I breathe in I breathe out
I have one pair of lungs to
move the blood that lives
within my cells and I work
at it with my heart the
isometric yoga the dancing
chi beckoning from within
churning the actions of daily
living infused into flesh with
vigor and vitality the plant
life refreshing the sounds the
animal kingdom makes for
the hominids and all the cells
reaching continuously reaching
for better quality for a better
understanding of the way things
are breathe the cool spring winds
on the top of old starved rock
and you will surely find the
moment you breathe pure air
Preponderance is myth,
so too center of gravity.
The things meaningful to me
scatter easily;
feathers and hair,
or have no center
like smiles and good-byes.
Nothing I seek is grounded:
music, poetry, aromas,
but reveal themselves in contrast
and reflection;
snow on glass, a kite between two clouds...
and the lusty smoke,
dim light cast through a butterfly wing,
your lingerie floating at my touch.
The poet begins his effort with the stillness of a pond,
seeing where the beavers built a dam
and left it in the gloaming,
silent as the twigs that feel like toothpicks beyond the postured trees.
The fallen leaves, rusted brown and gold in autumn,
float on the ground as waves upon a lake. None are falling now,
but play at statues where they lie; the child, residing deep within the poet,
recalls how. There is no breeze, no wind tipping muddy scraps of blackened
bark,
no dogs straggling for a lark, sniffing this and that and there,
in the lake of flattened, floating leaves.
No moving here; no jumping where.
The poet calls upon the stillness of a pond.
The poet feels a tickle in his thumb.
It makes him think of treacle,
chewing gum,
a lovely piece of muffin, or a cake,
or even the aroma of a steak, thick,
grilled with mushrooms, a trout beside a lake
fried in butter on a plate. The poet's now awake.
There must be more than picture to a poem.
The poet thinks of Greek Mythology
of gods and goddesses sending all amok
and classic poetry that, with any luck,
will be seen as something special
and will serve to elevate his nose.
Not in repose, but to smell the strong aroma of the steak,
now that he's awake.
The poet thinks of gods who send amok.
The poet thinks of metamorphosis,
the shifting of a camel's haunches on the sands,
the moving of the glands,
the presence of a flaw, quite tragic, now,
(and how!);
the poet things of transformation
as far as one can logically allow
within the limits of a verse
to nurse
the parameters of metamorphosis
or worse.
Half the day is gone. The poet's imaginings now take a lively turn;
they compromise at least, and yearn,
more simply for an egg,
poached, or fried, or scrambled,
with a little catsup. At last the poet ambles
down the street
to eat
upon the proceeds of his latest poem
at Alfie's Diner
full of rash plebeians
sipping coffee, munching jelly with a scone.
Painting asks me
My reason for painting.
"Why do I have children?
To Love.
Why does anyone breathe?
To live.
Why do I paint?
To breathe."
"How do you define your painting?"
Again painting asks.
"You should ask
Rembrandt, Rubens,
Grandma Moses, and Grant Wood,
who have had predetermined goals, and
defined opinions on life and art.
How can you ask me
a non-conformist thinker
And an abstract painter.
I am the wrong person to answer,"
I said.
I can only offer Picasso's answer
to these trivial questions.
His ambition was to retain
the same pristine pure and beautiful color
of the unpainted canvas
after he finished the painting.
"When a bird sings," he said,
"we should enjoy the music,
but it is futile to search for a meaning."
"What type of a painting do you want me to be?"
it asks.
"My dear painting,
As I do not allow
my very life to contain me,
How can I
with clear conscience,
control, direct and shape you
as I like?
In what form, manner, or style
would you like to appear
on my canvas?
It is your decision,
I am simply an audience.
Your longevity is greater than my life.
"The Mona Lisa is in existence even today,
but not Leonardo Da Vinci.
When I stand in front of you,
beloved painting of mine,
I have the unexplainable
Holy feelings and emotions,
Like that of an expectant mother.
I, too, watch and eagerly await
with a thousand unblinking eyes,
to see what kind
of a wondrous and mysterious painting
you will emerge."
I left.
"A lesser man",
an aging alpha,
challenged by newer male.
Snarling,
snapping,
blind with fear,
not of death
but living
with a stigma
of being
"A lesser man."
The butt of smirks
and pities,
manly nudges
"A lesser man",
womanly whispers
"A lesser man".
Licking wounds
beneath a bush,
a million scenes
of what might-have-been
had I not been
"A lesser man".
There is a footless path,
a carless road,
a planeless flight
to a placeless mountain
within.
When focused on our outer joys
we seek after things that weigh or thrill,
we dignify the use of force,
we laud coarse lucre with our hopes.
Seeking without, we remain without.
If we but listen quietly
for the call to an inner mountain state,
we find that our souls are known and loved
by a subtle shepherd grooming us
to serve and build, to sow and reap.
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