Some-things
Stirring
But you cannot see It.
Less than wind
must be
that other
Dimension You
Feel but cannot
Touch.
Tension
and tingling, and tummy flips
Come from
There. You can smell
Rain
can't you?
Never-mind,
I think
I have asked before...
Painting by Alexander Helwig Wyant, 'Wind Clouds' c. 1927 via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain.
What a triumph it is
To truly love something
About your own
Body.
Before the crash and
Burn,
I remember turning to him
as we drove by
Our ocean,
and posing to him-
Which one of my moles
Do you like the best?
He was smiling
Anyway and said
I love it too...
And I knew
The end.
Painting by August Macke, 'Couple at the garden table' c. 1914, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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Moonlit midnight
Weeping willows whip with winds
Roses rock
thrashing thorns thrust
trash tumbles through the
sin slick stained street...
Suburbia stirs under sleepless sheets.
Chimes clang cacophony choirs
cats cry
Porch lights pulse on the pale pavement
a piano plays...
Otherwise
Only one oppressed
Woman worries and wonders what will withstand
sirens, storms, shattering and shearing souls,
now and never
Survival so still
Havoc hath had
Infinite intention
Itself.
Painting by George Bellows, 'Summer Night' c. 1909 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Starting to look like my old self
Or young self
And when I steal a glance
In a random reflection
I have seen
The crazy haired
Listening
Clean slate
Child
That has been there
All along
Long time,
No see-
eyes were always grey.
Seriously-
is that the same
insides out?
Born that way
They say
It goes that way, life
Mirrors...
What?
Again,
an echo reiterates.
Or so it seems slated,
Starting Over and I
Was Here
As if carved into
A tree.
Painting by Thorolf Holmboe, 'Weeping willows' c. 1907 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
They say
When you break
A big bill,
Into smaller ones
It spends faster...
Change is always
due
When offering more
Than-
what it's worth.
True
Enough-as a theory.
Change is more
Of a fundamental
Proof.
What you see
Is what you get-
Exchanged
For small pieces
Worth saving.
Painting by George Elgar Hicks, 'Gypsy girl' c. 1899 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
What comes
After all?
So much
stacked
unbeknownst
we carry on
Or perhaps
Was it
Grace?
And then-
How much a
handbasket
Will hold
over so many
seasons,
weather worn
by hand.
Painting by Winslow Homer 'Girl Carrying a Basket' c. 1882 in National Gallery of Art, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons.
When counting blessings
like spare
Change
keeps
Adding up to
Less sense
than we thought we had,
stashed In crevices
it is the
Change
Saved
For a rainy day
That makes its way
Toward
Something found...
Even green
wears off
Leaves
and becomes something
More
In time, interesting...
The zinc sky reflects
Itself
empty
but unbroken.
Painting by Matthias Stom, 'Woman counting coins by candlelight' (Allegory of Avarice), c. 1635 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Woken from a deep slumber, as if my name was spoken aloud. Only the spotlight of a honeyed full moon sings across my shadowed walls. Heart...
