Wounds and Scars

Trauma can rend
By cut and blow
While age it tends
To wear down slow
(And both will show)
By scar and mark
The changes wrought
By light and dark
We are the story
Of such times
Seen as blessing
Or as fines
They are the tales
Of our short days
And speak the truths
Of our small ways.

Chain, chain, chains

                   Chain, Chain, Chains

 

Igor Stravinsky says, "Art needs chains.”
Ya, like shackles, manacles, and handcuffs.
Fetter the better.
So to honor that idea
And to stretch it out,
I offer:
 
Ø A sunset colored from the eight color box of crayons.
Ø The Rites of Spring played on a comb and tissue paper.
Ø The three days of summer.
Ø A Harley with training wheels.
Ø A drive through sonata.
Ø Creation for under a dollar, or more “BANG” for your buck.
Ø A ten second love affair.
 
Do you have any others?
Like the three Marx brothers?
The Indianapolis 499?
 
Limitations are just fine
They discipline the random mind,
(And also create a working bind.)
 
And as for art, and rules, and me,
I’m sloppy
But I’m also free,

And chains are only binds you see,

With the lock and

With the key.

 

A Nice Cup of Tea

 
Rock and water
States of matter
Both kind and cruel
Run hot and cold
Goldilocks
Chose warm and safe
The thin green line
We know as life
Hot rock is the domain of Pele
Wisps of sulfur
Purges of steam
Ice both clinks and crushes
Ice to vapor
Gas to fusion
And bang! it goes
Fast yields to slow
Given what we know
Of time
And gravity
As matter changes
So it goes…
PS
Warm water can
Make a nice cup of tea.

 

How Is It?

How is it?

Is it like sitting down on an icy toilet seat at 3 AM?

Is it more like a stubbed toe or riding on a flat tire?

Which of these seems right?  A rocking chair, a heating pad, or thick socks?

When is the best time to surrender, now or a week from now?

Is it more like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a hot chili pepper?

Would you say it is a dripping faucet, a wobbly wheel, or a leaf fluttering?

Did you order the oven fresh bread or the homemade chocolate chip ice cream?

I mean when there’s a bear

What’s the best thing to do?

Stay very still or run like hell?

How is it?

 

 

This House

Who built this house?
I think they knew me.
Perched on the lip of a lake
Broad windows and glassed doors so
I can see the grand parade
Of gray waves
And indomitable ducks
Dipping and diving
Sheltered in their feathered forms
Riders on the winter storm
An existence I can only
Dare to dream
As I pull the covers tight...
Yet another day
In this long winter’s night.

Barefoot in the Snow

I swing the door open
And I am walking
Barefoot in the snow.
It is a hard active thing I am seeking
Not a moment to contemplate, no
Keep moving,
Tracking forward to no clear relief
Reaching for the next best step
Focus far outward
Transcendent.

There is a beauty of sorts
That surrounds the avoidable
Even the most torturous,
But I am no way near that.
Just another quick step ahead …
And then into a sudden clearing
The sun shining brightly
A window of cold fire
An open patch
Beautiful brown
An island of refuge
Where faint warmth creates a respite,
A pause to ponder:
Is the relief from pain
Just a prelude to
More pain?