You know
I couldn't sit down
for the longest time-until now
and realized-that meant I was staying.
In shock
in a new Purgatory
between the life not gone
and the one not yet begun.
Of course
change isn't This to That
transition is a stretched out process
that sinks, tears, and wears on the traveler.
Perhaps progress
is just change
that never arrives-per se
or takes a seat...
Painting by Vilhelm Hammershøi, 'Rest' c. 19905 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
October days are merely
dawn passing the dim torch to dusk.
Layering
upon the earthen floor
over our bodies
the elements are intensified
between what lives and what dies
a time
to dwell together
in muted tones.
These October days
all end
with soul dark nights,
crisp as the apparition
that spurns and nudges
one to never be
done.
Photo credited by Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 'Gift of Mrs. Ruthe Feldman in memory of Philip Feldman (M.91.377.52)' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Perched to pounce
on the sheet white page
Ink propels itself
infinite as adrenaline
from fingertips
feeling for details
Not saying
what was a thought
before
Another word placed
Itself
to getting somewhere closer
needing a
tangible witness
to guide.
Painting by August Macke c. 1910, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Widowed.
I know.
Defining the living
differing
from the dead
no more
less is more
time
heals, they say, better
someday, you'll see, after
waking me from my
apathy
Alone
and at times
afraid.
Arachnophobic, he was anyway
weakling for his size
entangled in his own webs
he chose to
attach to hollow branches
before wind wakes
taking down
all trace
of home, snare, trap, nest
I should feel blessed to be free
of all the same hospice
And just this
One
got away alive.
Photo by Uwe Jelting, 2004 CC0, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.
As if it would be the death of me
and I cared little
about solving some riddle or
making some rhyme
like Old MacDonald
whose repetition
entertains only the
two little pigs
That sat in their sty
never wondering why-
the noise.
Getting high on their fermented
gluttonous filth made by
consummation and what has
been long ago
consumed.
Entombed as all of us were
by fences, gates, latitudes and gravity,
pathways are constantly Being made
into muddy ruts.
Here I was
set free to roam further than any oink
carries
on, unleashed
with a song
until death do us part where the grass
is deeper green, the air is sharply clean and there are no
twisted or barbed wires to snare and scare
yet one must tire of standing in muck
wet between the cloven hooves.
No less, it was my dumb luck
to have and to hold
no harm, no farm, no title
no hand.
No bacon was ever made
from pet pigs pacing their pen in purgatory.
Artwork by L. Prang & Co., copyright claimant, Domestic Pig' c. 1874 Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Between Us-Nothing
but Space and Time, grow and shrink
reaching the same light
Now, it is too late
to take it back or let go
so completely gone
Two souls are mated
Being seeks itself alone
there was always More.
Painting by Martin Johnson Heade (1819-1904), 'Flowers of Hope' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Falling comes naturally
as common as fear
another body
knocked down-
Learning how to climb
up to the canopy
out of the arbor awnings
each branch a rung
bell
a ladder
has no top
The horizon awaits this distant gaze
further than
a crow flies
an escape
too far to grasp, too afraid to take
it all in
to begin again
asking...
What is more
No-
body needs to learn
anything except
landing
softly
before rising again
with an icy wind
at knifepoint
only to return
home, rootbound
thirsting
for more.
Artwork by Ellen Thayer Fisher, 'Fall leaves and Acrons' c. 1885 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
