Brewing

One would easily conclude
that she was in fact,
a witch.

It was not the time,
nor her spelling,
she did not wield a broom
or don a pointed
hat
and yet
we forget
the difference between legend
and lore
we pretend not to see
so we may forget
why we hide
(this information)
or face
persecution.

The insolent one stays inside the lines,
obeys or Believes
that there is a difference between magic
and living, despite
the few that knew
what they have seen or felt
and hid their skeletons
behind the cross.

The witch files her nails
and emits wisps of smoke,
she ruffles through the leaves
for a recipe to reverse
the ingested poison
and faith
found her
scratching the margins,
filling the white space
with letters
to correspond with method
and madness,

she blends in
like a mother.


Painting by János Rombauer [Public domain].

Sheet music

I hope you would agree,
my dearest sole reader,
that the oblivion was everywhere
we were not
interested in the apathy
invested
in each other.

Listen,
I will speak about what comes up
to the surface in poetry
without using names
I will call you,
I will bury you,
I will label and sort it out
of context
placing things in such a way


You think-This is real,
the sound of air doesn't linger
long enough
to touch one another

And yet we float in the same light,
listening
to each other
fall between the lines,
Hear-
we are.


Painting by Anders Zorn, 1905 in [Public domain].

Sky stalker

He was close
      atop the next door
               roofline,
two doors and eight windows away,

I can feel him
not caring
but staring
              at me
              clearly
cocking his head
and aiming his
       attention my way.

I return his gaze
             between two crows feet
I squint
             and am unable to define
where wing
                    and feather divide

like the wind

no where
Now
how he can soar
               based on feeling
a passing breeze
across his breast
plate

I maintain my ground
feeling anchored
under air

the predator holds its breath
while the raptor releases
a piercing scream
before
he takes flight
giving one more glance

downward
I stay affixed
under this eave

awaiting a closure
of wing, sky
and the hungry eye.
         


    
Painting by Edwin Henry Landseer, 'The falcon' c. 2837 in Public domain.

Exhibiting

Funny thing is
like love,
and other sudden
appearances

One is easily taken up
with the obvious Now
and yet indescribable
Then
and
That

feeling of
reconciliation
along with a benevolent
contentment
arisen
impromptu

That is
the feeling
in the right place
at the right time
to see
differently

As in the gallery
where windows were mirrors
and so the first
reflection where I recognized
myself

captured and mute
yet framed this way,
in the best light
there was Time.



Image credited by BurgererSF [CC0], from Wikimedia Commons.

Mumbled the old man

We will never,
in our entire lives
forward lived
be listened to
like when we are
babies
and have nothing to say
that makes any sense
or adds up to experience
as in process
other than
the audible reaction
we have come
to refine.

And still, the old go unnoticed,
after all they have witnessed
in further thought
one should not ignore
repetition
because it looks the same
and never is
and sounds like complaint
but never was.

We predict
the firefighter from the fawn,
timid in the forest at first,
naturally, he will adapt.
We guess and check
and still seem not to heed
the final words
as they were said
carelessly,
as if it were possible
like alternate endings.


Artwork by Leonardo da Vinci, c. 1513, Old Man with Water studies in Public Domain. 

absorption

The storm was done
and so it fell
into a fine mist

of crystals spent
in shards or more
mineral.

The after taste
of iron
smells like the steel sky
blowing by

or coming
from my mouth
in thin whispers...








Painting by Arthur Partin (1842-1914), 'Misty Morning off the Coast of Maine', c. 1865-67, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Ebb tide

Tragic are those lingering losses,
comic are the erratic gains
all rippled with guilt
as if others saw
perception seemed worth its weight
to carry with us
all life, blending together in summation,
sometimes synchrony, although
in our exclusion
atonement is a single strike,
a note that takes its sound
along with others,
once more
the chorus comes-
laughter snaps like light limbs
which dam up
the tear ducts
for a time,
like ours when passage
was most important
and our structures remain
sound against the wait of all things
pushed to sea.


Painting by James Whitelaw Hamilton c. 1896 housed in the Yale Center for British Art [Public domain].