A moth lands upon a projected monitored screen.
Just a stop.
It flitters off.
It moves my eye away from the body behind.
The wings keep turning and twisting above the many open eyes, fixed on moving images, projected from behind.
A woman's body, bloodied, by a blade held in her own hands.
She cuts her flesh again with different needled knife points.
Hand on a blank canvas. Weapon turned to paintbrush or chisel.
Blood flows like ink on blank paper sheets. Pain seen as art project, political protest in punctured pinky skin.
The instrument exchanged for another in the arsenal.
A speaker's words sound the void, the silent violence of a screen, the jarring rhythmn of stab sounds between stretched fingers, punctuated with short yelp exclamation points.
The moth, unaware, flickers before the scene.
Its small wings fly into open air.
Silent, innocent, free of its moment on a monitor screen of pain.
It frees me from the scene and leaves.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
Mussel Bed
They wait on the shore. Clustered. Always, waiting.
The shimmer of the sun to the south of the frame.
The shadow of the building to the north above the rocks.
The mill pilings--ancients ghosts of Revolutionary days of turning wheels--still jut out from the surface of the glimmerglass marsh.
The bed, sandwiched between piles of placed sculpted rocks, is a terrestrial pod of shell beings dug into mud.
The water recedes, exposing the bed to air and light from above.
The nest lies in the muck near the shore. It is home. It is here.
Close by, the shadow of trees, the waving of common reeds, the weeds weaving paths through rocks for light.
When water comes, the hermits come with their shells and tails behind them to mate.
But now, the fluid formula leaves them dry and free and open.
The bed basks in the warm sun, they gather along the shore in receding water turning into mud.
The tides flow back and forth like a beating pulsing heart, push and pull, every day turning into night.
Then, there comes the spiral of a head and wing.
A beak selects a shell for the battering of the rock.
The air sounds with the shattering of a shell.
The meat is drawn down into darkness, into heat.
The water comes back and covers us back, so we drown out the beak and rock.
The mussel bed wakes again for the dawn of new day, along the muddy shoreline, where we sleep and dream and wait.
The shimmer of the sun to the south of the frame.
The shadow of the building to the north above the rocks.
The mill pilings--ancients ghosts of Revolutionary days of turning wheels--still jut out from the surface of the glimmerglass marsh.
The bed, sandwiched between piles of placed sculpted rocks, is a terrestrial pod of shell beings dug into mud.
The water recedes, exposing the bed to air and light from above.
The nest lies in the muck near the shore. It is home. It is here.
Close by, the shadow of trees, the waving of common reeds, the weeds weaving paths through rocks for light.
When water comes, the hermits come with their shells and tails behind them to mate.
But now, the fluid formula leaves them dry and free and open.
The bed basks in the warm sun, they gather along the shore in receding water turning into mud.
The tides flow back and forth like a beating pulsing heart, push and pull, every day turning into night.
Then, there comes the spiral of a head and wing.
A beak selects a shell for the battering of the rock.
The air sounds with the shattering of a shell.
The meat is drawn down into darkness, into heat.
The water comes back and covers us back, so we drown out the beak and rock.
The mussel bed wakes again for the dawn of new day, along the muddy shoreline, where we sleep and dream and wait.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Sponge
The little girl enters the tub, with just one rule.
Keep the water in the tub. No puddles on the floor.
In a minute her hair washed with mango shampoo.
Her skin cleaned with yellow gentle bodywash.
She is free from suds and parents and she plays alone.
Off she goes, with her bath toys to a water world of play.
The green sea turtle dives off a white rocky cliff, filled with bottles of liquid.
The red crab scuttles along the sandy bottom, across the white sunctioned tubmat.
The purple starfish holds court on a silver throne, the water spout holding his perch.
The green seashell hovers around the darkness, looking for clues from the drain.
Then, the little girl turns and swims away.
She is doing strokes in an olympic size pool, back and forth, turning at the walls.
She is exploring deep blue seas in a submarine. Directions down and all ahead.
Then, she is a mermaid in a far-forgotten cove, dancing with the sea creatures, along high cliffs and deep caves. She sends her sea friends off to explore the heights and depths.
Then, the sponge she washed with is in her hands. She grasps it in her hands and squeezes.
The soapy water splurges from the folds before her. Her eyes awash in amazement at what it holds within.
The waterfall happens again and again. Her eyes never losing the first shock of the sponge.
The stream pours down with large flowing drips at every sea soaking. Her giggles echoing with the sweet sound of water being expelled from a practical, magical sponge.
Then, she realizes the water cascading down the sides of the tub.
She sees the pool of water on the floor.
She stops, for a moment, to see my reaction.
I take the sponge from her and plunge it in, and pour it over her head.
Her laughs blend with mine. Her smiling face turns back to calm waters.
I go for a towel and mop up the puddle. The sponge returns back to its silver throne.
And the tub rule is forgotten, as a little fish swims further out to sea to play.
Keep the water in the tub. No puddles on the floor.
In a minute her hair washed with mango shampoo.
Her skin cleaned with yellow gentle bodywash.
She is free from suds and parents and she plays alone.
Off she goes, with her bath toys to a water world of play.
The green sea turtle dives off a white rocky cliff, filled with bottles of liquid.
The red crab scuttles along the sandy bottom, across the white sunctioned tubmat.
The purple starfish holds court on a silver throne, the water spout holding his perch.
The green seashell hovers around the darkness, looking for clues from the drain.
Then, the little girl turns and swims away.
She is doing strokes in an olympic size pool, back and forth, turning at the walls.
She is exploring deep blue seas in a submarine. Directions down and all ahead.
Then, she is a mermaid in a far-forgotten cove, dancing with the sea creatures, along high cliffs and deep caves. She sends her sea friends off to explore the heights and depths.
Then, the sponge she washed with is in her hands. She grasps it in her hands and squeezes.
The soapy water splurges from the folds before her. Her eyes awash in amazement at what it holds within.
The waterfall happens again and again. Her eyes never losing the first shock of the sponge.
The stream pours down with large flowing drips at every sea soaking. Her giggles echoing with the sweet sound of water being expelled from a practical, magical sponge.
Then, she realizes the water cascading down the sides of the tub.
She sees the pool of water on the floor.
She stops, for a moment, to see my reaction.
I take the sponge from her and plunge it in, and pour it over her head.
Her laughs blend with mine. Her smiling face turns back to calm waters.
I go for a towel and mop up the puddle. The sponge returns back to its silver throne.
And the tub rule is forgotten, as a little fish swims further out to sea to play.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Pink Cherry Blossoms in Black Plastic Pails
The pink sprigs are arranged in round black garbage pails.
Cold water poured into the circled bottom for the stalks to soak and swim.
Branches strained for sky, waiting, on the first Friday in April for Sunday service.
Light streams through stained glass panels of blue, white, green and gold.
The flowered color patterns make shadows on the blank white walls.
Sun streaks create halos around the talking heads in the cold air of the hall.
Metal snips are on the table, ready for the prune.
Small sprigs and stems are cut without order on the brown folding table.
The room echoes sounds of laughter and the traffic of feet in and out of the metal chairs.
Sounds of voices and smells of flowers drift up to the rafters of the cathedral vaulted space.
All things wait for Sunday service in the spring.
Pink cherry blossoms waiting in black plastic pails,
reaching for colored morning sun light streaming through stained glass windows.
Waiting, blossoms in cold air, cold water, ever waiting for a ceremony, to be sprung.
Cold water poured into the circled bottom for the stalks to soak and swim.
Branches strained for sky, waiting, on the first Friday in April for Sunday service.
Light streams through stained glass panels of blue, white, green and gold.
The flowered color patterns make shadows on the blank white walls.
Sun streaks create halos around the talking heads in the cold air of the hall.
Metal snips are on the table, ready for the prune.
Small sprigs and stems are cut without order on the brown folding table.
The room echoes sounds of laughter and the traffic of feet in and out of the metal chairs.
Sounds of voices and smells of flowers drift up to the rafters of the cathedral vaulted space.
All things wait for Sunday service in the spring.
Pink cherry blossoms waiting in black plastic pails,
reaching for colored morning sun light streaming through stained glass windows.
Waiting, blossoms in cold air, cold water, ever waiting for a ceremony, to be sprung.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Clamshell and Seagull
Under the black locust branches, I watch.
Eyes gazing through picket fence slats, decorated with yellow caution tape.
The winged form rises into direct sunlight and becomes a shadow.
I rise to watch it.
A seagull holds a clamshell in its beak.
The bird flutters up above me--its wings flapping, mouth holding a hard slick form.
An invisible apex is reached, the wings outspread against the sky.
Form frozen for a moment in time. Momentum arrested at a peak.
Down, down drops the shell through the air to a moss strewn rock below.
Sound rising from rock, shell, and gently fluttering wings.
Again and again the clamshell strikes solid green sea rock.
The shell falls off the table to white salt sand, or dips under the surface of dark murky waters.
It is retrieved and ascends to that uncertain height for another release to air below.
The crack echoes as the process repeats. The beak breaks the sealed line which holds the meat.
The sunset shines down on the mossy green rock.
Shadows gather in the valley surrounding the fiery last streaks of day.
The gull still gathers shells to crack on hard surfaces.
The feasts are short and quick and satisfying.
The shells accumulate and overflow from the table of hard rock into waters and sands below.
Eyes gazing through picket fence slats, decorated with yellow caution tape.
The winged form rises into direct sunlight and becomes a shadow.
I rise to watch it.
A seagull holds a clamshell in its beak.
The bird flutters up above me--its wings flapping, mouth holding a hard slick form.
An invisible apex is reached, the wings outspread against the sky.
Form frozen for a moment in time. Momentum arrested at a peak.
Down, down drops the shell through the air to a moss strewn rock below.
Sound rising from rock, shell, and gently fluttering wings.
Again and again the clamshell strikes solid green sea rock.
The shell falls off the table to white salt sand, or dips under the surface of dark murky waters.
It is retrieved and ascends to that uncertain height for another release to air below.
The crack echoes as the process repeats. The beak breaks the sealed line which holds the meat.
The sunset shines down on the mossy green rock.
Shadows gather in the valley surrounding the fiery last streaks of day.
The gull still gathers shells to crack on hard surfaces.
The feasts are short and quick and satisfying.
The shells accumulate and overflow from the table of hard rock into waters and sands below.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)