Plumage

 

The way the sea lion

thrusts its slick body

into the ink stain

cloud of fish-

snagging perhaps one

or two

feels successful-

As does the damsel dragonfly

darting into plumes of gnats

dissipating like dust motes

in the slanted October sun

devouring one at a time

determined to dine until dusks end. 

The jumbo jet pierces the jeweled

sky, stirring low sounds and tearing 

a hole above

carries bodies

aimlessly, defying time and gravity

yet the traveled disperse

undone.

For just one

the chase was everything

but effort

whereas above,

so below,

there was always more

or less 

grace 

with a predator

and its prey. 

Painting by David de Coninck, titled 'A peacock, turkey, rabbits, and cockerel in a landscape' c. 1659-1701 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

B Tray

As in

not first

but alternate

a back-up after

A

Designation

of not 

Primary

B sides

after-thought-

empty-blanked

there was no time-

paper-music-words

left

to eat.

Painting credit: Édouard VuillardMadame Prosper Emile Weil at her desk circa 1923. Pastel and distemper on paper mounted on board59.5 x 52.5 cm board; 82.5 x 75.5 x 8 cm frameArt Gallery of New South WalesGift of Margaret Olley 1999.

Command prompt

 

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.

The 10th month

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. 

The poem

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.

One and one are still one(s)

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.

Bought the Farm

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.