July 3, 2015
Michelangelo struck marble compulsively
the way nectar bees in his wild garden
probed flower hearts…to dart and drive,
to draw life force from corporeality
be it clover or Carrara, they sweet sweat
penetrated to quartz dust pollen revelry.
I thought this thought in Italy…one day
as I hovered ‘round and ‘round and ‘round
his unfinished statue…a mighty Captive
imprisoned in unyielding custody of stone
both hands and feet gaoled in the column
where his body twisted toward free will.
And from that day in Italy…surrounded by
his finished polished blessed Sistine and his
decisive David…this is a work of art that I
savor… that I captured then.. a rich raw gold
honey life force in my comb of memory.
June 20, 2015
I’ll consider me to infinite…and
no longer margin think with news’
heart break despair…sensed Higgs
Boson sparking nebulous on my
event horizon about each cataclysm
in a hurting danger nether-worlding
far beyond my now intent.
I’ll fold ticking seconds into miracles
of sensing the immediate of eating
apple pie and listening to Bach and
gazing on my beloved who slumbers
on a couch oblivious to me, and words
I write about him to wash across a page.
I’ll charge me not to worry my impulses
for living of a life of infinite variety sensed
nebulous and instant into a moment’s
presence on event horizons imminent…
intended in my now.
Artwork by Allen Keating
June 17, 2015
he knew…diebenkorn…the artist…
look…look…look at them…indifferent
their angles linear he captured with his pen
and he blanked faces…slouched indifferent
their bones…gazed them toward horizons
his…(mostly males paint nudes…do they not…)
women are who was handy…possibly his wife…
he knew all her edges…best
cassatt…female…knowing of the few
painted breasted mothers under clothes
their children not quite cherubim…
their daughters not quite vir-gin-al
o’keeffe…got crafty with her sex…
mostly one trick vagina flowers
there…in her goddess desert…
she caught at the heart of things
Artwork by Richard Diebenkorn
“Seated Nude, 1965″
June 16, 2015
I’ve camped out in wilderness…
seems too dense a wording for being
in a lofty congregation of breezy
whisperers whose boughs sigh
agitation above my presence there
No matter…I need humbling
on days when I shall choose
not to hear my footsteps
nor ever mark their trace…
not respond to chiming cell
nor drown in online words
I’ll be in the moment vertical…press through
to horizontal reference of see past, climb up,
tramp down to essential now of campfire,
knife, clean water, simple nourishment,
wool blanket, thick gray socks, scuffed
worn-in trail sure leather boots.
I’ve camped out in wilderness…
with me… myself… and I…we three
for company…small presence in the
outness of earth’s proximity.
Photo Credit: Michael Nichols
Its Sudden Presence
She saw first its gold-flashed eyes
on-off…on-off…there before her
its mottled brownness grounded
where two spruces intertwined.
Its sudden presence shifted
for when it blinked it disappeared…
instants of camouflage
She matched its stillness…
two arrested beings
in wilderness surround.
It hissed…arched owlet wings.
“Be on about your destiny
and then leave mine to me.”
Later, beside her campfire
she considered the occurrence…
the hissing and arched wings…
and her interpretation
of its fear and its defiance
while owls hooted in the pines
and wolves howled on the ridges
Photo Credit: sanda
Wilderness in Women
I can tell you this.
Women need wilderness
…especially when they’re young.
In wilderness they learn
not to trust old maps
but to swim across cold streams
when the bridges fail.
In wilderness they hear honest sounds.
Nestlings greedy cries
for raw…sustaining flesh
are healthy calls…
not symptomatic weakness
like the noise of whining.
And when they die…
women raised in wilderness
whisper remembered songs
or hum melodies to take them
from this world to the next.
Artwork by Balthazar Denner