Between Us-Nothing
but Space and Time, grow and shrink
reaching the same light
Now, it is too late
to take it back or let go
so completely gone
Two souls are mated
Being seeks itself alone
there was always More.
Painting by Martin Johnson Heade (1819-1904), 'Flowers of Hope' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Falling comes naturally
as common as fear
another body
knocked down-
Learning how to climb
up to the canopy
out of the arbor awnings
each branch a rung
bell
a ladder
has no top
The horizon awaits this distant gaze
further than
a crow flies
an escape
too far to grasp, too afraid to take
it all in
to begin again
asking...
What is more
No-
body needs to learn
anything except
landing
softly
before rising again
with an icy wind
at knifepoint
only to return
home, rootbound
thirsting
for more.
Artwork by Ellen Thayer Fisher, 'Fall leaves and Acrons' c. 1885 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Tensing, pulling, readiness, and resistance
as much as we can
gather
before -SNAP-
to hold a purpose
no more
holding together
Just
when life recoils, takes cover
inside
and becomes slack
limp before
taut
all comes back
to holding on-
to Nothing
tight.
Photo credit by Oroo, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
I stepped up to the mouth
of the dark hole,
a flicker catching my curious
necessity for heat
as in a fondness for friction
something strong stirs
in this cave
I come to find
as my eyes adjust
not some majestic dragon
as projected upon the moist stone wall
but a shriveled and scarred ogre
unseen to himself and flesh burnt
by the venomous flames uncoiling
from his own sharp tongue
lashing.
The smoke and singe surround every crevice
a decrepid and deathly stench
steams from his chest where
his heart rotted in the darkness
called some body and vacant vessel
vulnerable and afraid
of all the elements
that make
a man.
Photography: Albert Grünwedel (July 31, 1856 – October 28, 1935), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
a moment dis-missed
then and then again
trees fell like bodies
this time dis-appears
as if ours to waste.
Artwork by José Nin y Tudó (1840-1908), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Dry dirt cratering
a doe glides across the yard
eats the fallen fruit.
Artwork by Franz Marc (1880-1916), titled 'Deer at Dusk' dated 1909 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Any-one-of-Us
who have heard
the shattering of a heart,
of a world
fragmented, knows the
intent to deafen each piercing note...
Those of Us
who have struggled with intruding songs and scents,
are stuck in a triggered trap, clamped
between sharp teeth
and resisting no more,
alone.
Some of Us
disagree
with how lovely it is to have lost
than never have had
played a game we did not know.
Intuition, like embers emit no smoke,
but deep connections
lean candle flames without a breeze.
It can be felt,
on fingertips, burnt leaves, ashes-
heat is Life.
Death is a dampening, silent
as in, buried Alive.
And I know
how these memories
refuse departure.
On the ancient land where I now stand-
my story is held momentarily
footprints in the red dirt
alone, cauterized, singed,
and dappled with sunlight.
Fire with fire.
Most of Us
will not get that close
ever again.
None of Us
understand
the heart that burns
and beats without Us
skipping over
tiny details like nails
hammered into the heartwood.
Artwork by: Sigmund Grimm, dated 1520 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
