Whisp-hers

Whispy so faint

or feign like clouds,

like whispers 

of empty voice

filled in breezes

that matter not

until

hitting something

like chimes

whereby hinting of 

something more

of substance,

a question

lingers like

what matters

until...

Painting by Konrad Krzyżanowski, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Slaughter

They-

wanted me to fail-

expected me to-

secretly 

suffer.

They

believed him

who spoke in tongues

dripping with alcohol-

venom-

or temptation.

They

assumed some-

thing some-

one else 

knowing naked and shorn

They

could never make it through

the frozen nights

of solitude.

They

estimated-

were mistaken and

some, like me, would say

unlucky

betting on the black sheep

betting on the lamb

who is the wolf

you feed-

and the bitten hand

that continues to write through the pain.

Painting by William Sidney Cooper, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Spinning wheel

 

As far away as we

All are

From where we once stood

not long ago

relative 

to what sticks and what flies off

Spinning 

as we are

oblivious to this

Constant.

Nothing 

stays,

nothing is graspable

for one life-

time-

Goes fast and slow

relative 

to how our time

is-

perceived.

And still

try we must

to hold on

centripetally

where we now

understand. 

Painting by Josephus Laurentius Dyckmans, 'At the Spinning wheel' c. 1845 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Caution in the wind

It's a good thing that red lights aren't like red flags-

more commonly seen in hindsight.

Color blindness may be more like

selective hearing.

Why are there so many bright

crimson colors kaleidoscoping 

when remembering (him)?

Would those red flags be like;

the ambulance rides, the light coming in

on the sides (gut instinct)

could it be

the blood splatters, bloody hands,

drunken stupors

or the rage, or his cheeks, 

the fire-alarm(s)

the sunsets, the stains

or the business bank account

shiny red as a waxed Macintosh apple

(poisoned)...

Not once

an apology,

not black or white-

It seemed neon 

not calling me beautiful-anymore

disdain, malice, silence

and absence (even when present),

'Vacancy'

Now I can see

the grey area 

are the clouds, air-wind made visible,

attempting to contain-

Believe

they loom, as omens, but do not stop 

or look back while perpetually

moving forward,

breaking and forming again and again.

And all colors 

are prismatic, it is we that assign

such meanings as

to stop or go. 

Painting by Anna Lownes, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

F8

Theoretically

if someone showed me

the Future

and said This or That

We both know we'd go with

less pain

We go on

without knowing which is which

The will 

yours-

the will see-after

which was worse.

This way

we suffer the same fate. 

Painting by Pietro della Vecchia, 'Fortune teller reading the palm of a soldier c. 1626-1678 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Grief is the thing without feathers

Keep going

an hour longer than you think you can...

Strength 

is not how heavy the load

or capacity 

to measure up

against the weary

whose Joy

dwells in Nothing-

of want

Everything back,

as though undo was a direction

from undone.

When Lost;

the Way, the Hope, the Time,

the trust

the will, the want, the why-

The sun rises its warm cheek 

lighting the low flame

of a fresh poppy 

bursting through the winter mud.

Anyway the next step,

the next moment

finds me

empty and lighter and

unable to grasp ahold

of any-thing-any-body-any-way

right or left

or stay 

strong long enough

to make sense

of Beauty. 

Painting by Auguste Allongé (1833-1898), 'A Walk in the Forest' c. 1873 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Sift

Distinctly the pad of her hand

the inside of her thumb

tapping like a tambourine

white dust exploding upward

each solid strike

and dare ask

why do you do that Grandma?

She liked wearing an apron,

To make it all smooth and loose

or something like that

she said.

The white powder 

was not flour

on my parents' kitchen counter

back then the oven made

TV dinners 

better than the microwave.

And as I sift

through the coarse grains 

of the collapsed sandcastle 

of my own making

where I grew into

adding on and adding on

but built too close 

to the tideline-

there was nothing 

softer than flakes of carbon and gold

no solid memories endured 

the crashing

like white shells

of me. 

Painting by Granville Redmond, 'Talk at the beach' c. 1931 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.