Posts for June 29, 2019 (page 2)

I hold before me a smooth stone attached with wax

to the end of a stick     a milky blue-gray translucent

sheen     I study the opalite with controlled breaths

and half-open eyes     looking for what is hidden within

the only light in the room a burning wick on

the windowsill     no angle to share its light

with the gem     no chance of a flicker sneaking in

and yet there is something there     a spark of yellow-

orange flame     it flutters in that great storm

lightning in a marble that holds all of this space

this candle and air     the trees and mud and marigolds

outside     the geese flying past     the children rolling

around on the carpet overhead     the electromagnetic

spectrum     the gravity     the astrological panoply

all here in my hand swimming in a cloud

of octarine currents     I see orange winks in a language

I have only began to study     I see an orange outline

of my own face floating in that primordial stew

rising like the earth’s blood into new peaks and islands

out of ash and smoke I see myself reborn     screaming

like a falcon     not pure but closer     ever closer

fingernails encrusted with dirt,
sweat filling the rims
of overgrown cuticles,
fingers ache from harsh grip,
and calluses allow palms 
to skip along hot gravel,
knuckles scab from many falls
while tick mark filled fingernails 
count clumsy accidents

Underneath the grocery store’s fluorescence, my body
was color-coded and mostly invisible. I liked it,
stocking cans, pressing cardboard tray between belly
and the shelves of canned vegetables I’d face, pulling
the stock forward. Turning labels straight. 

For years I have carried my body to work,
and for years, I made apologies
for the space I occupy. Eventually the grocer
let me go for “not looking urgent enough,”
even though I sweat with the best of them,
all average-sized, as we finished our work 
together.  I asked if I was too slow. No, he said,
but I seemed it.
 
My body may break the air
much like any other thing (he didn’t say
‘whale’ or ‘ocean liner’), but it was always
strange to me how big things may look
so slow, even as they slice their way, dogged
through the choppy graygreen surf.

I’m struggling
to find the perfect words –
a description faithful and true
to help you
experience
what I
experienced.  

Shall I begin
with the gentleman at the ticket gate
who needed to conference
with a fellow ticket-taker
when I handed him two twenties
for the $36 admission charge,
and he gave me $3 change?  

Or shall I relate the smell
emanating from black pleather shoulder harnesses
and the warm, moist feel
of the metal handles
touched by thousands of people
over the past four days?

 Or maybe
you want to hear about
my moist armpits,
or the streams of sweat
trickling down my back,
or the strands of damp hair
stuck to the back of my neck,
or the swamp ass
I discovered
after sitting in the bumper cars?  

When they tell you
parental love involves selflessness,
these are the nights  
they’re trying to warn you about.

Mountains mountains 

I envy you! 

You can see what the world has to offer 

yet you stand your ground 

You are unwavering  

and sometimes I hate it

and other times I love it

You are constantly picked apart 

by those who do not know how to appreciate you 

yet you still protect them all the same.

You remind me that someday 

I too will be strong enough 

if I could just learn to be content.

A golden glaze
of sun coats leaves
and rocks highlighting
jutted pieces of the
forest with its glow,
while casting the
crevices deeper
into darkness.
I’m entranced by
the way the light
falls across the
curve of the hills,
and the hollows
sink away making
my path the
blackest road
around where
the edges of the
shining hue all
fall away, caught
before they could
reach the bottom.

I want to write about happiness
human triumph that speaks to us all.
Some rousing thought that inspires us
to be more than we are.

What is written is mostly ugly
it contains the truth I know
filled with injustices witnessed beyond control
that sees a spilled can of paint as a muddle
rather than accidental art.

Or as a problem to be analyzed and fixed
with a dumb as a bag full of hammers
one size fits all mentality.  

Then references to Dachau
or someone cast in the role at Baranowicze
or how Frankl might rationalize it
rather than the simplicity of emotion
as a father has while playing with his child. 

The joy found today in my new grandson
sleeping on my chest
takes me back to when my own sons
tucked in my robe cooing
while my love for them
pushed away everything else.

Actors, surrounded by three walls,
One behind, one on the right, one on the left,
And in front of them, the audience.

Actors, knowing that the audience exists,
But the characters they play, not so.
Hence, the imaginary wall in front.

Some people seem to be on stage in their daily lives,
Playing roles for the audiences at work, on the street, on the golf course,
whatever,
And, of course, politicians, all their waking hours.

What if we–as audience members in these real-life scenarios–wrote critiques of those performances?
Joe gave a very convincing portrayal of a middle manager at the office today.
Bernice’s transformation into maturity at her family reunion was a game-changer.

Sometimes community theatre is free,
Just look around.

Shifting sands on shores
twilight teased of night times fright
still harbors slumber

Kennebec flows fast
when tides rise with full moons glow
salt-tinged rivers surge

Twas around this time
a year ago he was lost
some ships disappear

Others find new docks
widows walk each night waiting
for the boats return

At doubling point
she climbed the rough wooden spire
releasing her heart

Closed eyes saw no fall
tense muscles felt no water
as the body crashed

Drifting out to find
her hearts true cemetery
among ocean wrecks

A flame not light shines
lingering near old candles
inside the lighthouse

Art can be found