May Grey II

After so many May days
that curtain the skies with a fine marine haze
only breaking up under the heat of midday
donning a robe of satin blue wash
without any white spots
there was nothing more to be done

On other thick
midweek days, the same sky
holds up
a solid grey smoke screen
sprinkling into something
like too much timelessness.

Today the sky tosses
shadows and demands
attention with
thick padded clouds which
loom and tromp and roam and all
seem to know each of our names
and where we live precisely
by our current shape.

This high wind
has brought a wash of relief,
like warm atmosphere
even while
things were still moving
I felt still...

and kept getting my focus
pulled into the deep sky
and mesmerized
by the outlines,
the shifting journeys of these
mammoths
made of magnetic mist
I am drawn
into.

The harder I focus
and try to hold these empty gatherings
in my mind, tracing as they were racing
past, suddenly,
as if met with resistance,
and shyly they all slow
to an amble
and stall directly overhead.

And all that seems given
in the world
for closer observation
is made up
of grey matter
upon further reflection
I think the cloud sees me blue
while it seems white.





Painting by John Constable (1776-1837), c. 1821 in Public domain.

My Valentine

Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.

Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear

and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-

a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out

but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-

clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.


Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.

Cut Thrice

Three times I have watched
the queen palm trees
on the estate on the hilltop
trimmed into tiny tufts
atop slender reeds
to slight
for jeweled crowns
and I cannot recall
how long I have lived
in this same spot
where rings are added
and removed.



Photo by Dozen monkeii, 'Barcelon Palm Trees' taken 1/2016 in Public Domain.

Hollowed out heart

I unsheath the telescoping rod
from the vein in my left arm
connecting my ring finger
to the heart
and pierce the stale air
of dwelling in this too-small space
atop the low mountain ridge,
I scream, a hawk echoes me and
I determine to open it up,
as a surgeon might do,
and bleed out the rest of the
swollen lust built up
from impossible dreams
and so many bruised misentries
stain like scar tissue,
there is no feeling in this area
that the immune system
is ill-equipped to treat

As the resistance is overkill,
homeostasis is not a residential zone.
The needle-tip inserts alternate forms
of nourishment and necessity,
only meant to keep the heart
beating me up and down
like a closed fist
striking empty chambers.


Painting by Hans Dahl (1849-1937) 'On the mountaintop' date unknown, in Public Domain. 

Laundering

Where does one begin
to unpack the suitcase of grief?

While it may be nice to throw it all away,
or donate these shreds,
I find it impossible to imagine
never
wearing those favorite jeans again,
the perfect bra, the stained shirt,
the holy sleeping attire-

I have no desire
to wash and fold and put away
for the 235th time
these obligatory articles.

I sense that grief starts with the smell
held between the threads
and remember distinctly
the quilt my grandmother made me
that fell apart
completely-
like family...

Long gone,
I ponder the scraps
and marvel a few moments
at all the layers we carry
and feel a sudden need
to give the shirt off my back

only to see
how I was made
myself again
woven with only
the softest flesh.



Painting by Aristarkh Lentulov (1882-1943) 'During the laundry', c. 1910, Public domain.

Orchestra

As we aim to silence the pain
which we are fairly allotted
by birth-right

a deafening calm consumes us
while focused on the pleasures
overdue to us
in the treble.

Signals cease to lift
the alarm lever,
if we don't
move
our lips

to speak
to the self
in the language of the body.

Before translation
the strangeness deters our curiosity
about how one thing may become another
and make melodies
by note, by color, by shade, by immersion,

there is understanding
needs to be met
and lyrics to listen to
while we move

this way and that
away from where it hurts most
toward what we know
says nothing
about us.



Painting by Wilhelm Carl August Zimmer (1853-1937) / Public domain.

Upon further refraction

The dark parts are never totally absent
but make counter balance
while the wave-
lengths of light
lure us to the edges
of our material domains.

And tenacious as
we are, discover
how pointed
the arrow of time
must be-in order
to pierce the shield
we forge between
then and now,

somehow
All
observations become skewed
and miss their tiny targets
more often
than not.

All the while,
the incessant beating
heart, clock, hands only
amplify this glaring
temptation to shatter
our own gently built
crystalline structures

aligned and angled
just so-

objects prevent the light
from penetration
into the facets
that make us so
Reflective.

In retrospect,
the gradient
is held dependent
to a degree,
only to consider its own color
cast on the walls
and splashed across the floor
in the time it takes
to name
something never
There.


Photo credited by Kelvinsong / CC0, 'Prism tribeam' taken 2012 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.