Anthropomorphia of Aesop

It could be the case
that the average bear
refused to learn
anything
from the old dog
that retrieved only
as far as he could see
around his cataracts.

In fact,
only the owl querries over us
anymore.

The lesson being
more than the moral,

it was wiser
to not wonder
where things went
when out of view.

Painting by Valentine Cameron Prinsep (1838-1904), 'Il Barbagianni (The Owl)' c. 1863 in Public Domain.

Scripted

Found some handwriting
it took forever to decipher
as my own,

with large open loops
and smooth sweeping strokes
outside the lines,
I read
plain as day, black on white,
set as granite

between these boulders
where I have been pinned
and slowly
squeezed into thinking
I must fit
failing
to recognize
how shallow
my breath had become
how tiny and whispered
my words were,

I take in less and less
of what is essential to live.

I do not recognize the freedom
of thought,
for a moment
things shifted,
weight-
and I saw myself
scratched out.



Image credited by 'Theory and Practice of handwriting' c. 1894 in Public Domain. 

Cold tile roof

The cat was absent at breakfast,
a first,
and
unappetizing feeling found me.

I sought, and called softly
in the pale predawn air
which carries things
a bit too far.

I heard his pleas
directed at me, but could not see
him,
anywhere-

Curiously
his green flashing pupils
caught my eye
in the mortuary moonlight
looking down
from the rooftop
yelling, cat calling down
at bewildering me.

After I rescued him,
again,
climbed the ladder
convincing him
his life was secure in my hands

we humans,
wondered how
or what
lifted his seventeen-
maybe twenty-pound body
up
and exposed all
forty-degree night...

Perhaps it's all a metaphor,
like when survival
is not a skill
but we do it anyway.

And it dawns on me,
that in reality,
rescues often
go the other way.


Painting by Camille Pissaro, 'Red roofs, corner of a village, winter time' c. 1877 in Public Domain. 

One a.m.

Under an unforgiving winter
full moon
light,
bonded
I become
by these rules,

heavier than gravity
or speculation.

Disheveled sheets show
lasting impressions
in icy blue hues.

The sky reflects
jagged pieces
like a shattered mirror,

Fragmented
by this time
life traces the artwork,

Homer hovers above
A tired lady remakes her bed,
tucking in the corners
mitered under the mattress
as taught-

as if poetic justice
could be concealed by folds
or heat could be
contained.

Art is often a window
to what we are about to be-
come.

Cliches cling to us.

See,
beauty was always drawn to you
in long strokes thick in color
and time-
You would not look-
until Now.

It would always be shown
how moonlight erases any line
untrue
to round forms,
like heavenly bodies

tumbling through
mortal moments
both heavy and light
in alternate perspectives.


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

Combustible

Blinded and spotted
with double vision
of two
dancing around
the ring, the pit, the issues,
the pyre and flames,
the names
we use
in Love...

The elements
were all presiding
outdoors.
The smoke moves us
around
the light flickers
and pops as it catches
on...

This orange glow,
we know
the truth is
coming together
these cold nights
bonfires seeking
vanity
are explosive,
knotted and ingrained.

We agree
wholeheartedly,
we are only we,
individually.


Painting by Paul Gaugin, 'Upa, Upa (the fire dance)' c. 1891 in Public Domain. 

The shortest love story ever written

Sometimes I picture
Us,
sitting down,
                       shoulder to shoulder
and looking down
at an open book-
reading the same lines
but not understanding
each others words
So I will point
                        to a picture
Instead,
you smile
while I cry.


Painting by Pierre Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), 'Couple reading' c. before 1919 in Public Domain. 

Forgot to tell me

We get just One
-Go
at It,
Oh, and you get less than
10
decades
to try to get better-
Why
tell you Now
 to mince words
or splice genes-
I mean,
This is Us,
the One and only
One must focus
on the Prize-
it is wise to use it
All
Now,
I suggest
you rest on those laurels
Later,
when there is Time
that does not matter
or count
Anymore or Less.
I guess
I needed
to read
This
before it slipped my
Mind
for good.




Painting by Karl Bryullov (1755-1852), 'Sventlana at fortune-telling', c. 1836 located in the Nizhny Novrogod State Art Museum in the Public Domain.