Sundialing

Under the darkness
I wait for daylight
and it slowly drains
all energies made
over-this-night.

I find myself
empty and long
for the warm light
to wane
or die
back down
knowing this
way we live is insane
and making it not so different
from this sentence.

The years blend by lumens
and erase all traces
of anticipation
for another
night
to escape
for day to come,
for the light that never
dawned upon me...

unrisen and incapable
of my occasional
need to know
what a future holds
without hands.


Painting by 'German Master' unknown, Still Life with skull, sundial, wax jack' c. 1620 in Public Domain. 

The life of a spark

Just beneath the skin of surface
something darker
traveled through
like a current
can only be felt
in volume.

Right outside of the visual range
a source of heat
like an explosion of light
ignited
all that could be flammable
was taken asunder.

What lurks like intuition
our own shadow seems detached,
aloof and cool to the touch.
An absence only felt
as nothing
that could be caught.


Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-190) , 'Campfire, Adirondacks', c. 1892 in Public Domain. 

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.