soul I tear

 

these days my brain
is incessant solitaire…
it flips present moment
into bits and pieces
through a shuffled time

no matter…luck of the draw…
my flimsy card slip apprehension
plays sequential consequence of now
with all time wasted…scattered to a table
where a three dimensioned plane
is littered with distraction

oh…there is no damnation…none

somewhere beyond this sphere
that pulls upon me…holds me down
spreads immensity of space
where stars collapse and recombine
in chaos of a deep design
I cannot think to think

 

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Salvador Dali

sky pilots

 

where alpine oxygen is scarce
blue phlox taproots through the talus
for nourishment… a bare existence;
the air is iced and once ached my breathing
of the urine stink of dense flower bloom
no matter…its common name is sky pilot

and chaplains who pray over airmen flying
frightened into battle are tagged…the same
along with  those…you’ll have stars in your crown
pie in the sky holy men preaching more in poverty

and Greek sophists…if ever there were sky pilots
rarefied…planting pure idea…insinuating soul seed
piercing blue sky fancy through rifts in adamantine…
oh…implications of a nothingness chill me to the bone

 

Bonnie Marshall

Painting by Marc Chagall
“Le Ciel Bleu”

nine and twenty abalone

 

the Pacific is angry after storms,

spits its vehemence upon a beach

I scry for transcendental relevance

 

fool am I to want the reassurance

of a chambered Nautilus…oh, my soul

to find meaning in the glow of sea glass

 

I watch children scavenge tidals for detritus,

pocket sandy bi-valve clams…all life dissolved;

think their skeletons are treasure…none

 

why then…do I nail upon a yard fence

nine and twenty abalone…grayed…barnacled

rainbow radiance diminished…there

 

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Ray Ortner

my soul is dressed in motley

with blasphemy of thought inside to out
I shall wear motley on my soul to hide fool
there in my brain, where absorbed in vanity
it is a clown…my soul…a jester…marionette
or a mime awareness hiding there…intangible

my soul is acrobat through air caparisoned
in skin-tight diamante…soft leather shoes
to better grip the line…hands limed to grasp
a constant swinging bar

my soul is tissue white…as pierrot pirouette,
its friend the moon, it pines for solitude…or as
marionette attached to life, it mimics amplitude,
though sometimes it fades diaphanous to smoke

my soul is mime…its whiteface mirrors moment me
in living archetype, and I sense poseur mystery in
the knowing there behind its stoic mask

my soul is clown…floppy shoes and baggy pants
as immature it pedals circles on a tiny trike
playing slapstick to the crowd…it is costumed
yellow black orange white…big red nose and
smiling mouth kept simple by design all for
distance viewing…not to be seen up close
as that might frighten children

though…perhaps my soul is merely scabbed birth
tear…and such memory itches to be scratched…yet
I’ll not peel the motley, for scarring might take place

 

Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Akzhana Abdali

she needs carpet tacks

she needs carpet tacks
for imagination steps
so she will not trip
when she thinks
from here to there…

she needs paper clips
to sort random need
into categories
as demarcations fade
from use and disrepair…

she needs masking tape
for worn out wishes
that fray and tear
when she shuffles them
in and out of dreams…

she needs due diligence
to guard against neglect
so when her love escapes
against all vigilance
she will have persevered
to keep her soul intact

 

Bonnie Marshall