Metrics in the Green

 

 

there are metrics in the green
of yellowblue now cautionary
for my inner Eve

yes … I know with certainty
the Sun is blazing white
although, it is cartoon colored
for a visual effect

and I know Eve’s flow
is not forbidden for star sailors
although, it is red nuisance
in a spacecraft

yet, birthing of soft pinkness
into a silver shell … and

oh, AdamEve … if you risk generation
outside the prism of green Earth
into a whitegray, blackbeige land
with radiation … bone loss …

oh, beware these consequences
you know well their gravity

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Richard Diebenkorn

 

 

 

green grazing pastures

keep silent…silent…and listen
listen…to these words…sieve
for wisdom like your need for breathing air,
then, when you speak…sing arias of words
with silver clarity like the ringing of a coin

dance meaning with your hands arms shoulders
for they’re the angels of your mind…they’re the
touching and the pinching and the caressing reach
for a human amplitude

pace the walking of your days for new risk
to follow comfort paths to exploration
where stepping is tentative to bold with
the going and the coming of a rich intent

bless the beating of your heart…touch
its stroking in your pulse…note its rippling
under the dear marvel of your skin

engage more life aware…splash cool water
on your face…your arms…your neck…
from the kitchen faucet, from the garden hose,
from the river, from the lake, from the sea…
to feel brisk…awake

Bonnie Marshall

Poem Reading: Permission of Kenneth Brauchler

Artwork by Richard Diebenkorn

A Dominance of Lines

 

 

In Spring, when Aeolus breathes
across their farms, girls boys lift
diamond butcher paper balsa wood
tied kites into his breath to feel out
currents, pull and sway…to test for
dominance of distance draft and lift.

Should such taunting pastime flag…
especially when Zeus streaks bolts
of lightning from his distant clouds…
their sporting turns to trouting with
live worms on hooks on lines on fish
poles by Naiades’ stream, in wordless
rivalry for the longest rainbow…best
tussle with a catch…finesse in reeling
out a gasping fish onto the grass.

When distant shouts bell whistle,
or the slant of shadow from a tree,
summon them to home, they end
camaraderie for one last sport…
these young contenders on a field.

They grasp hands tight slippery
with dirt spit sweat…link a ragged
crack-the-whip-snap for one last
quick elbow jab, foot trip, arm jerk,
stubbed toe, let go, fall dizzy to the
ground…as they play out their mythic
childhood of no tears, first middle last,
win lose…high tension…limit testing
dominance of lines.

 

Bonnie Marshall

Art by Winslow Homer, 1872

 

extended metaphor…a life flight

we take off and we land
our necessity of days
take on…take off into
the charting of our years
on routes long-established
by others…by ourselves

and we fly passengers…
are attendant to their needs
accordingly in first class…
business…coach…we transport
parcels luggage mail…and we tank
energy to fuel them safely into sky

and we accumulate and jettison desire
not to weigh us heavy into earth…
not to limit soar…not to impair
workings of our parts and send us
crashing into mountains…sinking
into seas…barely reaching shores
we’ve charted on our maps and
lifted to in dreams

 

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Kaye Bishop

small act of mercy

what the hell she do that for
her goldfish on the desk
gasped for life…still water glistening
its gill slits opened… closed
to sip burning oxygen

my fish…just felt like doing it
experiment…a testing of their nerve
perhaps they’d let it die this year
not buck authority…and teach is boss
her property…and she’s a crazy woman
to dip her hand into the bowl
to kill in front of them

hey….do something
some dying in its eye
a slowing will to breathe
no thrashing in its tail
no cavalry in sight

oh, Christ…I’ll do it
he splashed it to the bowl
it floated on its side

it’s dead…
then awareness righting
and orienting thrust to
claim its element

it’s yours now…
her implication dawned
some cheered…some jeered
his rash accomplishment…
she left it to them to think
the sense or nonsense of it
and…she never lost a fish

Bonnie Marshall

Note to dear Readers…this is a true story.

 

Artwork by Color Jar