The skeleton hangs in an autumnal quiet,
With nothing to stir them bones to click .
The moon shining in as a spot keen to spy it; a spider’s web droops, it’s ironic
The silence gives nothing away
And the moonlight simply stays,
Casting shadows and a pall
For bones that are buried in the wall.
I’m looking out for a cardigan sweater,
One that is knitted from calico yarn,
with black onyx buttons and deep empty pockets
to hold all my empathy some would like scorned.
Knitting the line with the purl to the row,
ending then starting afresh just below.
Building a comfort, an armor of sorts
guarding the kindness malignance would thwart.
I’m seeking out a cardigan sweater
something to wear among those filled with blame
for some others because they can’t justify
the differences that we all know but won’t name.
Perhaps, with a cable stitch, crossing the groups,
the pattern gets deeper and as such recoups
a bit more humanity. The color is broad
the transitions combining results aren’t as flawed.
This stitch and that stitch in confidence worn
a cardigan sweater made from calico yarn.
Like a flying squirrel that barrels down from its perch in the spruce,
limbs outstretched to maneuver the route.
Or a frog sitting pond-side, croaking then hops,
extending its haunches, an arc then kerplop.
A paper airplane from the rafters, lofted on air,
glides downward in spirals – a no assistance affair.
The mighty blue whale swims along as it sings,
I wander my world, and I ponder these things
with no such breaching to remark on my way.
Some landings are harsh with a huge debt to pay.
But the ease of the motion, the faith in the flight,
and the jump into deepness with the floor so benighted.
That gravity holds so much in its hands,
or lets as much go as we give way our stance
from a limb or a high point in a precipitous fall.
The squirrel nor the frog or the whale know at all
how the glide of the plane comes in for a landing.
Yet I know that I move in ways far less demanding,
with not so much height or a flight on a good day.
The landing is harsh, with a huge debt to pay.
And as we are shuffling, waiting in line
birds sit and watch from evergreen branches.
The mystery rises, twisting, revealing our faces
tired from the digging with tools of our making
just to stand in the queue, biding our time.
Even on holiday, following the line
for small worlds, or out of this universe thrills,
the heat from the pavement blows into the shade
and we await our turn at willful escaping.
Something has bound us in place in this time.
Staving a cadence with melody lines;
whistling a tune with hopes of inception,
I choose the notes that fall out on the page.
Writing as though I have skill for creating
a world that exists for our meeting in time.
But now in a bulwark, some hold the line
awaiting a plane of a choice, to unfold.
Dots creep and crawl from out of the trenches
enveloping ones who can’t hear the ground breaking
and those who are wicked die time after time.
A smoky glitter emanating from a fire,
stirred and stoked from flames as I admire
pulling misty conflagrations in my sight.
These shuffling sparkles fight with stars for focus now at night.
Opening salvos resonate unspoken tongues,
and golden tickets don’t always sing what one becomes.
Dancing bees regard me with a little gaze,
for I am not a flower or a gathering of bouquets.
Neither do I seek what’s meant of snags that drag me slow.
Efforts crafted nimbly well succeed in legato.
But an artist’s eccentricities stand out
like sand verbena after rain ends desert drought.
These purple blossoms on desert floors
flash life/disintegrate, but something more,
The dust of aged whispers, ghostly to be sure,
might only be conversant in myths and refutation of the obscure.
A beauty speaks some truths, as the nighttime fireside gleams.
This can hardly be the fruit or grains of my muse dream.
The fire has smoldered and ashes pulse and glow,
my thoughts of poetry fade in pianissimo.
Now berries of a bitter kind are hulled,
and I partake of all the sweetness I can cull.
In my personal shadow-box are many treasures and perhaps some rocks, toys and memories from my past, and in the shadow-box, they last.
From my pocket to the side, I pulled a pinch of something ossified, what once may have been from a wound debrided. It’s simply a pebble, I’ve now decided.
A marble, glassy, green and blue, from a collection of many I had and threw around the playground tree at school, collecting spoils for keeps like jewels.
His gun raised up high, a green plastic soldier from a platoon of recruits that I had as I was older. Despite the difference in my age and size, I never developed a loud battle-cry.
A tiny, tyrannosaurus rex, a figurine without a sex, insignias on patches and badges – but none of them jog my memory with matches.
A matchbox car painted apple-red, with opening doors and the letter zed on the hood. Don’t ask me why it’s there, I’m not sure I could.
An old pocket watch that no longer tells time, I’m grateful to all that had passed in its prime, next to a heart made from elastic and beads, stretchy and tactile and has met all my needs.
A rounded, polished piece of quartz made from tumbling, now distorts lines and letters like mumbling. This shadow box where these trinkets have graced, all the while keeping my memories encased.
The view from the window is a hill I won’t die on.
Framed on all sides by brick and concrete or old pine trim, it is a portal of a shelter built with a single perspective.
This limited view of the world, covered in dull charcoal – interwoven to attract our focus and screen out flies – mutes the light of new vision and also things to the left and right of the sight line.
Though I do see the changes of a season through it. When the orange and reds arrive, and I see leaves falling – I want to see more. More than this view offers.
And I peek around the edges of the frame to see the wind move through and the rainclouds form. This, rather than wait for darkness to enclose the hill outside my window, is a better view.
Even more so to step outside to feel the wind and hear the leaves. To watch as the rain arrives, then departs. The uneven steps and grassy plots to the pinnacle -where I can see more horizons.
Beyond the window, the hill is even more beautiful when I’m out upon it and living the terrain. This is a hill I will die on.
It’s a part of the tune that doesn’t last long.
When I need a deep breath after things have gone wrong,
it’s a fishhook to bring me up from the depths.
I find myself seeking a felicitous sound
and listening for the turnaround.
It’s a movement that’s made, whether in blues or in jazz
to keep a song interesting -some razzmatazz –
about one chords to sevens and other such stuff,
I won’t pretend to knowingly expound,
just listen for the turnaround.
It’s the first bud of spring coming out of the frost
and the very first lightnin’ bug of past summers lost,
It’s the yellow and red sneaking out of the green,
The first floating snowflake that lights on the ground
all transitions worthy of a turnaround.
The best we can do is to move on our own,
but walk among others so we won’t be alone.
It’s the time and the place of the new moon and stars,
As we are feet first. with our souls earthbound,
The last call will sound like a turnaround.
A shrieking blue jay sounds a turning point. The day might be too long. Cardinals perch in boxwood sacs, reminding me of those now gone. I've skirted 'round an earthen hole, peering to the bottom. Dirt and pebbles slip from my steps and down into the dark and glum. Choristers pause, holding a note that pierces incense smoke. The carillons ring out the hour and half a prayer's invoked. Is this how changes snap and tear when events go awry? a grinding crevice in the ground? a ripped seam in the sky? Careful plots, with no solid facts are awfully mistook, our hero left with no recourse but to rely upon a hook. A shrieking blue jay sounds a turning point. The day might be too long. Cardinals perch, reminding me of people that are gone.
A jellyfish cloud drifted in the sky
propelling itself hither and nigh.
The type of motions that mesmerize,
whilst I woolgather time in the ocean wide.
A rabbit perched upon some pillow fluff,
awaiting a moment to jump, and not to muff-
then disappear inside a hole in a huff.
(All this I’ll imagine soon enough.)
And later, the sky I watched was flattened and grey.
A canvas without texture on a humid summer’s day
settled in to remove my imaginative display.
And the daydreams diverted down and away.
The shades of green caught now in my sight,
Jagged lines on the edge of the canvas’ chalk-white.
whispering connections to the last vestiges of light.
And the opalescence of dreams settled in for the night.
Taps and Ratamacues 