Fruitful toil

It was in the temple,

I was taken,

high in the arid Spring desert

I sat still

as I was instructed

only to listen

until I could hear

a word

about my being.

When it came

I absorbed the sound

like the sun

only trusting

its power

without understanding 

how it works

on my being.

I carried the world

as I moved

on

later with wind and rain

and humid storms

feeling a wrath

on my raw skin

unaffected by its

texture

until I fell

as hitting the solid ground

I felt

Soft

inside, sweeter,

a ripening 

had occured 

when I finally let go.

I now know

this Soft

interior

was not a choice

only 

the way

I had 

become. 

Artwork from  NYPL, (Artist unknown) Postcard series number: 70216, c. 1898 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Loaves & Fishes: Memories & Plans

One made with suffering

we may savor

the bread we have made.

Some risen to our expectations,

something sweet or sour

a taste

we may try to remake, repeat

the recipe, grain by grain

we never attain the same

indulgence

again. Anticipation

of the past 

becomes stale,

may mold,

does not keep

nourishment.

Even as the oven heats steady,

the smell creeps, our glands

salivate, our bellies rumble, our eyes

witness a gold encrusting,

awaiting 

what may be

more satisfying

than the last bite.

Like catching on,

which is not fishing 

for 

dreams, desires, the plans 

of slippery silver streaks

eluding us

just beneath the surface

A world, not ours, a place

that would drown us

if we wish to linger too long.

The one that got away, 

the one that was bigger than we say,

the fish that passed the lure

you set,

the dream nibbling on the bait

and swam the other way.

Only today,

the hunger, not having,

not caught-

up, cool to the touch

feels more than

fulfilling. 

Artwork by Charles Jacque( (1813-1894), c. 1835 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Offering other-wise

At night

I did not know love

in darkness,

as if sleep-walking and dream-

making could be seen

with a naked eye.

I remember warmth

on my bare skin,

raw at sunrise 

near the hibiscus

holding its dew 

until it too 

opened

when the suns first 

rising rays 

touched its clasped red buds.

The grey-brown finches, twenty-four

or more knew just when 

to join around the fire

of a new day,

swarming in sync

into the tangled branches 

consuming this light

that pried us open.

I remembered then,

when this dawn rose

with my presence long gone

a self perched 

outside

consuming the same sun

and sharing the infinite moment

of opening

to love. 

Artwork (woodblock) by Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), 'Hibiscus and sparrow" c. 1830 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Name-less

 

A place holder,

beginning with an idea

called Someone.

A word

dear

changes to another

fondness

becomes

a title, a role, given

to the someone, the anyone

shared-

until the job, the role, the position

changes.

And you have become someone,

the only one

you never knew-

until now,

meeting yourself

more than halfway

to being, have become, a place-

holder of names

you will never

go by.

Painting by Mary Cassatt (1844-1926), 'Young mother sewing', in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Time drop

This morning

behind charred clouds

the moon sank 

as if weighted by 

its alabaster center

yet holding

light,

becoming full

bodied between

plumes of thick night.

Time brings on vertigo.

The past smells of soot,

the smoke dissipates 

as soon as it appears

now 

the ashes of what was once

solid

touch smears what has 

dis-appeared.

Imagining the days to come

are dreams,

the haze and glow of a child 

in wonder,

hoping for a pony

afraid of the horse

it will be-come. 

Now, like water the falls

in sprinkles

touching my cheeks,

the temperature adjusts

to the soul, a heart

that is cold can hold

now,

clinging to ice

that melts into the ever

present stream

of being 

here. 

Painting by Wilhelm Ferdinand Xylander, c. 1884 in Skagens Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Pres(s)her

All Things fracture where

fragile pressure placed

care-fully

just so

we know

Better

held in a place

of mending.

Painting by Harry Willson Watrous, 'The broken vase' c. 1900 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Watch-ing

 

To understand

and more -feeling

what life is

within

by prying off 

the transparent face

what is sacred or

true

we can hold

hands

while causing them

to cease 

counting 

measuring deeper-

still

the gears moving

as does the heartbeat

outside the chest

pushed on

by the next,

by the last

place 

held

until loose 

screws

tell no time

has passed,

the past 

is going to come

On the dead man's wrist

the watch stops

telling

a second time.

Image taken October 22 2016 Description; Exhibit in the Karl Gebhardt Horological Collection (Uhrenmuseum Karl Gebhardt), Gewerbemuseum - Nuremberg, Germany. As a utilitarian object, this exhibit is NOT subject to copyright laws. Instead it is subject to Industrial Design Rights; see Industrial Design Right for more information. If this object was ever covered by a design patent, that patent has expired, and thus this image is in the public domain.