“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, January 12, 2019
Scraps
She sits at the dining room table,
pen in hand-elbow to arm
props up her left love,
where logic once lived.
She wants me to believe,
by witnessing how hard she is thinking,
that she can find the right answers,
on her own
while I mindlessly match corners of cloth
on the couch.
There was a new way about her
that noticeably tilted the room
or cast the light
in her favor
across our stretch of space.
Don't look, she demanded
placing her body in front of
her painting.
I won't, I confirm
and see anyway.
When I leave the living room,
I can feel her listening
to the cabinet door whine,
the dresser drawers stomp,
she is wondering about
room for living.
She questions where I put things
away
for now
she knows
my thoughts
and where I would keep them.
She was always watching these,
grabbing them
in the thin air
and keeping them
for later.
Painting by Vilhelm Hammershøi, c. 1904 in [Public domain].
Saturday, January 5, 2019
Feast of air
He sets the table
for the holiday
he has planned
carefully,
gently laying
the knives-
blades facing inward
of course, there was nothing real
about this place setting
in this metaphor
Helping with a tool, utensil, in-kind-ness
He says,
Busy, I have so much work to do
I do not reply
I do not show I notice
anticipation,
I know this
is a holiday
and anyway, he knows this too,
(the closures)
he presses (on) the edge of
bleached napkins
naming each of his clients
He must go
to
to-day
too many
there lie(s)
the empty plates
while the water glasses break
a sweat
profusely
dropping rings
at the appointed places
becoming tepid
and easier to digest.
Painting by Hendrick Andriessen, Vanitas c. 1630-1640 in [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons.
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
reflection
The difference between man and his
Nature;
Primarily,
the words will fade away
meaning
altogether
whereas colors come
bright and new
blending in
after each and every rain.
Painting by Henry Ward Ranger, 'Bradburys Mill Pond No. 2' c. 1903 in [Public domain].
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Intro-version
Things fall into place and we can safely say
gravity had a heavy hand,
although it is a weak force and spineless excuse
for why we stand up-
right
despite the pressure this places directly on
our crowns,
fashioned from sand and stone,
the weight resists the wait
reeling into terminal velocity
blurs and gives
in, collapses into itself,
and condensing, reducing what is necessary
by its lowest denomination
We still build and rebuild as if we knew it would
all work out this way,
and not that way we tried
to change the inevitable, like laws, universal
and blind,
like this dark energy displaced
with good will
things were determined
by the absence of things
accidentally
heavier than we could imagine.
Painting by Jules Charles Aviat (1844-1931) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
tepidity
I said my feet were frozen,
he did not care
but took notice of my canvas shoes
atop the icy mud.
The fire he made,
started by Him,
should have been
enough-
but the wood was wet
atop the dirt that was sand,
the grass still green despite the dew
the smoke swirled
inside the pit.
His forehead and eyes settled into the comfortable scowl,
his red cheeks took upon themselves an orange glow
and I knew he felt
contentment.
I smiled at him over the inferno.
He often mocked
the speed at which I walked
on December nights near the open sea.
After explaining over my shoulder,
like salt,
why the air felt so distinctly different
between us
he said no more about what he could not feel.
Together,
we find our way
a-part
of accepting
differences by degrees.
Artwork by Felix Nussbaum [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Monday, December 24, 2018
Here yee
By anthropomorphic standards;
that which possesses the sharpest quality
is able to penetrate without drawing a drop of blood-
it is the words that slip under the skin,
instructing our sense of tactile awarenesses
that are permeable, absorbed
and mixed into our blood or consciousness streams
beneath the smooth surface, it flows like riptide
whereby, like all liquid bodies,
we obey the laws
thermodynamically,
by an embered blush
or spontaneous hurried chill.
I will listen more closely
when the words
are honed
to the point of Truth.
Painting by Théo van Rysselberghe [Public domain via Wikimedia].
ill at ease
Ill at ease
does not mean a discomfort
to the point of nausea
aroused in a state of self-satisfaction.
I suppose it is comforting to know
that this same word, Anxiety,
is on everyone's nerves
and coming out through the lips as
verbal indigestion, along with a liver and onion
aftertaste.
How many times have I needed to scream
a curse word
with the most volume possible to project outward,
to release some other demon
banging on the walls of my soul to escape,
as if my sound would shatter
gates
and makes me ill
swallowing this thought back like moonshine.
That was not a question.
Our survival depended upon this fine line between
cooperation and fugitive, patient and shaman,
poetry and prose
words and thier usage.
We made statues of security and braced ourselves
with agendas, acting in stone, we planned, we waited,
we toiled and cried over the temporal state of
poison, we consumed all we could with-
stand.
Resistance said not a word
about its origin.
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