.jpg)
Joy is too large to wrap
Anything around,
Mind, Body, universe...
Whereas happy seems to fit
like a coin, a stone, a ladybug,
in the palm
leaving no trace.
Happy comes and goes
while Joy
lingers
imperceptibly, inescapably
Inside.
After chasing
Thing to thing
The cat purrs on my chest-
He cannot get any closer.
Image credit: me. Photo of SSW, aka Smokey, c. 10/21/2022.
What are you doing with this body
The soul asked the mind
To and from bounced as echoes
Evade their sources
Proof
You want to know
Who
You are
Now, is past
Then, next I plan
On finding
A voice
hat Does
instead of making sound waves
with air
Going to and from
Self and I
just to know
Nothing
Is true
Is false
looking
where questions
make marks
like clouds,
See
the blue.
Artwork by Konrad Krzyżanowski, 'Clouds' c. 1906, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
When it is said
Something told me
Something made me
I sensed something-
where is the body
of the thing
that sometimes
does not resemble
Us
Like things
that feel or don't feel
Right?
Aren't we feeling
Some
Thing...
Artwork by Robert Lewis Reid, 'The Mirror' c. 1910 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
.jpg)
We called it 'The Monsters House'
First
Because it had no windows and was made of concrete
It had a lighthouse tower
Only a tiara on tiny red lights to warn planes
In fog and like May
Was always in thick blankets
Of grey days stacked
On holidays most years
There was some decor
As if it could fit in
With the community
It stood on the Pacific Coast
Line and you could draw a line
Home from any spot
Within range
Like Babel
It spoke of neither here
Nor there
A power plant
It became powerless,
Nothing like plants
Holding sun
I tossed out my anchor
With the security of pillars
Standing strong
Eternal and moral
You can guess
How it crumbled
Like sand
Decommissioned, dethroned
And deleted
From the horizon
As the world spun
On and on
I stood
Still
Ashes go nowhere
Nobody will remember
A solid building
Of imagination.
Image: Self, taken in front of Monster's House (Cbad-Tamarack) March 2020 (D.O.D.-date of destruction)
What is there
to hear, here beneath the rain
falling?
The pianist across the street,
a poem being typed
after-thought,
above or under sirens and
howls.
Fingertips dance
with swollen pads
across the scales;
ivory teeth, black cavities,
chatter seeking vibration
or resonance
held in a line
that holds a tune.
Or thread of meaning-
unraveling feeling
and translating thoughts
not our own
into sound
between and beneath the horizontal cradle
where echoes may overlap hints of truth
there is a sense of unfolding
like pages turning
a chord is struck
accord is sought
or scores kept
for a record nobody keeps.
And all this may be
called
keeping time
as if melody were many things
more than harmony
knocking and sending
unanswerable notes
called music or just
muse.
Image credit:Baldomer Gili i Roig, Museu d'Art Jaume Morera, Lleida. 2555 c. Nov. 1899 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
The grey painted cement
redundant and radiating
through my body
the days suns rays-
Still, at dusk
clouds conceal
any prism possible
from what could home
from new horizons
by night-
fall.
I retreat into
cool slate clean sheets.
Alone,
I make warmth
of close space
to release
the solid Time.
Painting by Johan Christian Dahl(1788-1857), 'Clouds over the Palace Tower at Dresden' c. 1825 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
With these borrowed
hands, I preen and I prod, poking
this vessel,
taking exploratory measure-
ments
only I can comfortably make.
They do not fit-
together.
Fingers, tendrils, palms,
veins; grasping, touching
or holding.
Yet I know I need them
as is.
This is why I collect the seashells
at the shoreline,
we may never fit in
as beautifully
as when we are ejected
from the abyss
we thought we knew
as Home.
Painting by John Morgan (1823-1885), 'A girl with a seashell' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
It is only with calloused hands that the heavy body can claw and leverage the self upward on the thorny vine of a life without wince and whi...
