The beaten path

The road is much traveled
and many speculations remain
about the roads not taken.

We have all come upon ourselves
confused, at the apex of options-
(a) or (to) be decisive upon catching the
flicker of a tall Indian paintbrush leaning
like an arrow as a sign to be read,
This Way-a choice is made for us.

We were exploring the Sierra ranges
and wound our way wordlessly
worshiping the execution of a task as
simple as footfalls when sinking into
shade, the unmistakable turbine of water
argued with the rocks somewhere nearby.

And as if made of honey,
we were drawn to the source.
Two humans length
off the path and we became
the main course. Each of us
quickly encased in a thick cloud
of blood-sucking bugs.

We persisted
and swatted and swung
at each other. For why we knew not.
We had seen running water before,
as rivers lead to other rivers before
spilling onto
the same old sandy shores.

Well, we nearly made it.
When the bough broke
the snap of our attention,
like a fishing line, hooked our cheek
on a fallen boulder of brown, a mound
facing its reflection as though right
at home.

The brown bear beat us there.




Painting by Albert Bierstadt, 'Passing storm over the Sierra's' c. 1870 in [Public domain].

Co-habit

Coyotes call out
as my alarm
under the mourning doves
coo who
take shelter and shade themselves
for the sunrise says something
predictably ominous and
October or somber.

Today, together, we all rise,
pecking or rooting our way
to live through the next
far-off sounds
Encased in lives that spin
bodies that stir
the world around
in space and time.

The shadows these worlds cast
are not solid bodies and growth
gives off chemical cues
that like evaporation,
dew always dissipates
into tomorrow,
there and gone,
a scent of something passed.




Photo credit: National Park Service from USA, taken 8/2017 [Public domain].

Imagery

Caught the words like snow
flakes-
Atop a calm pond net-
swallowing crystals.

I see life is almost
like a train ride as we sit
we fixate on this blurred view
and it passes too fast to focus
on a thing or know
how far we have traveled.

This season blurs
the windows
of time
when all changes
feel the same
as the last time.



Painting by Imre Ámos, c. 1939 in [Public domain].

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].