Goldenlocks

I stumbled upon a short 

story, written

as if it were a poem-

Lines broken like cracks in the side-

walk that one steps

Over

Its title did not evoke its

gait and I hazard to observe-

if it walks like a big duck

it could be a small goose

and then

what do profiles 

Reveal or musings in marginalia...

What makes a poem,

a place, a sense of something familiar

almost like thoughts

Severed

So many stories

follow a straight line

and then

I 

turned a corner

saw a different path

without backstory and confident

Nobody

was following me

(anymore)

and then

it was done. 

Artwork by Virginia Frances Sterret, 'Old French Fairy Tales 0077 in Public domain in US, via Wikimedia Commons.

Featherweight

When the strength you need

becomes all of the strength

you've given...

When unexpected loss

Takes your breath away

too...

When you balance 

All of your own weight

on your own 

two feet

without feeling

push or pull...

Flight may occur

When your vision is blurred

from speed, you see,

Direction is irrelevant

to destination.

When arrival is relative

to departure

and landing is only

One stop

of many...

It starts to feel 

Easier to open 

Both arms, wings 

and just soar...

A rough legged hawk soars over Seedskadee NWR, looking for its next meal. Photo Credit: Tom Koerner/USFWS via Wikimedia Commons.

Empirical Spherical

In the sphere where clouds are formed

How high? Out of eye-

sight

Is where mind over matter mixes its

Potion

Something

from nothing-

Empty

As a periwinkle sky

filled purely with a howling wind

that you can feel in your

Bones

like rain

and gravity, the weight, and desire of

Still... 

the plane pierces through the dark wall

and

Nothing was there

After

All.

Painting by Nesterov, The_Nightingale_is_Singing_by_M.Nesterov_(1918,_priv.coll), in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Depth perception

With ten thousand neurons 

in one single suction cup 

on an octopus tentacle,

could even you imagine

what it would feel like

when touching

anything-

each other-

No contact-

like eye contact.

There may be a nest 

of tangled live wires

behind the wall

behind our masks

we are currents

of electricity.

And as the eel shocks every-

thing but itself-

we have so many blind spots 

not baited eye-

spots-as fish-

Don't you wish 

chameleon when needed to be

or to know so much

feeling

with only the lightest touch...

Photo credit: 800px-Octopus_at_Kelly_Tarlton's, October 2012 via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

Gravity speaks of distribution

While putting away the dishes

in my tiny kitchen,

I recalled over-hearing 

the man say to the girl

'Your eyes were bigger than your plate'

And now I was stacking the plates,

sorting large and small,

thinking how they were all made the same

Each one designed to hold only so much

And the inevitability

Of each one taking a turn

At the bottom,

bearing the weight 

Of all 

The others 

And never cracking.

With the dishes put away,

I look through the glasses

Thinking of the right size

for my eyes

Hearing the tiny echoes

Of gravity 

And thirsting for more. 

Painting by Joannes de Cordua (1630-1702), 'Still life with copper dishes' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Written in stone

All in 

One moment

I understood the

Buddha's parable about walking

with a stone in your shoe-.

I suddenly knew

It could happen to anyone

Anytime 

and after inspecting the painful

if minuscule annoyance

I found the stone

Made of calcified fragments, merely

Memories compressed and pushed out

like bone spurs sloughed off 

and re-attached to thought

Like a tumor.

Every step, someone else's shoes -

That was

Us

Now all that is left

is the loose stone

from the right shoe. 

Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), 'Woman tying her shoe' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

What was the question?

Time, like money, isn't tangible 

Neither is love, truth and what

is real-

made up, rounded off, different

for you and I-

what is real...

And yet, some

times

are frozen or elapse slow

and many too fast to enjoy

Enough-

What about dusk-sunset 

or dawn, or the times

I look at the clock and it's the same

Times-day and night.

Well, what about a pastime or a memory,

Truth be told from one 

person in a place with

Nothing-

is real

for you-for anyone...

Do blessings count?

Photo of Woman at spinning wheel in Studeno na Blokah, Slovenia taken August 1962 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.