Pocket-Gazes
Night depressed—
black spirits, spiders,
demanding, retorting,
an empty vessel, titanic with trauma.
A downturned smile, flagellate,
disillusioned, demoted, disinterested—
dystopian dysmorphia.
Dolls.
Masks.
Spills.
Blood.
Oxygen.
Water.
Decaying. Degrading. Devolving.
Despair, disaster, disappointment—
disappear.
The lexicon collapses inward,
a ladder whose rungs only fall.
Sand sighs. Water shifts.
Hands disembodied.
Faces detached,
checked out.
I flail,
a swimmer drowning in a teaspoon.
Watermelon empathy—
bloated, barren.
A clock face melting, Dalí’s sky.
I am Picasso’s fractured mouth.
I am Van Gogh’s shell-ear,
smashed on the rocks.
Amy Winehouse cries, hollow,
vodka-veined, restrained
inside a music box.
Maya’s muteness.
Florence’s failure.
Mary Seacole’s poverty.
Nightingale’s lamp guttering.
Angelou’s song stilled.
Seacole’s hands trembling empty.
Yet outward—
instead of inward,
instead of into my pocket-gazes—
there might be,
just might be,
a shimmer of stardust,
a touch of moonlight.
Hope, a dot of light
in a cavern of dark.
And yet,
it illuminates the sky.
A calligraphy, a veined post-script
for the rusty sheen of mortality.
Behold the dying and the replenishing,
the glory of the shedding and investing.
All this upon a forest floor.
Artist - derelict and drifter
move about like windblown bones
bathing in the dry veined riverbed stream
fashioning crafts from a lifetime of dewed memory
weaving ends that tend to never meet
the wealthiest being of this beat
would be the poorest elsewhere-
Father of northern aurora lairs
dancing with ice bears atop great flows
so cold, both sun and flyer freeze midair
tooth walkers jab the flanks of ice ghosts-
Mother Rainforest, forever emerald charm
everything has a deadly smirking slant
the panther and poison dart hopper
to the last known being of a dying clan-
They'll all meet within the womb of reckoning
far above this temporary mad blue churning
the mysteries opening only to the searcher
like a Fabergé egg on the apron of forever-
Stained glass marvel completed within six months
Delicate iridescent hues, light as a faerie’s veined wings
I am thunderstruck by my talents; this was my first attempt
Listening to others' comments, I glow and bask in glory
Lily pad magic, aerie and pretty. But where is the frog?
He stood, somewhat defiantly,
Among the “well” dressed
Frayed pant cuffs
Missing a button on his flannel
Well-worn shoes
Gnarly, veined hands
He would vote today
It is his duty, his privilege
An honor in his mind
To participate
In choosing a leader.
The line moved slowly
Each step narrowing
The parameters of his decision
He had listened to the rhetoric
Shook his head at the venomous accusations
Witnessed a sitting president
Ousted…in a bloodless coup
He worried about his grand kids
Knowing he would not be there for them
Would not be able to help them understand
Damn, he didn’t understand
And yet, he moved with the silent line
Pondering the repercussions
Of a single vote.
in the autumn breezes silent trees shed their leaves
in shades of vivid yellow, orange, red
purple, brown, and maroon
and the many hues 'tween
they rustle
beneath
the quiet weeping trees
then, fluttering twirl, leap
painted by nature's watercolor brush
divine, sublime are the withering leaves fading away
shortening daylight days, temperatures cooling
and leaves gather in stained-glass heaps
pigments and tints dwindling
fading, fading like an
old vintage
photograph
I love to touch veined leaves
trace those souls dying
that fall apart crumbling away, falling
they are quite dead ... but to me they are still beautiful
On the heights, in marble stands
a temple wrought by hopeful hands
to please the one, eternal king;
to sacrifice and praise and sing.
Then the night ... dark witching hour.
Marble cracks from hellish power.
In dawn's red glow our eyes run wet.
We beat our breasts - what we forget!
His gentle hands retrieve the stone,
mend the flesh and heal the bone,
pouring gold into our faults
restoring our hearts' plundered vaults.
The scars of sin shall always stand
proof of love beyond our hand.
16 August 2024
Old means sudden pain of unknown origin
fluency of mind becomes like a foreigner.
Old means the circle has shrunk to a point
Old is ignored, like a newly minted orphan.
Old is when the glitter of friendship fades away
the aloof of acquaintance retreats into its haze.
Old is a black veiled wolf cooing like a virgin sage.
Old is the white crow cawing down the final days.
Old is dusty gray and mountain lake cold...
the crippled myth is that it's crafted out of gold.
Old is infinite goodbyes and infrequent hellos
Old inhales its ashes, then etched onto stone...
Old is both a satin blessing and a burlap curse
Afterall we could have perished well before our birth
Old is not for the thinly veined nor the pastel hearted
Old recalls that wide-eyed child curled up inside the dark.
this new found flower was a combination of delight and joy
delicate, veined and fuchsia like an orchid
with teeny tiny white faerie daisies in the center
I did not know the name, but it was from God’s best imagination
three faeries with beautifully veined transparent wings arrived at midnight
Not unlike Pan who had been there before, they brought happiness light.
Their mission was to add some levity and joy to the current night life
I sneaked up on them in silence, feeling more voyeur than young wife.
Silent in the deep weeds, I watched the three faeries frolic and play in fun.
If I made a loud song, they would be gone way before the returning sun.
At three a.m. I sneezed, and the entire faerie brigade stood perfectly still.
“Come on out!” one demanded, staring at the neighboring hill.
Out came a dragon, a buzzard, two raccoons, a squirrel, a frog and a fish.
The fish was in a bowl, being carried by the raccoons, as if a delicate dish.
We will teach you some dance moves, the faerie queen said, “okay?”
More was going on, but a the sandman in a dream whisked me away.
I know what I saw, I am not wrong about that.
I still see these three faeries, at the drop of a hat.
Sometimes I sneak out at midnight to try to glimpse them again.
So far, I have come up empty, but some day, it will be a win.
Oh, would that I could speak of love
Of passion and of red high heels
Of lacy things and whispered kisses
But if I did all would be memory
Soft twinges teasing a timid heart
A shadow cast on a distant stage
And yet I speak for love remains
Weary eyes and veined hands
Searching in a darkened warmth
For lacy things and whispered kisses
For passion without red high heels
Oh, would that I could speak of love
Clue of Age
I sat, in the garden; took in its surrounds !
View, the wizened crooked wooden fence;
drooped with a crick, a downward glance !
The back of my hands, a reflection of time,
Brittle skinned, blue veined unsteady;
An exhaled breath, of Oh ! a map of
lines, a journey of time passed,was mine;
Turned palms up, no Gypsy teller could see,
my journey, its broken fence, and satsified;
I made no whispered, reaction, or defence.
Lemon tinted phase
gilded skyline blown
by ethereal fused mist
eager bard imbued
opal dream flotilla
beyond tarnish while
flash point chariots
of gleam-well canvass
astir or astern perforce
taunt a hued vase
porcelain image fest
for stoic earthbound
soul’s cry parched
stoic migrant famish
sapphire plume ray
bounty veridical
pink chalk sketch
granule blush pots
pearl beam spur
to jumpy pilgrim
white elephant garb
drifter’s lull prone
metre of skewed
and barren glib
dull tossed aside
rambles and brambles
from cerebral quartz
grey quirky quill
nose twitch petrichor
glacé smelt rain
lava veined fillip
fervent fetal floe
ignited indigo inkling
as noonday nuanced
glance en dash
away from orange
peel cloud skies
toward spring rush
urban junction fare
as founding cue
for zeitgeist driven
western world eden
"#3, Rumi quote: Let the beauty of what you love, be what you do."
What I love is my perfect life,
Falling to my knees at life's strife:
And I seek beauty when alone:
O, God is my foundation stone.
I sketch till hands are pencil stained,
And write till my hands are ink veined:
I love to explore the unknown:
O, God is my foundation stone.
I tend lovely flowers growing,
Love my garden overflowing:
And sing in a voice monotone:
O, God is my foundation stone.
What I do is my reflection,
thanks Rumi for the direction:
thanks Lord for heavenly light shone:
O, God is my foundation stone.
Poetry and art my delight,
love photos taken in dawn's light:
With Rumi and God I have grown:
O, God is my foundation stone.
Love drove me away from myself,
then at last,
it took me to a garden,
where I could be the roots of beauty.
For so long I fought shadows and reflections,
the innkeeper of my drunken mind
slept behind the bar,
his loud snoring eventually woke me up,
There in that place
She appeared,
as a clearly painted picture
of love made flesh.
She descended then
to kiss
my wretchedness.
A cage door flew open,
doves escaped.
What kind of doves?
They were as white as Her wrists,
yet delicately veined
with blue rivulets.
Within them
the pulse of a constant love
gently beat the hearts
of all those
too sober to love Her.
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