Artistic Expression — a poem

The Blade

expression noun
3 : an act or product of pressing out

 

painters on the verge
easels of distress

canvases prepped
and stretched

knives to palettes

blending hate
and anguish

colors pressed

Sgraffitoed moods

techniques scraping
against nerves

angry hues
violently applied

unthinking

felt

spontaneous application

terminal stroke

true-to-life rendering

*   *   *

Cliché. The muse met me as I sat on a streetside bench, watching painters standing at easels in a park.

But this was not reportage (re-pər-ˈtäzh). What came out of the event was… other.

Keep Your Eye — a poem

bouncing ball

“It’s not how far you fall
but how high you bounce
that counts.” – Zig Ziglar

Who dug this pit I’m sure I do not know,
but deep and dark it is, and down I go.

My landing’s not my biggest worry –
if I’m down for long then I’ll be sorry.

But thankful I am for this extra blubber
that’ll bounce me back out like a ball of rubber.

 

*   *   *

Yeah, well, we’re closing in on the end of April….

 

 

 

The Random Slipstream of It All — a poem

image by Charley

Duck trails, bow wakes,
on a silvered pond.

Contrails, jet wakes,
across a crystal sky.

Pink Full Moon
diving for cover in the western sky.

No trail to sniff, no trail to source.

Turnpike, I’m awake
watching the moon set,
flying up a trail of chaos –
caught in the wake of insanity.

My life is a series of scents
I can make no sense of –
a trail of trails, branching
everywhere

and nowhere at once.

I bob in the wake of the inevitable.

 

*   *   *

I ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog….

Sometimes it does feel like that.

 

 

Unfocused Intent (A Case of the Stares) — a poem

Photo by Tessa Terrus on Unsplash

Stare through a distance-less
nothing. Lose sight of sight
and sound.

A call of your name – a “What
do you see?” – tugs you back
into now.

Nothing unusual. Not of beast.
Not paranormal.

A long day, too long a commute,
too short of a night of rest – past
your thirtieth birthday there resides
a dull abyss of cotton-stuffed fluff.

No object of contemplation.

 

*   *   *

Sometimes I write what I see. This time I wrote what I didn’t see as I sat with a vacant stare.

I teach. I have a long commute. I am whelmed, but not overwhelmed, by the world as it has become. Why not stare?

 

 

Items Found Combing the Verge of Wakefulness — a poem

Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash

“Everything that the sea casts up onto the shore has a story to tell.” – Julie Hatcher

 

When my eyes keep me from seeing
and my ears from clearly hearing,
I can only beg pardon of my feet.

Windows blown open by a dreamt wind,
a door that rattles on an unseen latch.
We converse as a recording on rewind.
I surrender as I awaken to an unheard sound.

What flowers in soil fertilized by fears?
What harvest grows in a rain of tears?
When furrows are plowed in anger,
turned by disc harrows of strife,
you can hardly expect healthy plants
to hold fast to life.

 

*   *   *

A tiny (Moleskine?) notebook kept on my nightstand bears the burden of late, last minute jottings. They almost never seem to head anywhere in particular….

 

 

For Mom on Mother’s Day (We Know You So Well) — a poem

Calisphere

Her husband gives her a Mixmaster,
the one he’s sure every woman would love.

Her sons give a set of decorative glass bowls –
a different color and pattern from last year.

Her daughter gives her flowers and a ticket
to a play she remembered her mother sighing over.

Her brother sends a card with a five in it;
the card sarcastically reminds her she’s aging.

Her oldest sister sends flowers and calls –
she listens as her sister tells about her vacation.

Her middle sister comes over the day before
and hands her a vial of pills – “for your birthday, too.”

Her youngest sister gives her a pot(ted) plant,
“kinda for Earth Day, you know,” and promises
to include her in her daily meditation – for peace.

Her mother gives her the business card
for the divorce lawyer she used a few years ago,
and a fair amount of cash – “Go spoil yourself.”

 

She gives herself a day alone at the park,
missing the family dinner she was supposed to fix.

 

*   *   *

What? A string of pearls? A new vacuum cleaner? High heels for the housework?

The inspiration for this was an actual window display — here in 2024 — at a cooking store, stating “For Mom on Mother’s Day.”

 

 

 

Never Been Better (Vertigo) — a poem

Photo by Jeff Golenski on Unsplash

Let my head back in rest
or exaltation and watch
the world spin, world spin.

In bed I turn to grasp
the book off to my right
and I turn, I turn, I turn.

It is not a thing that’s new.
I’ve had it a time or two.
Just another round, another round.

Get my sea legs under me,
and it doesn’t take that long.
Just ride the swells, the swells.

I will have it all checked out
when life settles in just a bit.
Till then I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m….

 

*    *    *

My advice to my few readers: focus on the poetry and the wooziness will abate.

What is wooziness? Wooziness is a tricky word. People use it to describe many symptoms, such as feeling mentally unclear or confused; a little weak; lightheaded, like you might faint; unstable, like the world is bobbing around; or even mildly nauseated.  — Harvard Health

 

 

 

Too Tightly Wound — a poem

UPhoto by Şahin Sezer Dinçer on Unsplash

I released time bottled
up in labyrinthine coils,
sprung forward in kairos.

Buds burst into falling
leaves, backing brown
to yellow to green.

Hand on the headrest
turned to avoid hitting
pedestrian chronology.

Does anybody really
understand physics
as it applies to routine?

Do we circle the sun
or are we believing
an illusion; conspiracy?

It’s over – flip the glass.

 

*   *   *

But we decide which is right. And which is an allusion.

If April isn’t actually the cruelest month, it’s the most arduous — at least for poets.

 

 

 

He Knows Wire — a poem

Unsplash

Republic of South Korea
Several miles outside of Seogok-Ri
we camp on the land of a Korean.
First night we lay concertina wire –
three coils of impenetrable steel.

Wisconsin
Stringing wire along the South forty –
three runs of double-strand barbed.
Yesterday we dug and set the posts.
He works the stretcher, I fasten it.

Republic of South Korea
The Spec-4 on guard duty watches
an old man in paper shoes walks up.
He studies the wire, places a foot
and the wire lays flat. The guard
looks at me and says, “How…?”

Wisconsin
My grandfather walks the fence.
We won’t quit until it is perfect.

Republic of South Korea
“He’s a farmer – He knows wire.”

*   *   *

For the month of poetry.

The Poet’s Pose — a poem

The melancholy air…
averted eyes…
no sign that a smile has ever lined
the outskirts of that mouth…
bad hair; untended, unpruned…
silent movie attire rescued
from the subversively chic
second-hand store.

That your cigarette held
careless, barely smoked
tells the lie of the whole.

A photographer that played
the black and white card —
appropriately tossed fur,
a symbolically-laden mirror piece.

The poet and the pose fight
a duel to the death — leaving
me unconvinced of either.

 

*   *   *