Chestnuts roasting

Rolling ares are drumrolls for seduction.
Golden brown skin is warm and toasty to the touch
Purple raven onyx hair spills thick and rich as oil.
Blonde, plain as rolling straw fields under crushed velvet against the cornflower sky,
steel blue machine and John Deere make carbon copies of Barbies.
Talking with the hands demonstrates tactile prowess, in a squint of meaning words wont work,
and yes, I think Russians have the best lips,
I would hazard to guess this-unless I can be proven wrong.
Since making softer and warmer with hard and cold can be concisely done quite malleably, the other way wont work the same.
Along with heat sinking glares and hidden thoughts that need not originate from a family tree, they can be a new seed.
Indeed, to me, exuberant ells and excessive tees can be both
quite love-ly
and always welcome to a poor peasant, such as native to nowhere me
seeking some taste
in a word.


Painting by Sergey Vasilyevich Ivanov, Foreigners arrival to Moscow (1901) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sacrificial She

Demands are shrill
lilt a tone that cuts the fleshy ear
and worse as a pseudo nurse
I fear-in trembling-today
I am wilted even further away.
Lillies in the valley lean toward the rain,
the pain-
my dear-
I dare to note how sap drains slow,
like the frozen pulse-amber loves her prize,
and time flies while doing for others
sweet things softly, conjuring energy,
time in disguise as your own
with never ceasing chores
that occupy us so slyly
while we are looking down
oblivious
to others
looking up to us.
It is the way we listen
when Justice is served
evenhandedly.



Painting by By Hatherell, William, The Last Message (1918) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Isn't that touching

Felt again-
it will never go away.

Now we know. And must go on
even more
This is just as important

we hope

everytime more
can be enough
for now
-waiting-

We live
all the while we say we feel
Alive

sometimes, like memory
of morning sun in autumn light
cast down on dry dirt
heating up
the surface
even more than before
the first
time

And Time
again

open to the sense of it.



Painting by Alexei Harlamov (1840-1925), Portrait of a young girl, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

@Odds, Evenso

What is it called when you know someone
upon eyes connecting directly with another
and you know they are seeing your naked soul
by the expression reflected back and both are admiring
the other
more than the self that is or could be
in side

by serendipity we seek
more than my or by our self
that makes one more than
alone-
that makes
connections by proximity
and grounds the charge between that face
and this spirit, these hands and that touch
and those that keep us enigmatic and static-
charged indivisibly

For see
exactly whom we ought to be-
come
& let go
of percipience
and wonder-
ment, for a time.

What is it considered when you have not traveled far and w i d e
but have sped through paper pages and flew limitless miles,
by red-eye, crossed enemy lines,
considered long and hard about first hand
experiences such as touching the spine that tingles,
or the same finger prints
as others
stained invisibly
soiled likewise, trespassed and told with ownership by good deed

If we need to know
to spread the word, a story, a life like ours is still
being-born-
threaded and indebted, (as I was)
just passing through when you weren't here
-yet
a note is always left for those who look
be-
low
the sure face.

Like metaphor
or mystery-

What happens when everything turns brown and holds onto its water weight
as proud as the iron anchor,
to linger a little before
breaking down
spread thin enough to cover the whole
sky
adding rain for self-reflection on white noise days
when echoes are licked up and reds are too strong
for floating in greyscale
when shades are all we needed
for answers acidic enough

for shelter
for honor
for comfort
for speech-less ways we see, never meant
the same again
precisely as it were.




Painting By English: Christen Dalsgaard (1824-10-30/1907-02-11) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

This Kind (Haiku)

Being
        Nice is like
Hospitality for All
Devil(s)-
               bed is made.




Source unnamed, interior of brothel in Italy 1945 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

No More than Four

It may take some time for our water 

based eyes to adjust 

                                   in the dry air

and filter out what it needs not.

The first train blares its horn 

          as it pulls through the sleepy town

tucked inside the fluffy grey marine layer.

The Amtrack gains its momentum 

          and kicks up clay sand in dusty billows,

                         while we lie stoic in its wake. 

A little later today,

as usual.

When we come out of our nocturnal coma

we start straight away, stacking up tasks, 

                                   left and right foot,

breathe and blink,                     -stretch

and then 

the mind quickens to find more 

                                         just to say

                                   no more than four

things at one time...

No way.

If I had five children- 

why the pinkie and not the thumb?

If I could split my brain in two,

perhaps I could keep track of eight...

Why the biggest brain 

                                if we are so dumb?

This one time, the same as today

while walking to the market,

                                   left, right, left, 

bread, bananas, cheese, water...

I heard the train coming,this was the light Coaster 

and I knew it was only 10 to 3.

I have time-I remember-I thought-

I smile at the passers-by, a grandmother with child, 

                                                  umbrella for the sun, 

a leash leading to a tiny dog and multiple bags in tow.

With my hand plunged into my shallow pocket 

I think I have not enough money 

                                                 for the bread. 

                    Sweat beads built on my brow

and instead of going this way,

                         corruption of a lovely day-

a needed

interruption, a line break in my path.

Now

the copper church bells peal back from atop St. Patrick's tower

and I listen in silence...

four more

Still 

my heart beats,  

with a falling 

                       bead of warm water on my cheek,

                                        and I remember to breathe.

*The number Four is based on an article from brainfacts.org.

Photo credit By "self-made" in  [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Dreams casting shadows

One needn't try to demystify
precisely why the shadows lie
the way they do.
There is always an excuse.
Dare not to ask the old salt and pepper nurse
how she came to be the sole caretaker
of crows
and a single cockatoo
every morning, every single mourning,
she knows
they are there for her too.
The brown boy that is now
a milk chocolate man
still slices cold cuts and fresh white bread
at the local sandwich shop and a decade later
still says 'Hi'-
don't ask me why
the police roll by
and I am reminded, it is just a job.
Do you remember that riddle
about what is black and white-
I've read too much...
Speculation bleeds ink.
I think
I will never ask
why my dreams are now in vivid color.



Painting titled Cloud Shadows (1890) by Winslow Homer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.