“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, November 16, 2019
Beading
The wind breaks
promises
and I storm off
in bitter retreat,
sucking out the sour
isolation...
And the shoreline
waves
recognizing its relationship
with the timeline
inevitable as the tides turn
over
Revealing
what has been there
and who is dancing at the edge
unafraid
of falling in
for a pearl.
It comes in waves;
pain, sleep, sound, this feeling
the crashing is closer
becoming brackish
tumultuous and turbid for a trace
of gold
in every full glass
we see through
The warm breeze
blew away
our differences.
How easily mist
the rising and falling
of all things
may be made
more
than solid or whole,
as in part
of us
is always drowning
and becoming
one and the same.
Painting by Władysław Wankie (1860-1925) 'Fisherwomen on the shore', [Public domain].
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
Duck, duck, & Goose
I see you ducking
& hiding
as if this could
keep you safe
of course, most enjoy
a good game
of hide & seek-
except when there is
no-
body looking
for you
the pain sets in,
nesting in the
corners
where you have
stashed secrets.
Fleeing from danger
is both fight &
flight
instead of planting
ones
self in the belief
of growth & resilience
where you are
is never where you
choose to be
there is disregard
for the hidden
wanting to be found
under a shroud of a
woven
textiles you
gathered,
that felt like
encryption,
yet your secrets
strobe across
all of our four
heads
illuminating the dark valleys
spreading across your scape.
Painting by Carel Fabritius, 'Hera hiding during the battle between the gods and the giants' c. 1643 in [Public domain].
Monday, November 11, 2019
Our glasses (hourglasses)
I read in front of them.
I was reading anyway.
They never read.
Even behind my back.
I waited to be sure.
I was never sure
I waited too long.
Liars, thieves, and cheaters
are three of a kind.
I had them all
in hand,
and made a row of bushes
with the tangled vines
for Privacy.
Alone with ourselves
imposes ego as though
we should learn
from mistakes.
The golden rule
is soft, diamonds are forever
handed down
and the rain, perpetually
planting seeds.
The fine print, or return policy
for such a random act
sounds like wind strangled
in narrow channels
but is your paper receipt.
I figured it out
wrong but somehow came to
the correct conclusion
all the same.
There is a kind of
influence, with open palms
that holds no harm
to heat but crystallizes
in salt.
As far as
we can see,
All is in front of us,
there was no plain day
that would be lived this way.
Painting by John Dickson Batten, 'The garden of Adonis' c. 1887 in [Public domain].
Saturday, November 9, 2019
And In the Fourth Place
*1st*
Nice guys do not race.
Finishing is not the End
All-Be Told to Run.
*2nd*
It may be You have
Anxiety from lack of
Things to want-not Now.
*3rd*
Enstranglement is
too desirous of a Thing
that breathes not-Life.
*4th*
You got what you want
in the past tense, now what more
does Tension require?
Painting by Louis-Marie Austissier (1772-1830), 'Lady with Basket filled with fruits', c. 1814 in Public Domain.
Friday, November 8, 2019
Stages of Petrification
Out of our cradle
endlessly rocking
so soothing to suck and swing,
we be, Wives to the House
we working women
with clean fingernails.
Rural and dirty, illiterate, failed to be-
come organized and erected,
built and projected by chart.
Fortunate: Educate the ‘poor’,
Entitle the ‘rich’ by degrees and
adding zeros
we carry on, pound for pound.
In War
Peace. Conflict. Stability. Conflict.
War, Again. The sequel.
Work harder, work longer, work smarter, weave your
World Wide Webs
Catch the drift and save it for later.
Faith
Science
Tradition
Armed men have arrested the development
of reach, nucleic re-armament
fires up
and we women make mud pies
with what we have.
Grow food, “make” food, “buy” food
and storage for later.
Trees to homes to paper planes,
Origamic Plastic Pyramids
surmounting slag on landfill,
a slippery slope, a slide-show.
Bare feet babies scramble to fill shoes
made from recycled tires
and the miles
felt without insoles.
It is too late to change
courses.
Adapt. Improve. De(con)struct. It was all made
for you
to find a swing of things, how high
may be gotten before
going all the way around
giving blood
blisters from holding our chains
too tight.
Image of photo By Nikater (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Petrified Forest.
A simile smiles
A close-up of a crater with concentric tiers
denoting depth
except light years away
-it was not taken today
Resembling rings signalling ages in decades
of diurnal decay-
A natural atmosphere for well-being.
Change occurs in tears,
eternal and sometimes with a why.
Image By NASA/Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory/Carnegie Institution of Washington [Public domain], Rachmaninoff crater via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, November 2, 2019
Blue faces of things
On that very day,
in another Place,
it was more than
a later hour-
the heavy things
balancing on edges
would finally come down
creating a gentle breeze
over Here
and the nose would pick-up
and strong sense of Elsewhere,
only meaning
there was Poetry
being read in corners.
From the lips,
this music dips between
inkling and imagination
like a murmuration,
how things gather in ceremony
for harmony's sake.
And yet,
all the anonymity allowed
a tiny voice
to move through
this heavy Time,
passing on the thought of
levitation and how it was
never up to us
to do anything about the
thinning air out There.
Painting by Harriet Backer (1845-1932), c. 1883, in Public Domain.
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