Posts for June 4, 2020 (page 11)

Shadow Moon (November 14, 2016)  

I am standing beneath
a bright night sky
lit by a Super Moon
visiting close for the second time
in my life
 
It is so bright
I close my eyes and wish            
            I could absorb it.  

But there is a shadow behind it            
            almost surrounding it.
A shadow so dark the whole world            
            quakes in fear,  

I feel the light            
            let it wash over me
trying to cleanse the pain            
            the anger            
            the hurt            
            the hate
from those too blind to see.  

This day
this light
this historic moment
can it replace
            the horror visiting me            
            the world            
            my fellow man?  

Shall I just stand up            
            shake my fist            
            cry out to them?  

I cannot,
I must reach out            
             touch you            
             touch them            
             love them
and hope
the cloud will fade and
love will reign,
It is our only hope.  

Tony Sexton

I admit a strange thill to
see a wrecking ball’s square hit
against that crumbling structure’s
cornerstone, the one that’s not
doing anyone much good,
maybe never really did.
What can we build in its place?

I chose eight note cards, reprints
from old botanical plates drawn
and colored from nature
with concise descriptions and rules
for culture.  Luscious
and perfect specimens glowing
on an ecru background of handmade
paper:

muted rose effusion of peony
golden fanfared sunflower
cotton blouse flounce of carnation
loves me, loves me not daisies
bee buzzed delicacy of sweet pea
orange silk scarf petaled day lily
densely packed pink zinnia
scarlet petunia duet

All are unique, with steadfast beauty;
a bright note to transplant
into someone’s day.  Much like
the friend they are intended for.

The gray globe

studded with red spikes

(like a clove-encrusted orange)

hangs on a black backdrop

(like a family heirloom brooch
pinned to the finest velvet)

(and a kuiper belt object
floating far away)

as if it were alone

and untouchable

and contained

I rise from a restful sleep
and take a deep breath.

I recognize the privilege

To rise.
To breathe.
To exist.
To live.

(can+could+might+should+if+maybe+when+someday) (perhaps) < yes ∨ no

Pine Mountain Cemetery IV
            Tressie

Little mop head with tangled curls,
Sunshine carried on her head
With a giggle spread out for us.

See the rock marked with a T?
Heart shaped, a daisy chain with
Pink clover captures the tiny stone.

Her runaway horse spooked by hiss
And strike of the sunning rattlesnake.
Our screaming girl held hard until

Her foot seized by stirrup dragged
Her down the rock strewn cliff.
No chance to save girl or horse.

Myth she became, the child lost
To a fate too cruel to bear. Her
Mother rests in the nearest space.

Her sisters spin tales of her beauty
Too rare to keep, sweetness too rich
For such mortals as those four be.

My studio today:  a shabby grey wooden picnic table

beneath a canopy of trees

beside a rambling creek

I hear the quiet buzzing of wings                and see shadows dancing around me

Warm and dappled sunlight melts the misty dew from the clover 

And warms my back

Sweet freshly cut grass and honeysuckle scent the air

Birds trill and sing       some with hushed voices      some cry out loud

I sit at the edge of the woods

this gentle place belongs to me         this moment        this morning

I trust the touch of healing

            the breeze of inspiration

            the balm of gratitude

i sit here

and let myself

take something i love

and somehow make it into you

in the same moment

i shake my head

at the passing thought

of you on my mind

you make me sick;

simultaneously revolting

me and reeling me in,

inabling me to

look away

thats what you infected

me with, leaving an imprint

on me like some abstract

birthmark

you remind me of

the one on my hip,

nobody sees it, and i always

keep it hidden, but its a part of me

i’ll never grow out of

this is how i know

ill never love myself,

because i still take a part

of me, and make it

into you

Three little vines —
I can not tell them their names or their experiences —
sprout towards the coin-op laundry machine
from a basement window in the back of my building.

The pair that grow closer together easily reach out ten inches.

The plastic Christmas tree that’s sat there for ten months
has only accumulated a collective of cardboard boxes
patient at the end of the storage units — 
I do not identify, I only turn and see it back there —

It sits and listens.