume, never the same
sinking in
to different skin.

I am holding
these things
accountable,
tangible,
reliably
resulting
in heavy thoughts
with soft deckled edges.


Painting by Master of the Mansi Magdalen [Public domain].

A4 in B-tray

Certainly, not the first female
to have been betrayed
in this way.
And we are told to throw up our
arms
and we are told we should
Celebrate
how far we have come
making progress,
as far as equal rights and
equal wrongs
will come along someday,
even if we pay to play,
it costs us more
than we have to spend
finding a balance between
bankruptcy and wealth.

If we take away
only what
serves us,
we may not crave
revenge for the last
course.




Painting by Johannes Vermeer, 'Lady and maid servant holding a letter', c. 1666-67 in [Public domain].

The Big C

Judging by the looks of you,
I am okay.
I will live
with this.

Good or bad never announced their intentions.
Blessings wear disguises and often underneath
is a curse.
Curses only tell us,
there are bad words.
Save your prayers for the good words.

We all have this disease.
How do I know
I am:
middle-class-near-poverty-independently wealthy-
broke, whole-some-a little
pretty-creative-ugly-short-average-sexy-smart-
except/accept the artistic tendency-
to never finish-
And
Not good enough, light enough, fluffy enough
to rise to the top.

It is a degenerative disease
but not lethal,
causing many people to become
bed-ridden whereby,
nobody can see it happening,
the Big C
inevitably crippling
and eliminating any breath
of fresh air.

There was no
Placebo
that would prove
originality was a sin,
or provide support
for the proper functioning
of such complex systems
commonly called
Culture.

That is not the source of the plague.
But living in such close proximities
there is no immunity
from the compulsion to Compare
every person, place or thing
as if we could be grammatically correct
when spelled out,
none knew how to read the
finest print.

It will cost you.

Hey,
You over there,
is the grass greener?
Take a picture, send it to me,
no filter, really?
I guess everyone else is better
off
than We.





Artist Rupert Bunny, c. 1915 in Public Domain.