Kaleidoscope of Spring

Together, we once called them
'worms with wings'.
I thought of this
as my marriage died,tortuously
in the same way
it dawned upon me while
watching the 'Morning Cloak'
try to right itself
in the amber evening sun.

I had tossed the big black butterfly
outside on the patio concrete
after finding him
splayed flat, unmoving
on the kitchen floor
next to the smiling cat's
empty food bowl.

I was late serving dinner,
he offered his own.

That was many hours before
or many, many days
by butterfly time.
Stunned, I noticed, here he
miraculously
survived-only to be now
devoured piecemeal
by an army of ants.

A group of caterpillars
is also called an army.
A swarm of butterflies
is also a kaleidoscope.

His shredded wings
did not deter
the fight-
I couldn't watch.
I could not look away
at this dying symbol of change
reminding me,
sometimes
there is nothing we can do
to save another.



Artwork by Edward Mason Eggleston (1882-1941), 'A day in June' c. 1932 in Public Domain.

elasticity/density

The anticipated fog
steamrolls over
terrestrial things
in ways worthy
of emulating.

Clearing in manhole
windows, a glint of caught
starlight hints at the presence
of an eternal watchful
vigil by the moon cast.

Slow and muffled comes the
hollow sound, conjured by a presence
stirring the air.

Straining to hear
a muse muttering
your name as if it were
pronounced in the echo
of Nobody.


Painting by John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836-1893), 'A Moonlit Evening' c. 1880 in Public Domain. 

Innocent

I should be content 
knowing nobody
could love him
like I do.

True enough
to have witnessed
the changing self
d r a w  o u t l i n e s
of desires
longer than
arms reach.

The center feels like a heart
compressed,
echoes collapse and
the chest pushes a thought
into wearied exile

only one 
caress could suspend
the pursuit 
to trace folds of grey matters
inside out. 

Make dreams
a solace somewhere
whispered images may be
seen tangible in a way, 
a drift made by you
moving through this life
dropping leaves

in a scent,
how I know myself. 



Painting by George Lawrence Bullied (1858-1933), 'The Love Letter' c. 1911 in Public Domain.

Gesture

It is the same way we see heat
emanation, only by the rippling
of reality,
an oasis awaits further down the road.

Despite the distance we cover,
no matter how we adjust our focus
crisp lines singe into smoke
relaxing
feeling and senses
a source.

Desire is emanated
from the soul to the eye
that traces the shapeliness of
bodies around
a naked blur
which softly invites a gaze.

The way wind is welcome
where still
waiting for change
of pace moves no bodies
weighted with apathy.

The world spins, arrows fly,
hope floats, love kills, babies die,
the decrepit are reborn, the gates are locked,
gravity suspends its permanence
for a second
witness.

See how it feels...

Arid and parched
a body becomes
never reaching
for what cannot be held.



Image taken in Death Valley taken August 1982 by Roger 469 in Public Domain. 

Short-sighted

En route
observe by taking in
filters
your immediate surroundings,
eyes touching face coverings,
nothing could effectively hide
what is done
inside
is being done by undoing,
by implementing more restrictions
moving
others to do the same.

We stay
inside,
like obedient house-pets
longing for fresh air
hanging our heads
out the window
we notice
how it smells
like something new.

Pacing ourselves
replaces racing toward the End where
no meetings will take place-
in person
there is less
to get, less we can do, less available, less security,
less was nevermore than just enough.

What goes around
in circles
gets smaller, our circles ellipse
until we end
up
with no points
of contact.

We leave the blanks
instead of filling our barrels with ammunition,
from six feet away
we look the same underneath
our personal protection,
mortal and our skin feels too thin.

We covered our bases
and dirt floors
until the rug unraveled
leaving the looming
predictions
dyed without a pattern.



Photograph credit: Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer, 1941 in Public domain.

Long-view

It gets worse,
or gets better.

Both
chaos and entropy
like cause and reaction
entwined for grounding
the current state.

There is no potential spark
where nothing is conductive.

This way,
we are all safe,
they say this is the only way
to survive
to sacrifice
our freedoms for fear.

What if...
the same question
was posed
If what...?

Layers of complexity are added for mystery;
Gloves, face masks, hats, sunglasses, shaggy hair, alcohol cologne, we have all become suspect(s).
To Be
Watched, traced, recorded, counted, slotted, allotted 1 per person, our fair shares tanked, our borrowed time was revoked, to be copied, pasted and erased.
Mankind does one through five:
Social Divorce, Marital sentences, home tutoring, web meeting, happy hours at home, time ambles a long dark path out of the woods, there are stones to throw and rocks to kick down the road.


Painting by Edward Mitchell Banister (1828-1901), 'Woman walking down path' c. 1882 in Public Domain.

Recipe

I used to write about food.
After that night
we had that first
big below-the-belt fight
and you challenged me
to make it-
writing,
a submission.

I took the shriveled passion-fruit
and placed them on the kitchen table.
Admiring the small brown cluster
with the tip of my pen
I finely drew out
a likeness
that read-
pink, tender, more seeds than pulp
and nearly dry
inside.

I made something
delicious and tart.

Anyway,
that is how and where the disease
began simmering,
one organ after another
changing tune in time.
It was then-remember-
I renamed
myself, mostly taking away
nourishment,
and then adding a healthy dose
of humility
garnished with a twist of fate.

The paper folded,
and I was told
you may have to wing it
from here.

It is wise to always start
by pre-heating the oven
and a word of warning,
it often makes too much
so I suggest
mixing in small batches,
or halving...

Love,
you will like making this
too-
Ease back in,
cook until the juices run clear,
take small frequent bites,
use salt for wounds sparingly,
smell before tasting,
don't look at the date,
trust your senses,
and know-
most ingredients
may be substituted
in a pinch.

Although
practice makes no promises,
it only becomes sustenance
if you can make it
again and again.







Painting by Peter Jacob Horemans (1700-1776), Still life c. 1774 in Public domain.