What comes
After all?
So much
stacked
unbeknownst
we carry on
Or perhaps
Was it
Grace?
And then-
How much a
handbasket
Will hold
over so many
seasons,
weather worn
by hand.
Painting by Winslow Homer 'Girl Carrying a Basket' c. 1882 in National Gallery of Art, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons.
When counting blessings
like spare
Change
keeps
Adding up to
Less sense
than we thought we had,
stashed In crevices
it is the
Change
Saved
For a rainy day
That makes its way
Toward
Something found...
Even green
wears off
Leaves
and becomes something
More
In time, interesting...
The zinc sky reflects
Itself
empty
but unbroken.
Painting by Matthias Stom, 'Woman counting coins by candlelight' (Allegory of Avarice), c. 1635 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Madame Butterfly,
Sometimes we be-
come
that which hurt
Us, that one we abhor
All the more
Consumed
and eaten alive.
One can feel this,
as a matter of growth
inside
as cocoon cannot keep
safe
its contents.
From moth to monarch
Color comes to show
Consumption.
I have become many
Delicate versions
Of a creature
That becomes-
Part of
creation.
Canaries are placed inside
Coal mines
by us, to save us
from poison unseen.
Other-
Wise
I have chosen
To hover at the blazing
Hearth
making smoke rings
with ashen wings
while warm
blooded bodies
Take shelter
soaking in stillness.
I can
Still
fly away.
Painting by Edward Mason Eggleston (1882-1941), 'A Day in June' c. 1932 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
.jpg)
Joy is too large to wrap
Anything around,
Mind, Body, universe...
Whereas happy seems to fit
like a coin, a stone, a ladybug,
in the palm
leaving no trace.
Happy comes and goes
while Joy
lingers
imperceptibly, inescapably
Inside.
After chasing
Thing to thing
The cat purrs on my chest-
He cannot get any closer.
Image credit: me. Photo of SSW, aka Smokey, c. 10/21/2022.
What are you doing with this body
The soul asked the mind
To and from bounced as echoes
Evade their sources
Proof
You want to know
Who
You are
Now, is past
Then, next I plan
On finding
A voice
hat Does
instead of making sound waves
with air
Going to and from
Self and I
just to know
Nothing
Is true
Is false
looking
where questions
make marks
like clouds,
See
the blue.
Artwork by Konrad Krzyżanowski, 'Clouds' c. 1906, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
When it is said
Something told me
Something made me
I sensed something-
where is the body
of the thing
that sometimes
does not resemble
Us
Like things
that feel or don't feel
Right?
Aren't we feeling
Some
Thing...
Artwork by Robert Lewis Reid, 'The Mirror' c. 1910 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
.jpg)
We called it 'The Monsters House'
First
Because it had no windows and was made of concrete
It had a lighthouse tower
Only a tiara on tiny red lights to warn planes
In fog and like May
Was always in thick blankets
Of grey days stacked
On holidays most years
There was some decor
As if it could fit in
With the community
It stood on the Pacific Coast
Line and you could draw a line
Home from any spot
Within range
Like Babel
It spoke of neither here
Nor there
A power plant
It became powerless,
Nothing like plants
Holding sun
I tossed out my anchor
With the security of pillars
Standing strong
Eternal and moral
You can guess
How it crumbled
Like sand
Decommissioned, dethroned
And deleted
From the horizon
As the world spun
On and on
I stood
Still
Ashes go nowhere
Nobody will remember
A solid building
Of imagination.
Image: Self, taken in front of Monster's House (Cbad-Tamarack) March 2020 (D.O.D.-date of destruction)
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...
