Love Poem

Love is a shape not an object,
      a genre not a performance,
      theme without detail.
(We feel, not heed.)
As vines are to ancient walls,
      the heart sprawls, reaches
      for strength and certainty.
(We sublimate the fear . . . )
From the heavens comes warmth,
      comes cold glitter,

Art is Useless

(I was inspired to repost this piece after reading Just how did the writer in me get born? by Infinite Living. Click on through and give her a read.)
Art is as useless as cake
–as useless as admiring a forested landscape
–as useless as lust
–as useless as the terror that draws us to a roller coaster ride.

I am not curious,
because art is useless.
I’ve never loved someone who did not love me,
because art is useless.
I’ve never felt alone,
because art is useless.
I won’t tell a comforting lie to spare your feelings,
because art is useless.

Art doesn’t obey; doesn’t laugh or cry;
doesn’t give birth to a screaming child;
doesn’t starve; doesn’t riot for justice;
doesn’t reach out to absolve us with its dying breath;

Art is as useless as the beholding eye.

Rain Must Fall

The forecast read “Rain.” In fact, the trusted meteorologist of much local renown had predicted “record” rains which meant sheets over sheets of precipitation laid upon the greater metropolitan area.

The liquid sleep.

Though the roads remained a corridor of motion (with the added slash of insistent tires through muddy puddles,) most of the outdoors went quiet. Activity regressed to its hives.

“Avatar of love,” said I, “why then under the mirky canopy of storms do I feel an emptiness that seems unredeemable? Am I simply crazy?”

“Oh, no.” said she, “Your mentality is not up for question. I know from insanity. I’ve stared deeply into its soul. You are far from Persephone’s lair on that subject.”

(We do often think of evil as confined:
to lairs, to labyrinths, deep in caverns
and catacombs.)

I watched the raindrops melt onto the pane of my kitchen window. Out in the yard, the grass bed flexed and shook in the downpour. The trees shimmered glumly. An eon of thought crawled on through, inched and inched one spindly step at a time.

Later that evening, dew shook from a silky web, fell silently, and disappeared into the wetness below.

Time is Running Out

Every choice is round
Like an inkling of a portal;
We trust doors to not devour us.
I tremble anyway.

You may not understand fear.
However . . .
I who once felt nothing
Believe I comprehend most stoically
How being afraid of something
Can deny.

–My ringing nerves.
Without a steadying warmth to harbor
Or beauty to Pulsate through me
Anxiety is merely a swarm of asphyxiation

In those dreams
When unseen things chase after
Even the cleverest traces across neurons
Won’t awaken the past . . .

The fore-bearing moments lay inward.
Time is running out. Flow.
–And gone.

The Maiden

As beauty fades in an autumnal flourish
      the maiden
trusts; draws strength from courageous stumbles;
seizes flesh and blood from poison;
lays a palm open, outward . . .

Every treasure of the unobserved, trickling moonlight
vested in peels of black; mirky
but never dangerous; a balm against
the coveting creatures, serrated
in their stalking;
      the maiden
wrote them into fortune’s mad orations.

. . . hushed. This belongs to her
all from a memory: we borrow joy and carelessly.
Tell me in some other form of tale
where the words are not vaulted away
–a wish;
      the maiden,
unnamed, breath porous with emotion
lets flutter away.