Chrysalis

Madame Butterfly,

Sometimes we be-

come

that which hurt

Us, that one we abhor

All the more

Consumed

and eaten alive.

One can feel this,

as a matter of growth

inside

as cocoon cannot keep

safe 

its contents.

From moth to monarch

Color comes to show

Consumption.

I have become many

Delicate versions

Of a creature

That becomes-

Part of

creation.

Canaries are placed inside

Coal mines

by us, to save us

from poison unseen.

Other-

Wise

I have chosen

To hover at the blazing

Hearth

making smoke rings

with ashen wings

while warm

blooded bodies

Take shelter

soaking in stillness.

I can

Still

fly away.

Painting by Edward Mason Eggleston (1882-1941), 'A Day in June' c. 1932 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Pursuit

 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. 

Scar Tissue

 

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.

Pro Noun

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.

The Monster's House (D.O.D. 2022)

 

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)

Time keepers

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.

Grey area

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.