A mother recovers

To heal, to make whole.
Thus, the blank space
between sounds.

Thus, a rift in tectonic plates.

The hands which beckon or beg
or beat, discovering
a source of light.

A bone knows which way to grow,
underneath all those sinews.

As in a call to prayer,
an invitation to come in
from the world.

As in being bare,
not brave or unbound,
seeking comfort in the small
justices of television plotlines.

The fluids of our lives
come to our rescue.

We press down on the sutures
while children swan dive
into this arena,

and our words become
intentions intercepted

no dividing was ever
done so gracefully

Advertisements

Pears

FullSizeRender (1)

(acrylic on canvas)

Colors bloom from separate spectrums and transform reason into vision — the coming into being of weight, length, volume, shadow on a blank stretch of fabric that was once the nothing of an egg-shell wall. Time swims the slow, delicate and strong strokes, the subtle brushes which build the tincture of texture. You level your intention like you do words which are drawn to the surface carefully, impulsively, from a place of incantations, a well of spells. You look long enough, and the light gathers and settles like mood on the skin of fruit; the exact shade reveals itself and casts a mantle of atmosphere in your brain. I love that promise of all art — distilling a feeling separate from reality, a different and subterranean life, the converging of the outer and inner worlds whose borders and wildlands we so precariously roam.

– May 2017


Officially a Quarter of a Century

I love my birthday’s Poem-of-the-Day and would like to share:

The Descent of Man
by Vijay Seshadri

My failure to evolve has been causing me a lot of grief lately.
I can’t walk on my knuckles through the acres of shattered glass in the streets.
I get lost in the arcades. My feet stink at the soirees.
The hills have been bulldozed from whence cameth my help.
The halfway houses where I met my kind dreaming of flickering lights in the woods
are shuttered I don’t know why.
“Try,” say the good people who bring me my food,
“to make your secret anguish your secret weapon.
Otherwise, your immortality will be
an exhibit in a vitrine at the local museum, a picture in a book.”
But I can’t get the hang of it. The heavy instructions fall from my hands.
It takes so long for the human to become a human!
He affrights civilizations with his cry. At his approach,
the mountains retreat. A great wind crashes the garden party.
Manipulate singly neither his consummation nor his despair
but the two together like curettes
and peel back the pitch-black integuments
to discover the penciled-in figure on the painted-over mural of time,
sitting on the sketch of a boulder below
his aching sunrise, his moody, disappointed sunset.