Tuesday, December 17, 2019

The page of gathering places



Chin jutted level with the horizon line,
arms clasped around thin elbows which palms
cradle against the abdomen, the body becomes
a sensual veil, loosens its threads, the carpet of moss
appreciates the spaces across smooth rocks such as
She-

And I hear her voluptuous sigh
giving weight to attraction,
attention and focus upon
the tiniest moon
as though the stars were an entourage
of criticism-

She begins again, stainless in the mud,
I inquire as to what is bothering her,
what matters more than
rocks and trees-

She beheld a single sheet of white paper
which explained her glow,
scratch that she noted and tore
it into thin strips
but would not say another word edgewise.

I knew I would piece it all back together
when she smiled, opened her shoulders,
spread her wings and sang
like a mocking-bird.

There were too many notes, index cards
and pages coming back, 
returned to sender and un-
deliverable-

Yet we agreed
on something so stark
standing on different patches
of land and future, undoubtedly
paper was better than plastic.


Painting by Poul Friis Nybo (1869-1929), 'Reading Woman' c. 1929 in Public Domain. 

Sunday, December 15, 2019

The beaten path


Curses
lain across footfalls
shadowing
the marked path

Treacherous crags
protrude guilty edges
into skin
under brittle nails

The way weather exposes
the external
and tries to wash away
shine with light

Circling eternally,
erosions never cease
such as this
degradation of morality.

The darkest parts
are tethered to these heavy
steps
Taken

for fugitive
methods of moving gifts.

A body spent is
a blessing saved
for another way.
High noon

obscured only our difference
by degrees,

illusory of our self-images,
and how much distance

must be made
to be come
one with a same
destination.

Too late
to take back
steps.

Any other way
could not have been
more direct.


Photo credit: Carol Highsmith, taken 2015 in Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado, USA. 

Friday, December 13, 2019

Assemblage


It was a group photo
taken of a womans' twenty
assorted pets

on and around a green
velvet couch,
all facing forward.

In order
to capture it,
one had to be there.

But anyone can easily put 
together what happened
after
        the click.


Painting by Rufus Hathaway (1770-1822), 'Lady with her pets', c. 1790 in Public Domain.

Nasty Bird Woman



Nasty woman.
Mean spirited old bird. 
She knew she was evil
and she tried 
to contain her corrosive
spirit, 
blanketed in righteous robes
of recycled plastic number seven,
which frayed at all the visible edges.

Rough is not equal to sharp.

For the safety of her loved ones
she played Nice,
but her costume did not fit
anymore.
She was swollen, frumpy
in her misery, her resentments
festered like puss,
she reeked of infection
and abhored the
good scents
like innocence.

The green oozes out
leaving a slimy stain
where she once stood
her ground,
she makes it sound
like she is stuck
in her own trap.
A trap is a trap
when open.

Witches always walk
high and mighty
as if they were born
for power,
mistaking strength for malice.
Weight was all she could do
well,

I found myself 
standing over her well,
peering down 
into the depths of her Hell
which widens like a sinkhole 
swallowing all solid ground
and livlihood in her proximity.
My nose shrinks.
It smells rotten. 

Literally,
those that profess they possess;
intelligence, honesty and tidiness
are ignorant of the obviously sloppy lies 
they leave everywhere 
like litter-
who left this here?
There is a fine left to pay.
It will be collected,
any-witch-way.

Lastly,
How in Hell
does she sleep?
Champagne and Mexican pills.
Her flute overfills
bubbling over
the limit.








Artwork by George Romney, 'Tom Hayley' in Public Domain (date unknown). 

Saturday, December 7, 2019

To: Night, There will be no words


Moon shimmer atop the sea
                              Take me
Into your crested,
              Closing, wet black
Mind-
          If I
Stand here,
                   listening to your
gentle snore, rhythmic as
                     White noise
No one voice
Rises up

High moon,
                    Mid-nite, we stand
edge to edge, like the
                    Folded note
I tried to sing
                   To you, like serenade
I made a solid
                        Offer,
of my devotion
                        Hereby

Anchor leaden legs
that sway and stay
in Place
              seemingly,
ceaselessly churning in places
                              vast, liquid,
Beckoning as foreign skin,
sucking in
                  the air between
Us,          as a magnet may
Be attracted

The Other
shore
is out there,
We stand here
and just Believe
We must.



Painting by Winslow Homer, "Moonlight' c. 1874 in Public Domain. 

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

King of Sandcastles


All the little boys begin
by feeling the power
of costume and cape

learning man versus
nature-
good guys and bad guys

until one day
the costume
becomes a uniform,
clean lines
disappear and
superheroes
become firemen

capable of brazen acts
of valor.

Before the selflessness,
all the little princes
are pranksters,
putting a single grain of sand
inside the oyster shell,
into the monks shoe,

and these became pearls,
of course
time
refined
things.

Little girl, I was called
Firestarter,
and practiced the title
often on bridges.

I have never seen the Sandman
in my sleep,
but in my wake
I feel the sand
filling me in-
side.

Apropos of the ritual 
I chose
to be buried alive
after I say
I do
wish
to be cut by pearls
into innumerable
and indistinguishable
pieces of myself

made up
of ashes and rust
as it must be
my nature.

I must confess,
the arsonist
admired his work
while I wed

the King of Sandcastles
before the tide rushed in.



Photo credit: Galveston Island Sandcastle, Texas, taken July 2011 in Public Domain.


Tuesday, November 26, 2019

Greener grasses



Pre-fixed upon how
the rooster breaks his silence
atop a fence post.



Painting by Ada Thilen (1852-1933) 'Rooster and chicken', in [Public domain].

Tres (trace)

Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...