Making time

 

Maybe it's how,

I gotta go in 10 minutes,

feels so different from-

I have 10 more minutes of sleep-

Or all lights are green

and other days every single one

makes you wait

reminding

Patience is virtuous

Following the divorce,

of course,

treading harder than ever

just to stay afloat-

On that same note

trying harder to keep 

inspired

instead of always feeling 

tired.

Grinding the mill stone

down to the metal

ore-

just

Stop and sink-

Or was it drop and think...

Into a poem

pocketing loose pieces 

while waiting

for the light to change.

Painting by Esperando La Pesca 'Waiting for the Catch' via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

Palette or Palate

Grace is always within you

it is said...Hmmm...

I think grace is pink

which is why its hard to find

when all you see is red.

Love is not all crimson cupcakes

still, there is gratitude, 

warm and orange. 

Citrus can be sweet or sour,

it depends on more than taste.

Every word

a jagged cube of ice

to crush or to melt,

linger into nothing...

Yet nourishing

by experience,

like white or wisdom-

or the sun.

What do I know

of divinity-

But hell

and evil, is black 

Absence or All...

Diluting color

of meaning, when

Time is demanded.

Faith is ordered.

I taste metal,

or my own

blood

while

sensing my fragile

green mortality

All over.

Painting by Vincenzo Irolli (1860-1949), in Public domain, 'Young boy eating a watermelon' via Wikimedia Commons.

Obviously hidden

The treasure chest is locked

of course

I cannot find the key.

Losing it

intentionally

was self-defense.

And of course

someone asked about its

contents.

Privacy excluded,

they meant no offense

to my memory.

But of course

certain things cannot be trusted

with others

Or oneself, really.

That is why

it is safer to hide

Inside.

Painting by Edward Mason Eggleston (1882-1941), 'Princess of the Treasure Isle' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Divisible

Blessed are thee

memories

chosen to be forgotten

dissolved into distant haze.

Cherished are those

brilliant first rays

alighting the new path

of unknowns.

In the sky

and in the sea,

the clouds and waves

do not recall those passed.

Likewise, made of the same,

and never the same

You and I

remember-

Painting by Henry Scott Tuke, 'Looking out to sea' c. 1885 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Blinking

Every new day-

recovered mind,

rested eyes,

pocket moments

pulled out-

placed under the tongue.

Bitter-sweet

and so savory-

a memory can be...

Distant clouds 

of dreams, residues

shade daylight hues.

But atmosphere

absorbed after

sublimation and slumber

is re-minding 

Oneself

of one's self.

At least as far

as reflections like these

appear to Be. 

Painting by James McNeill Whistler - 'Resting in Bed', c.1883-1884, via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

Synchronized subsistence

How the greatest life

can only be attained

by the destruction 

of previous lives 

re-positioning, per se.

Nothing is unchanged

by time moving 

so fast we cannot feel

where momentum 

begins and ends

And again

that wonderful life

felt slow

in coming and

so fast in passing

All at the same time.

Painting by Edgar Degas 'Four Dancers' c. 1899 _Google_Art_Project via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain.

Pulp

Oh bare soul

                    Ink stains

On white sheets

                 hinting impressions of what

came before

                    Without a dark mark made

Leaving no footprints or

                             creases and whatnot

Simply sinking in

                            a breeze shuffles

across the surfaces, 

                                      Lost in the sheaf

reams of lives, 

trembling forests,

                                     all are ashes too...

In the tree outside

the bedroom window

                                     Atop the tallest branch

A mockingbird gives an Aria

Jumping up in bursts, 

Flapping,

                Landing, bleating again

Relentlessly

                   it seems to me

that if a free spirit were

truly so

                     No one would ever know

The full story of a tree...

does one begin with roots-

                                 the buried seeds

nay, so I draw 

a delicate leaf

                                   Hanging mid-air

and am fixated

                        noticing the fallen

Bark below, scratches, and scars

That healed long before

                                       Now sloughed off

and suddenly I erupt 

                        laugh aloud

Along the same avian pitch

                                    Mocking my own

disbelief in the resilience

of composition

                           finding forms

of Liberty.

Erasing all I have done

In the air, irrigated charcoal

           a trace, a gentle summer 

Rain is coming

           so I jump up and go for a run

In the nearby woods

Blood pumping

                       through limbs

Pounding the soft earth

                      I carve a secret Path

instead 

of writing this poem.

Image Title: Bob; the story of our mocking-bird

Year: 1899 (1890s)

Authors: Lanier, Sidney, 1842-1881; Lanier, Charles Day. (from old catalog); Dugmore, Arthur Radclyffe, 1870- (from old catalog) illus

Publisher: New York, C. Scribner's sons

Contributing Library: The Library of Congress

Credit via Wikimdia Commons in Public Domain