What are you doing with this body
The soul asked the mind
To and from bounced as echoes
Evade their sources
Proof
You want to know
Who
You are
Now, is past
Then, next I plan
On finding
A voice
hat Does
instead of making sound waves
with air
Going to and from
Self and I
just to know
Nothing
Is true
Is false
looking
where questions
make marks
like clouds,
See
the blue.
Artwork by Konrad Krzyżanowski, 'Clouds' c. 1906, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
When it is said
Something told me
Something made me
I sensed something-
where is the body
of the thing
that sometimes
does not resemble
Us
Like things
that feel or don't feel
Right?
Aren't we feeling
Some
Thing...
Artwork by Robert Lewis Reid, 'The Mirror' c. 1910 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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We called it 'The Monsters House'
First
Because it had no windows and was made of concrete
It had a lighthouse tower
Only a tiara on tiny red lights to warn planes
In fog and like May
Was always in thick blankets
Of grey days stacked
On holidays most years
There was some decor
As if it could fit in
With the community
It stood on the Pacific Coast
Line and you could draw a line
Home from any spot
Within range
Like Babel
It spoke of neither here
Nor there
A power plant
It became powerless,
Nothing like plants
Holding sun
I tossed out my anchor
With the security of pillars
Standing strong
Eternal and moral
You can guess
How it crumbled
Like sand
Decommissioned, dethroned
And deleted
From the horizon
As the world spun
On and on
I stood
Still
Ashes go nowhere
Nobody will remember
A solid building
Of imagination.
Image: Self, taken in front of Monster's House (Cbad-Tamarack) March 2020 (D.O.D.-date of destruction)
What is there
to hear, here beneath the rain
falling?
The pianist across the street,
a poem being typed
after-thought,
above or under sirens and
howls.
Fingertips dance
with swollen pads
across the scales;
ivory teeth, black cavities,
chatter seeking vibration
or resonance
held in a line
that holds a tune.
Or thread of meaning-
unraveling feeling
and translating thoughts
not our own
into sound
between and beneath the horizontal cradle
where echoes may overlap hints of truth
there is a sense of unfolding
like pages turning
a chord is struck
accord is sought
or scores kept
for a record nobody keeps.
And all this may be
called
keeping time
as if melody were many things
more than harmony
knocking and sending
unanswerable notes
called music or just
muse.
Image credit:Baldomer Gili i Roig, Museu d'Art Jaume Morera, Lleida. 2555 c. Nov. 1899 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
The grey painted cement
redundant and radiating
through my body
the days suns rays-
Still, at dusk
clouds conceal
any prism possible
from what could home
from new horizons
by night-
fall.
I retreat into
cool slate clean sheets.
Alone,
I make warmth
of close space
to release
the solid Time.
Painting by Johan Christian Dahl(1788-1857), 'Clouds over the Palace Tower at Dresden' c. 1825 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
With these borrowed
hands, I preen and I prod, poking
this vessel,
taking exploratory measure-
ments
only I can comfortably make.
They do not fit-
together.
Fingers, tendrils, palms,
veins; grasping, touching
or holding.
Yet I know I need them
as is.
This is why I collect the seashells
at the shoreline,
we may never fit in
as beautifully
as when we are ejected
from the abyss
we thought we knew
as Home.
Painting by John Morgan (1823-1885), 'A girl with a seashell' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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It was in the temple,
I was taken,
high in the arid Spring desert
I sat still
as I was instructed
only to listen
until I could hear
a word
about my being.
When it came
I absorbed the sound
like the sun
only trusting
its power
without understanding
how it works
on my being.
I carried the world
as I moved
on
later with wind and rain
and humid storms
feeling a wrath
on my raw skin
unaffected by its
texture
until I fell
as hitting the solid ground
I felt
Soft
inside, sweeter,
a ripening
had occured
when I finally let go.
I now know
this Soft
interior
was not a choice
only
the way
I had
become.
Artwork from NYPL, (Artist unknown) Postcard series number: 70216, c. 1898 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...
