dis-content

a moment dis-missed

then and then again

trees fell like bodies

this time dis-appears

as if ours to waste.

Artwork by José Nin y Tudó (1840-1908), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Plenty full

Dry dirt cratering

a doe glides across the yard

eats the fallen fruit.

Artwork by Franz Marc (1880-1916), titled 'Deer at Dusk' dated 1909 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Cardiac muscle

 

Any-one-of-Us

who have heard

the shattering of a heart,

of a world

fragmented, knows the 

intent to deafen each piercing note...

Those of Us 

who have struggled with intruding songs and scents, 

are stuck in a triggered trap, clamped

between sharp teeth

and resisting no more,

alone. 

Some of Us 

disagree 

with how lovely it is to have lost

than never have had

played a game we did not know.

Intuition, like embers emit no smoke,

but deep connections 

lean candle flames without a breeze.

It can be felt,

on fingertips, burnt leaves, ashes-

heat is Life.

Death is a dampening, silent

as in, buried Alive.

And I know

how these memories 

refuse departure.

On the ancient land where I now stand-

my story is held momentarily

footprints in the red dirt 

alone, cauterized, singed, 

and dappled with sunlight.

Fire with fire.

Most of Us

will not get that close

ever again.

None of Us

understand 

the heart that burns

and beats without Us

skipping over

tiny details like nails

hammered into the heartwood. 

Artwork by: Sigmund Grimm, dated 1520 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Wait Capacity

Ghosted

by your own spirit,

soul stuck in a purgatory

until the facts are faced,

finally-

what then?

Lucid flesh like

apparition, unheard

and in between 

pain and suffering-despair

and the need to 

continue to breathe

cradling the heartbeat,

insisting endurance

and through it.

There was no There 

there,

carbon copies of conceit,

echoing

'I was here'.

Nothing gained

without loss,

as if grief gave more

than it took 

of Us

Distorted shadow figures

have mistaken

me

for empty.

Painting by Sergey Vinogradov, dated before 1938 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Holding hands

I had a grip.

A naked palm clenched

around,

I had a handle on the thing

softly carrying it with me,

until I noticed

the odd itch of thick blood

sliding down and out 

between my fingers.

Holding on too tight

but feeling nothing 

of pain or wounds

after barely

holding on so long,

I observed myself

doing it wrong.

After all-

the petals had fallen

behind me

leaving 

choices made for me.

No blessings to count,

no scent

to take in-

and it must have been dead

who knows how long...

Dried and brittle

piercing-

This is 

how I knew

He loved me not. 

Painting by Carolus-Duran, 'Portrait of Lucy Lee Robbins' by Carolus Duran, dated 1884 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

The Happiness Pursuit

Personally,

I found Joy

frequently 

in fleeting moments

such as when 

the forty finches

fly into the ten-foot-tall

hibiscus 

for a breakfast buffet

of aphid ecstasy, 

platters sparkling and

moist with dawn dew

while the sun undresses

all the buds and

peels back perfect petals

with warm invitation

as in seduction.

Watching my cat

Goose

standing bipedal and erect, 

head cocked and

cackling quite curiously

at the busy borage of birds,

attempting to talk to them.

The finches 

feel no fear

seeming to respect

that we were here

first,

fleeing only when full.

Image credit: Poyt448 Peter Woodard, Hibiscus splendens - flower, a rainforest tree or shrub of eastern Australia taken 11/2005 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Retreat

 

As in

gift again.

We all like treats.

Pavlov proved this with his puppies.

What's more? More treats. 

And more treats, please.

Gluttony leaves no room 

for the famished to breathe,

too much of it all and and and

Consumed consumers consuming

treats that others had or wanted 

to have and to hold,

to stack behind the curtain wall

amass

nothing 

easily taken away.

The animal obeys

his carnal needs

and remembers.

The human collects

his dull desires

and forgets

we have already had it

All. 

Painting by Arthur Heyer (1872-1931), 'Bulldog sound asleep' c. before 1931 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.