The predator on top of his prey

They became civilized
after many ages
and stages of refinement.
They wanted to live longer,
a race with no finish line.
They practiced,
they failed much, succeeded few.
They fought and resisted
they conceded and persisted.
They started
by removing death threats,
like hunger
and

exposure

They experimented
with potions and rhetoric.
They bottled magic
and peddled poisons,
to live
more
and they did.

They lived so long
they forgot their youth,
they jumped to the end,
decrepit at the start
with nothing to grow on.

They followed tradition,
it led them along.
Their bodies decay from security,
hearts get bored with emotion,
their mind aches,
blinded by the reflection.
They never should have lived
this long
this way-
which is why
they prey
on weakness
to make
go away
They
will
be done.
All men.




Image by Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/1498–1543) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

All that you cannot Here

The moment had arrived.
The time was Now.
Eyes squeeze closed,
the trigger was pulled,
the knife broke flesh,
the man awoke in a sweat.
The young woman paces, patting her baby's back,
the baby hurts, nobody knows why.
The homeless one eats steaming bread in the alley smiling,
the dog barks rapidly in anxious fear,
the tiny kitten shivers, hungry and heavy
the car impacts the tree, the glass rains,
the deer scatter,
the mountain lion yawns and stretches out,
the owl daydreams.
The fish choke on fumes,
the bees swarm the carcass,
the malaria army invades the ghost town.
The business man carries confidence in his briefcase, clearly leaking vodka,
the roof leaks into buckets of song.
The sky clears in deaf innately.
The mist makes prisms disband.
The humpbacks pick up the chorus,
the child in pigtails plucks a wild daisy,
the birds steal bloody berries.
The King holds the little prince's hand,
the boy buffs a rock on his shirt for his slingshot,
the hikers reach the mountaintop before the echo,
the historic house collapses,
the family laughs to tears,
the old woman shivers, closing the blinds on her last day.
The man and woman embrace each other.
Eyes fall closed tightly loving
all ways and for ever,
Now,
a quiescence,
a soundlessness found,
any given Time
we are Here to list in.




Image by Anders Zorn, The Embrace c. 1882-83 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Building the Doozer Adobe Dome

Ground has been broken.
It is coming along with callused hands,
bloody knuckles, slimy elbows
and the shoulders
of Atlas.
                                                                Making progress?
Making is a process,
even when done
this way before-
there is a rhythm
in the rhyme.
                                                                To each his own to find.
The ones near the top
are fools gold
bodies that steal the sun.
                                                                You'll need to dig deeper.
When it all caves in
you can hear a faint echo
where labor lost love.
And as you go down,
ear to the earth, grumbles;
but from above, glistening.
Erecting glass towers,
prisms with poise,
                                                                one stone away
                                                                from crystallography.
Yes, we may get buried
                                                                over.
Yet, we must continue
on schedule,
with slotted setbacks
                                                                spaced out.
Rock.              Water.                Bone.
Not to worry,
it all comes out right
when done.
Once all fine points                                 (grains)
                                                                              are settled,
resistance quelled,
the dirt goes back
right
where it flows
best,
                                                                 in order
to rest in peace,
on this sight                                              we will make
it
on
Time.





Image By Yoav Dothan (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ritually Custom

'Tis a sensuous tribute to Time

that we caress the Moment,

knowing it curves and gestures

that sink into warm familiar coves,

sucking in all its nectar

as newly brewed.

Again, more, and a gain!

Let us do the steps-

in orderly,

walk with me, mirroring see,

strut through it

then and again

like it is your old house.

Right now, 

exactly like it was

when you remembered what

you came here for.

Tho never was it

the same, all most

re-placed.

Like last Time

bittersweet lingers not long 

enough.

Like seasons and seconds,

more tradition and Time

to do the same.

Plump predictions and ripe fruitions

bursting with Now

smelling like Then

we recognize This

time

as the Rite Time

to harvest

a gain.

Image By Mennonite Church USA Archives (1975 St Catherines Tradition Poster) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Solstice(s)

If the day feels short-

it is because

I skimmed some

off the top

for myself alone-

greedily, while nobody notices

what was never there

to miss.

When the hours stretch

their elastic arms

into

for ever-

ask for seconds

while time

is free.

Image by By Matzei, Winter Solstice 12/2011 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Devil in the Details-From Notes Taken (Haiku)

the moon set on an
idea, and the wind blew
off the words: (List-in).
















Image by By Galileo moon phases [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

a Peace of Christmas morning

Christmas morning,
nearing six,
the moon just retired.
Curled on the corner of the couch,
under the copper lamp light,
books piled on the left arm,
Smokey is nestled on my right,
between outstretched toes,
pads touching mine,
his heavy head propped on my
soul, with a deep sigh,
i am alone
writing
in front of the Christmas tree,
whose moments are numbered-
alee, the chimes try to carol outside
a pine candle cheerfully flickers,
heavy breaths are carried down the hall...
and I remember
how many books I've read this year
and the fathoms I've learned
beyond measure.
I am
more aware-
of myself.
I am getting somewhere-
besides the moral of the story
or simply The End.
I have found peace
and puzzled in pleasure
over moments
with words as pieces,
like these,
gathering beloved dearly
to day.





Image By Lars Jacob for Ristesson [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.