a line starts to crawl
bending between its endpoints—
alive on the page
the line learns to walk
loops like a caterpillar—
dragging wiggly tail
a trembling string line
resonates in space and time—
a violin sings
the line curves around
back on itself, head to tail—
a merry-go-round
ink line creeps forward
curling into cursive forms
signing its own name
tears form rivulets
gravity pulls water down—
meandering flow
three or four thin lines
entwine into plaited braid—
motion becoming
crawling on all fours
the line takes a mountain walk—
tracing the contours
a wandering stroke
like an oar that doubts the sea—
encircles meaning
the line unravels
to its ragged, riffraff core—
threadbare its heartless
defined as taut straight
the shortest way between points—
wayward wriggles room
a line drifts outward
then returns, as if it knew—
all paths bend inward
the line comes to rest
where it first began to crawl—
nothing left to scrawl
I scribble, scrabble, scratch and scrawl
Squiggly words on walls down the hall
I am a scribe, and I must write
Sentences flowing out of sight
Some people might not be able to comprehend
My ideas are pushing and prodding me to begin
I have a pencil or pen in my hand every day.
Almost every moment is grand, writing is play.
Slush coated figures
have been drawn on the sidewalk,
dribble people, their disjoined limbs
twisted into guesses to be pecked over
by hammer driven beaks.
After the hard-packed snow
acrobats were doodled flying slipshod
below a trapezing wind.
If the frigid sky were a wall
its graffiti would spray can itself.
Here on the pavement the 20 questions
party game is in full swing.
Prompted by the ice art, we ask:
“Is it a place?”
“Is It an object?”
“Is it real or fictional?”
The answer to all these questions
is “YES.”
Meanwhile the swirling unfurling of meaning
still has legs
until feral pigeon wings sweep
even those last appendages away.
What is left
once meant a fleeting abstract something
but that was before
the concrete forgot how to read itself,
and the sky grew too puzzled
to play anymore.
One
proud and
stoic glance
astride wry smirks
from this Mona Lisa spitting image
tutor at the blackboard chalk mark debris
caused by spurts of
bold impish
birthday
warmth
beacon light vanished
wits reject abstract still life
words squall inkwell spilled
6/27/2018
Darkness falls lame
broken by the full moon
tattered by clarity.
Constellations burn
branding blue satin.
Comets scrawl blank verse
Planets pulse ripely.
The painter stirs the paint pots
a single tone sounds.
If lines run straight, we see where they walk,
If steps walk circle, we paint them in chalk,
We keep steps held, like clouds hold tears,
A watered down face, grows sad around fears,
Grow me in rose and leave me for red,
Paint me to fill, print cheek on my bed,
Hands when in touch, creative to spill,
Combine and enrich, when in grasp they fulfill,
When in sky's and in floors, neutral we fly,
Not when sad nor in angst, do we rain-pour or cry,
If our lips were discolored and tonal like skin,
Our kiss would feel white, but still gleaming within,
So paint me in rainbow and feel who I am,
Pick where we go and I’ll give all I can,
Carve in our names on the root of a tree,
So they grow when we fall and feel where we see,
Like that in tree, that provides where I write,
Touch each letter hear, as it's printed on white,
Pick me in rose, as I scrawl on hearts page,
Let eyes blur mistakes and roots rainbow with age.
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