far

a dverse poets prompt; image (c) Walter Smith (click to go to his website)

it’s like i’m stroking air

when the last muses sing faintly
a Christian hymn; their music sways
as waves swallow the trembling

it’s like i’m molding winds

when the whispering sprites (Ariel?)
concoct sorrowful weeping of magic
the ocean brings to mind reincarnation

it’s like i’m with you still

and even Caliban’s eyes have strained
his brick of a face to withhold the burning tear
as wise shamans look from beyond the bush

it’s never like your absence

like loss that pyre seemed eternally aflame,
but the only thing that lasts longer
than the heartbeat of attachment
is the ocean

and to it i won’t pray

 

clink!

“another one,” I smack with my vowels
the balding head of the leprechaun of a bartender
the clown with his false smile and polished baritone
of friendliness, he pours me my Guinness;
he’s a… well, you know the type, a youngish fellow
who when no one’s looking turns away from the bar
and reads Spinoza’s “Ethics,” out of that naive belief
that there’s something philosophy can teach us,
or more likely, just to impress the glances of arts students
who come here Tuesdays for half-price drinks

I mull over the black coldness of the glass,
the shapely smell of french fries gurgles around
and for sure there is talking in our midst
but who would notice words;
the Heat have won (buzzer-beater), and the only man who cared
just went to the bathroom
and all is merry
it’s life to be lived
with no obligations to us, who live it
and a smattering of thinking, only allowed behind the bar

 

I wish this were Atlantic

Photograph (c) Reena Walking, available at http://www.missingthemomgene.com/ (click to go to website)

In response to dVerse Poeticsprompt.

I’d nurture those expanses why not?
far across where the horizon smiles, too long
for it to be coincidence. Its cowardly
cold distance, its barrier; laugh at me will you?
Come closer! let’s settle this, man to man,
No?
Craven! I shout, outshout planes overhead
those that feel like pinpricks with their decibels,
like insatiable crows feasting on memories’, desires’ soft tissue.
To scare them away, I need wings. Stop boasting, share, you dumb bird!
Of course you won’t.
I’ll eat more fish, to garner strength.
If I pray to planes, one
will in its pity
enable my ascension. So I’m taught.
Then this meddling ocean
will be no more
than a sweet lake is
to a pelican’s flight on its strong fearless wings.

 

On a theological aspect of rainfall

The sky has donned again its fateful dress,
Obligingly efficient wind has blown,
A droplet’s dance’s swift melodiousness
Dictates her magic to her children grown.
For why, says she, the floods will ever own
This long distrusted image of a god
Casting his tacky brightness at forlorn
Landscapes in darkness uniformly clad?

A human form into a gesture pressed
An Abrahamic dagger, or a Faun
In purging hail, for sins yet unconfessed,
Stands proud, unbent, unflinching – and alone.
Reminiscing on centuries that have gone,
His posture more in common with a rod,
Strong with the masons’ strength who carve in stone
Landscapes in darkness uniformly clad.

By his free will, he brought his own distress,
By his exertions, to be cursed upon,
And so expects the harsh divine redress,
Sharp fangs of rain, ravaging his front lawn.
A Job, whose supplicating abject tone
Perhaps ensures reprieve. And yet one that,
For all its rainbows will not light for long
Landscapes in darkness uniformly clad.

Unequal struggle-starter – now atone
For your sin of existing, oh you mad
Man desperate to fight, not to look on
Landscapes in darkness uniformly clad.

 

Perhaps music

shadows gather to celebrate jazz hour
smokes rise to celebrate jazz hour
sparks jump off cigarette ends
bubbles flock to the surface
despite the tension, climb up
fogs begin to dance

cats give out advice on how to get the best seats
some, of course, lie, the trick
is to know which
you can tell novice liars by whiskers
whiskers say, ‘I lie,” presto the paradox.

wise dogs sleep already; the magic steps over them
in the form of the rustle in the oak trees,
you know what I’m talking about, the sound-movement
the chiasm

like the very first keystrokes and the inevitable rain
as if this were some newyorker establishment only
it’s feb and it’s 65 degrees
at night.

yes, have a cigar
they’re cheap here,
have these notes too
there is nothing better life can offer
between 2 and 3 in the morning

 

Candlelight

air torn in half by amber angels
no less real than
a burned finger.

pure as laughter, time’s debtor
the knot of flame
will pass with the very first caress of draft.

A solid tear formed from its exertions
comes to rest not very far from the ground.

 

Without

The roar of griffins over translucent mountains

Shakes the air and quells the tearful contemplation

A study in parting, from a bird’s eye view

Is only a figurine and then another figurine

And the objectively measured space between them

The tears’ infinitesimal volume makes their burning

Unbearably on our skin, negligible as a contribution

To the air’s temperature.

 

Amidst the fanatical efficiency of leaving

The consecrating touch of the skin on your fingertips

On my fingertips, remains as unforgettable as a frame of reference

A reminder that they shall connect again, soon, again soon.

And the soul crunching agony of emptiness

As always best expressed in naïve lyrics of a pop song,

As always wrenching the mind, flogging tears.

But it will soon be over, won’t it? Won’t it?