Whispy so faint
or feign like clouds,
like whispers
of empty voice
filled in breezes
that matter not
until
hitting something
like chimes
whereby hinting of
something more
of substance,
a question
lingers like
what matters
until...
Painting by Konrad Krzyżanowski, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
They-
wanted me to fail-
expected me to-
secretly
suffer.
They
believed him
who spoke in tongues
dripping with alcohol-
venom-
or temptation.
They
assumed some-
thing some-
one else
knowing naked and shorn
They
could never make it through
the frozen nights
of solitude.
They
estimated-
were mistaken and
some, like me, would say
unlucky
betting on the black sheep
betting on the lamb
who is the wolf
you feed-
and the bitten hand
that continues to write through the pain.
Painting by William Sidney Cooper, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
As far away as we
All are
From where we once stood
not long ago
relative
to what sticks and what flies off
Spinning
as we are
oblivious to this
Constant.
Nothing
stays,
nothing is graspable
for one life-
time-
Goes fast and slow
relative
to how our time
is-
perceived.
And still
try we must
to hold on
centripetally
where we now
understand.
Painting by Josephus Laurentius Dyckmans, 'At the Spinning wheel' c. 1845 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
It's a good thing that red lights aren't like red flags-
more commonly seen in hindsight.
Color blindness may be more like
selective hearing.
Why are there so many bright
crimson colors kaleidoscoping
when remembering (him)?
Would those red flags be like;
the ambulance rides, the light coming in
on the sides (gut instinct)
could it be
the blood splatters, bloody hands,
drunken stupors
or the rage, or his cheeks,
the fire-alarm(s)
the sunsets, the stains
or the business bank account
shiny red as a waxed Macintosh apple
(poisoned)...
Not once
an apology,
not black or white-
It seemed neon
not calling me beautiful-anymore
disdain, malice, silence
and absence (even when present),
'Vacancy'
Now I can see
the grey area
are the clouds, air-wind made visible,
attempting to contain-
Believe
they loom, as omens, but do not stop
or look back while perpetually
moving forward,
breaking and forming again and again.
And all colors
are prismatic, it is we that assign
such meanings as
to stop or go.
Painting by Anna Lownes, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Theoretically
if someone showed me
the Future
and said This or That
We both know we'd go with
less pain
We go on
without knowing which is which
The will
yours-
the will see-after
which was worse.
This way
we suffer the same fate.
Painting by Pietro della Vecchia, 'Fortune teller reading the palm of a soldier c. 1626-1678 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Keep going
an hour longer than you think you can...
Strength
is not how heavy the load
or capacity
to measure up
against the weary
whose Joy
dwells in Nothing-
of want
Everything back,
as though undo was a direction
from undone.
When Lost;
the Way, the Hope, the Time,
the trust
the will, the want, the why-
The sun rises its warm cheek
lighting the low flame
of a fresh poppy
bursting through the winter mud.
Anyway the next step,
the next moment
finds me
empty and lighter and
unable to grasp ahold
of any-thing-any-body-any-way
right or left
or stay
strong long enough
to make sense
of Beauty.
Painting by Auguste Allongé (1833-1898), 'A Walk in the Forest' c. 1873 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Distinctly the pad of her hand
the inside of her thumb
tapping like a tambourine
white dust exploding upward
each solid strike
and dare ask
why do you do that Grandma?
She liked wearing an apron,
To make it all smooth and loose
or something like that
she said.
The white powder
was not flour
on my parents' kitchen counter
back then the oven made
TV dinners
better than the microwave.
And as I sift
through the coarse grains
of the collapsed sandcastle
of my own making
where I grew into
adding on and adding on
but built too close
to the tideline-
there was nothing
softer than flakes of carbon and gold
no solid memories endured
the crashing
like white shells
of me.
Painting by Granville Redmond, 'Talk at the beach' c. 1931 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
