Chasm choir

The way a stone is tossed into a dark well

to find water, a level, to hear it hit

bottom.

There was no other way

than by placing our whole body weight

upon the suspension bridge-

between slats, between selves

could we feel it have hold

We could stare into the infinite 

and never know the safest way 

to move atop such vast darkness

By one step,

one stone, 

one question, one more word

about trust, what lies

below 

reveals it self 

in sound but out of sight,

Finally

landing is only the end 

of falling. 

Painting by Gerhard Munthe, 'At the Well' c. 1886 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Pinned down

 

...perception is us

not manifest

destiny or dream

boards and images

attached.

Artwork by Anonymous Unknown author, 18th century, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Storm front

 

Nor did I chase

the storms, even as 

they came for me, that way

Did not run

for shelter stops

Nothing

we wed in between

such pouring days

as if a window

Opened

to a raw and fresh world

Where death and birth

dwell in unison

A reddened dawn 

bled deep

into horizon lines, gashes,

words of warning defined

Old

wives tales,

words of prophecy

fairies and fantasies,

Or metaphor

like We could be

Happy, sirens.

Thoughts as thick as 

Mammatus

dissipate for clearer 

skies shall 

Pass

Blinding truths

anyway...

For now 

I stay shuddered

while wet and wiser

atmospherically.

 

Painting by Hart, James McDougal, 1828-1901  (artist); 'The Storm is Coming' L. Prang & Co. (publisher), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Pandora and the Barfly

He buzzed by
Then circled back around and
Hovered,

Swirling and dashing

only more agitated,
making insect demands
before landing- quite hurriedly.

He begged for the 

Fair Maiden to
Open Up, prying and poking

around.
She refused, stalling and countering-

'It depends upon how you carry me'-
she offered and dared.

Relentless in circles,
Fruitless nonetheless no movements
no lift nothing was felt.

She did not even know

Herself
All that was contained
Inside. Why
No smell crept out and still-

Attracting
So many flies, diligent and
short-lived, by Nature.

Light seekers and crap keepers,
Yet none, not a single one, 

nor a swarm
would lift her 

Wait. 

Painting by Édouard Manet (1832-1883),  'Un bar aux Folies-Bergère' c. 1881 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Christmas Presence

 

 

I am here 

Warm blooded

In the icy dawn.

Pink blush to periwinkle blues

Paint the sky

Behind eyelashes,

Barren branches,

Heavy hearts hung high

Not just I 

sigh, exhale

thinking only of 

Others

whose day holds heavy fruit,

Hugs, in deep loss and great gains

ripe and rotten. I

Inhale the sharpness of

Those warm with love and

Those hollow in hopelessness.

Those that have just arrived,

Those that have long left,

Those that remain

In this familiar temperance

I feel

Here. And there

Goes, swift as the hours,

enduring as years

Ends and Begins

all Over and

Again.

 

 

 

Artwork by Hans Makart 1840-1884), 'Abundantia the gifts of the earth' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

E. Pifanny

I was more in

Love with the 

Place than the man.

-I thought-

Humans are complex,

Addicted ones are

Predictable.

I think-

If you are not given

More than you think you can handle-

then how would you know-

How much more

You could...

I figured,

Turning a blind eye

makes you 

Feel more than

hind (in)sight like fore-

shadowing.

I realized,

Loss enhances the value of 

What you have, irreplaceable or

simple, nameable, and not.

Holding on to 

Nothing is free

falling-

Until 

I knew-

Everything

Lands

Home again

Like a name you've never heard, but

Think you know or a place

You've never been and find 

Yourself in

Love.

Painting by William Orpen (1878-1931), 'The Eastern Gown' c. 1906 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Vanities

All fires die

down

from embers to ash

retardant and uniform.

Our face and fingertips

warmed when close

once upon those times of

burning.

This glow, you know

attracts more than

the dark and cold that surround

our rituals.

Smoke follows beauty,

we all know 

while choking

back tears

it escapes and rises above

the flames.

The words were carried,

the intentions swallowed,

the time was wasted

watching and waiting

while warm

sparks blink.

Stoking and smoldering

somewhere inside

the pit 

we all knew these bridges

suspend more than belief. 

Painting by Nikolai Astrup, c. 1909 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.