Written in stone

All in 

One moment

I understood the

Buddha's parable about walking

with a stone in your shoe-.

I suddenly knew

It could happen to anyone

Anytime 

and after inspecting the painful

if minuscule annoyance

I found the stone

Made of calcified fragments, merely

Memories compressed and pushed out

like bone spurs sloughed off 

and re-attached to thought

Like a tumor.

Every step, someone else's shoes -

That was

Us

Now all that is left

is the loose stone

from the right shoe. 

Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), 'Woman tying her shoe' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

What was the question?

Time, like money, isn't tangible 

Neither is love, truth and what

is real-

made up, rounded off, different

for you and I-

what is real...

And yet, some

times

are frozen or elapse slow

and many too fast to enjoy

Enough-

What about dusk-sunset 

or dawn, or the times

I look at the clock and it's the same

Times-day and night.

Well, what about a pastime or a memory,

Truth be told from one 

person in a place with

Nothing-

is real

for you-for anyone...

Do blessings count?

Photo of Woman at spinning wheel in Studeno na Blokah, Slovenia taken August 1962 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Terminal Velocity

The blur through a window

from a moving train-

Escape is jumping

Off-another adventure

The temptation to forget

Your given name-

Every thing is new

Once

Or more, 

how many places and things

to see

versions of yourself

Landing 

Through the pane.

Painting by Eva Stort, Deutsch: Blick aus dem Fenster (Schöneberg). Signiert. Datiert 1890' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Aloha

Everybody's Home

Burns to the ground

At some point

The scenery changes

Like that

Old memory of

Open fields

Filled in with

Buildings

Now 

Vacant and

Antiquated after

Remote working

Everybody's Home. 

Painting by Jules Tavernier, 'Kilauea Caldera Sandwich Islands' c. 1886 at San Diego Art Museum in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

High Cue

Sap from heart-wood drips-

Honey, no one would call It.

Can you Smell the sun?

Painting by George Inness (1825-1894), 'The Mill Stream, Montclair, New Jersey' c. 1888 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Summer times

Some days smell like

Freedom.

I was with a bad (hu)man for

Far too long.

Often heated,

Bad habits, scarring and some

Evil-

Bloody mess...

Honest, my guts

torn asunder 

then more

Limbo, a sense of 

Death...

Dante,

One could say-

Then

In some particular way

the sun felt extra good today,

Felt my skin thirsting and gulping

every atom, warm and

Yum...

Like a perfectly ripe peach 

cannot be devoured without a

Smile.

Pure and True.

Each peach- the same and

Anew-

Even though, simplified

Into

As above, so it is

Below. 

To grow or die

this time around

the Sun. 

. 

Painting by William Mason Brown (1828-1898), 'Peaches on a White Plate' c. 1880 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Forest

 

Still the aftermath

Trees reach tall and wide, like We-

That is All-she wrote.

Painting by George Hayter (1792-1871), 'After the Storm' c. 1833 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.