The noise of the day
has subsided and folded
into a quiet
under the soft covers
of a July evening.
The eyes seem to resist
the particular and instead
focus on nothing
but the sum - the glow
from shore lights
smudged on water,
the dark sky powdered
with translucent clouds
and the faint filaments
of stars strung out overhead.
Tonight, I don't want
the granular detail of things
to steal my attention
but to enjoy the blending,
the stand back meld
of colors, of each stroke,
forming a picture transcending
its parts. I want to feel
the evening being
put together
into a boundless whole,
to be beyond
the smallness of myself
and be absorbed totally
into the mystery
of the composition
It took me years of training
to move my legs like this,
gliding over the granular
on long feet with curved width,
to make my legs flail left and right,
my upper half stock-still,
balancing and countering
so I won’t take a spill,
I’m going about forty-five,
but I’ve got no steel cage,
just long blades cutting through the white,
so long as it behaves.
Gravity is now my plaything,
as much as I am hers,
cross a mile in two minutes,
a small grace I have earned,
the blur of speed makes its own wind,
downs out the weaker noise,
just a fast bubble around me,
that calmness I enjoy.
Gray mercury says twenty-three,
but I don’t feel a thing,
you really only note the chill
when you have stopped moving,
my weight becomes a shifting ball,
it flows, then it slams home,
at other times it’s zero-G,
a feeling few have known.
Winter-brown trees are flashing past,
guiding the broad, white trail,
they remain still, branches don’t wave,
this time I am the gale,
it’s rare to find a day like this,
where crowds don’t slow you down,
when you can streak across the snow,
flying just off the ground.
Can you see me?
Eyes open
But still unseeing
To the truth,
Which has been hidden
In the lies of life.
Can you find me?
Wandering through hallways,
Knowing my way around
But still lost
In my willow-weep thoughts
From yesterday.
Can you hear me?
I’m talking to you
And you look like
You understand.
But do you really?
I don’t think so.
Can you feel me?
I’m right here,
You’re reaching out to touch me
But your hand
Connects
With nothing.
Because that’s what I am to you.
Can you tell me?
Tell me the truth.
What you think
Of this world around us.
But what if you forget breath?
My ask
Goes unanswered,
Lost in the space
Of forgotten memory.
Can you remember me?
Papers and words and life
Come together
To be me.
But what happens
When they burn?
Against the grain
Resistance to the
Appearances of
What is undesired..
Constructing a future
With a pleasant
Granular flow..
The plan of a
Reformer
Progressive
Self helper..
Stories of resistance
Against the grain
Already freedom...
Alabaster streaks of warmth
in its dewy first glow,
tepidly stirring the senses, as
my gaze roams to the
trickle of ebony beads;
in the distance,
chimes of granular dustings,
with fragrances rich in
mahogany earthen grounds,
shaking the last of the
quondam night’s moon specks,
as life’s poignant rays
seep deep into my sights,
coaxing myself out of
hibernation,
longing for the first sip
of sunshine,
basking in the early beams of
balmy dawns and
sepia sunsets,
blessed to
start and end the
sands of time with you—
upon my soul’s sanctuary,
my lucid dream ablaze.
"God within me is the enjoyer of the aroma
As also this dopamine boosting flavour I taste
I surrender all pleasures to the dweller of my heart
Breath by breath thus that my soul presence be chaste"
We Live Day by Day
Hour by Hour
Minute by Minute
We Live
Our World is Unique
Connected
Unique
We are wrapped in
Companionship
Our granular Love
Our World is Unique
When the grains are altered
Our life is too
Now I see the world
Still Unique
But different
Not connected
Alone
All the players
Living Day by Day
Hour by Hour
Have Love
Companionship
Connected
The altered world
Is Lonely
All those grains of sand
Touching, But not for me
My connected Grain of Sand
Has left me
Passed into the portals of Time.
I live differently.
Now that my grain has left me.
Copyright January 2024
Look up into the blue blanket sky feeling granular and fearful and sometimes fear isn't always to be afraid but to be immersed letting the unknown in and yourself out filling your essence with elicitation. This feeling this dream. Oh my, how the clouds disobey gravity and become discharged from the invisible chains that bind almost all things. Oh for the apples soon fall down to the bottom of the invisible reach now is taken as rational yet I hither in a place I can't even call a home. Oh Aether won't you buttress me with feathered wings I chose to leave this place for I was free.
What is as close
As one's breath
Not the last one
Nor the next one
Rather at the
Momentary point
You wonder if
You are inhaling
Or exhaling
What granular
Invisible aspect
Of this precious gas
Is entering the lungs
To exit as
Carbon dioxide
Or find a capillary
To take a ride
On a blood stream
Rush to the brain
Keeping it alive
All without intent
To do so
Whilst processing
Information received
Instantaneously sending
Electrical impulses
To fingers hovering over
An imaginary keyboard
All which are immanent
Yet transcendent from
breathing
Within an overplay of paneled oak
and illumination fittingly low,
set upon a table, its style baroque
a lighted candle, its shimmering glow
plays an unopened bottle of Bordeaux
Distant soft murmurs of discrete lovers
a pop of cork, the chinking of a glass
gentle rustling of changed table covers,
the whooshing of a skirt as waitress pass.
Low background music with a mellow bass.
A rich old earthy scent from burning log
is mixed with fragrant kitchen spices, sweet
arouses memories of synagogue.
Pungent aroma from hot sizzling meat;
a whiff of petrol coming from the street.
The napkin soft, bread roll toasty, warm,
dinner plate hot, wine glass suitably chilled
all precisely the acceptable norm.
Granular grating as pepper is milled.
I press on the steak; it's perfectly grilled.
Fantastic flavors burst upon my buds
juicy, velvety, succulent, tender.
The wine my mouth with fruity perfume floods
I finish the last drop, then surrender
"I require another glass, bartender."
Standing by the moon lakes of open craters
Rocks remain the same and in their place
In short supply are birds of winter
Oxygen takes flight in missing trees
Origins of which remain a mystery
In beds of dust in beds of sand found there
Wed to the granular unsaid
Reason settles all the dust of lunar trust
It is presumed there are no men on Mars
Perhaps the moon absconded with them all
And women too since we are presuming to
Know what there is to know about the moon
Eyes of the moon are deep crevasses
Attempting to bore into humanity
Consuming flesh and soul in their reflections
From a sun that never rests but only questions
Midday pristine flows
along the hills and valleyed snows
blind and dazzle in the afternoon light glows,
granular displays
nature on parade.
The Crucible Of Fire
We call it ash,
although more like desiccated granular bone coral.
Whether ash or coral, I will be.
I am afraid, as I see
through unseeing eyes,
as I feel, even though I cannot feel,
the flickering flames that feed through the doors ahead
waiting for what was me.
Young once.
Not special but a beginning, a promise.
No hill too tall to climb, no challenge too great;
no laughter too big to embrace.
Dreams.
and then desire shredded,
sent aloft with the winds,
Vanished to some other world.
Hands grown spotted with time.
Eyes gone dim and rheumy,
sour old man breath of despair, and yes,
magic, either forgotten or tossed toward the fire ahead.
David Holmes
Gathering darkness lies in the desert dead
Breathe the doom. Black birds will follow
Few things grow in the wasteland
Roses spring into action into April reds
Bloodied with their thorns along the edge
Nourished by rich soil from the plains
Cruel at best are their chances for survival
Where the bio changes divergent from wet to dry
At war with life and forces that came before
Dawn wakes with yellow birds escaping
Still tethered to the Earth which holds
All accountable to their task biological
To forces higher than the sky
There is a warning at the desert entrance
Water is absent as a Christmas gift or kiss
Thirst would hang you from a tree but alas
Wood and rope are scarce in the badlands
-What is missing-
The desert grows out by the mile
Wider by the dunes as their child
Into cities like granular specters
Tiny specs stretched, extended on the wind
Into marches, into riots. Into you life flows
Sand has no life beyond dry dead heat
At best it enters the eyes and covers bones
Gathering desert doom alone
Beaches are alive with the sounds of waves
Crashing down and people sunning getting brown
Picking up using its watery hand to give a cruise to the granular of sand
It is time for summer warmth and to go forth
Outdoor play may not be here
That should not affect the tranquil setting that could create a tear
As the fiery ball set
A relaxing moment one may get
With the moon soon to be coming
Creating romance that is humming
The beaches are alive with the sound of waves
Drawing people out of their wintry caves
Turning their back on the cold
Letting the bitterness fold
Listen to those waves arriving at the shores
Allowing trusting relationships to take the floor
It is the time of year to worship the sun
With cheer and fun
Saying good bye to the frigid frowns
By listening to the ocean sounds
Candy-coated
The darkest day
The most bitter night
Warm, salty tears crawl down
The back of sweet bamboo
Candy-coated , granular gold
For which I break my back
And rain with perspiration
For to grow and harvest crop
Picking leaves, picking weeds
Field hands grow tired and numb
I have but tasted toasty, roasted coffee
Nor smooth, citrusy, herbal or bitter tea
Brewed and elegantly placed for a party
How silly of adults to play house
In the dinning room
The able nose, breathes a brief remedy
I bleed for the fibers on my back
Absorbing my steam
Harvesting white hairs
For the puff of tobacco smoke
Filling the lungs with cancerous strokes
Master’s wife,Mrs. Mosquito
Buzzes in my ear
Bites
And consumes my blood
It’s plump and red with juice
Relief come with scratching
Blows by the masters traced
As far as the eyes can see
Marckincia Jean
Imagism
10/01/19
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