It’s a specific ache of a translucency.
When the void lays bare in the existential oblivion of a consciousness too far to reach.
When the light dims, energy draining the colours of my essence; shades of red metallising the shallow of my breaths.
When the fatigue tugs on my beauty spots. Each speck a black hole of invitation, a desperate grasp of a life thrown to the illusion of my shadows.
The glistening, teary craters smile at me.
Each glint of silver illuminating the rhythmic, pounding anticipation lying behind the cave of my voice box.
The craters were a testament to my survival.
They were a testament to my endurance.
A testament to my unwanted persistence; carved out of torment and ignited in anguish.
And I find, it is a specific ache of a cataclysmic triumph against the abyss of my own inevitability.
Walls breathe insistent hunger,
red as the inside of a split pomegranate,
richer still where the tallow has melted,
slick as the fat from a burnt offering.
Scarpia does not eat.
He savors—sounds of gristle
snapping in the next room—
—low, wet gasps—
body writhing beneath unseen hands,
a melody of muscle breaking.
Tosca stands, spine locked,
as he drinks from a goblet brimming with the color
of a mouth left too long in the sun.
He watches her throat move,
slow, careful, like a deer
scenting iron in the air.
A scream glissandos through the walls.
Scarpia wipes his lips.
His fingers, thick as butcher’s twine,
gesture toward the door—
an invitation, a demand—
a sermon delivered without breath.
Tosca does not kneel.
Not yet.
But the feast has begun,
and the host holds the fermata.
(note: this poem was inspired by a scene from the opera Tosca by Giacomo Puccini)
Her heart melts…
And soundless tears,
Spread music in breathless,
Smiles, attempting to reveal…
What is – to her….
The wonder that feels,
The song that stills,
The love that heals.
His heart beats…
For the color of her eyes,
Where light reflects,
A tender invitation, a sigh,
What is – to him…
The gift of insight,
The joy that delights,
The beauty of their life.
Together, they linger in the night,
Trembling like a shadow,
Never hesitant to provide…
All the love that two hearts can find,
Beneath the silence of the soul who is wise,
And welcomes this opportunity to shine!
i want to invite you over to my place
i have surprisingly been in the doggone kitchen
i had to clean the dust out of there first off of everything except, of course, for the microwave
i baked a chicken and tuna casserole
i made shells and cheese with bacon bits
i made some homemade honey butter biscuits
i even included some chicken soup with rice (a la carole king)
for dessert, i prepared a classic buttercream cake
i also, for the first time ever, tried grandpa's famous cinnamon apple pie
now would you like to come over to my place
if so, then all you have to do is bring the cool whip and your appetite
i will take care of the rest of the rest
the pleasure of your effervescent presence will be joyfully welcomed
i will actually be looking forward to the doorbell ringing
God sent his invitation, a personal invocation.
When things are seeming bleak his presence we must seek.
Don't let your soul despair.
He's always everywhere, just waiting patiently, to hear from you and me.
The hillock, the bell
The swept terraces
The swept minds.
The white wood hall
The reflecting pools
The reflecting minds.
The weedless gardens
both in brain and curtilage.
The temple grounds.
The temple gives
flight.
The temple sounds
bird/wind, hush/shuffle
The temple sounds
right.
Some say all (I say many)
paths
lead to these courtyards.
Follow flower flows.
Wending ways, find one's way.
The middle path, the Wu Wei Way...
Many, many ways to find One Way;
to find one's way, to finally find,
to unwend one's way to home mind, to
No Mind.
Silences...
Echoing off Oms.
Poverties...
Bowls cradling alms.
Quietudes in multitudes,
of balding bones.
The chatterless babble of an unseen brook.
Torii, lotus, gravemarking gorinto, stupa, murti;
each here, each
forsook.
Cherry, Plum, and Chrysanthemum;
each a Zafu seed, each a mustard seed.
Verdant lives, wants fallen
as Autumn leaves. Needs.
And for the nun? And for the monk?
Each path of pilgrim's footfall
an invitation, a lure for the mind
at least, if not the heart,
to
depart.
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