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Posts Tagged ‘Beauty’

A rose flattened into math
under the weight of a book on Ingres.
All the pretension of depth and curve
shown to be illusion
by a French master’s authentic love of deception.
Her petals, hips, and stem
all numbers determined by logic
no matter how wild, majestic, and unpredictable
their beauty.

Her history from seed, to plant, to flower,
to a cut beyond death and into a vase
can be viewed as destiny or chaos.
The words you water her with determine
how you will see her. Why this one, of the dozen
bundled at the foot of a coffin.
Babies breathing in soft white bubbles
singing, if not commanding you into the rocks.

The meaning of the world,
is the separation of wish and fact.
A flat rose. A dark smudge
on a yellow book. A mouthful of dirt.

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Her whiteness, illuminated by a motion sensor light
stood out in the darkness
with all the fragility of a lighting bolt in the sky.
Fit among the stars and moon
if not fit among the beach by day
she pined for the cold embrace
and weightlessness of water.
Unpreparedness, if not several champagne flutes,
had delivered the opportunity
to escape the buzzing well-lit hive
carved into the cliff and the ability to
shorten a quick expanding bucket list.
She lingered on the ebbing proscenium
with a spot light at her back.

The fabric of the loudness that kept her away,
the crudeness that undermined expectations,
and the tight fitting pomposity she knowingly confused for confidence
are shed and casting shadows on her footprints.
Finally alone, she doesn’t see me.
Tucked in the folds of her dress, the shadows on the beach,
the overlapping waves silently applauding
as she, the thunder, breaks
the rolling foamy waves
with a joyous jump.

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Pierced

In that moment she was sin
that appeared fallen
due to her juxtaposition.
As a child she wanted
to wear glasses –
then took mine off.
“I don’t want to scratch them”
Morgana the butterfly
that flapped her wings and the ground
perched in that brief moment
on top of me.
The dividers rose like
a confessional.
Perhaps I reminded her of herself.
Two thin silver bands
hung like bull rings
but felt like smoke circles
against my face.
She who named herself
after books she read
in the hopes of becoming myopic.
It was all too much
for me. So I laughed.
We laughed.
She had moved here from California
for her mother.
So when she is healed, I will never see her again.

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The rose had beaten her
to catching up with the moment
equally as sleepless
and heavy hips drooping
with pre-dawn condensation
struggling against gravity.
Weight.
Atmospheric pressure.

A single pluck
and then silence.

Laying her head flat
against the z words
she would let the knight of Webster,
ever green his shimmering armor,
perform the blow.
Xertz. Quire. Jollox. Cumberground.
And last… agastopia.
A thud. The non-euclidean space
would briefly make things new.

She knew time well. It’s serpentine vice.
She ate dinner while she waited.

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Her fingers feel her cheek,
dry like plaster.
Not enough to make a thumb print.
She pushes anyway.
Like a wall. It will be a fresco
before breakfast.
Worn after lunch.
Smudged on the clothes of another,
after dinner.
With any luck, mine.

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Master of Shadows

You draw closer
with each stroke
a lead sky,
a dark fold
of oily shades
and charcoal
figures, the residue
of myth and legend
clinging to your
10 soft brushes
and soon
a smudge on your
forehead.

It’s like building
a house around
emptiness. The white
marks within
each shadowed edge
is a human face,
a child’s bald head,
or a ship adrift
in sea of black.

Your tiny figure
casts its own
shadow on an empty
sketch pad. You hold your
pencil like David
holding the strands
of Caravaggio’s hair.
The weight of
his own darkness
opening his jaw.

And I, a poor player,
left to watch
your finished
works. Each one
as complete,
and authentic,
as my own hand,
my own eye,
my own shadow.

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Trees in Winter

The once proud lowly hang
tears frozen in their beard
the weight – they dip – they creak
loudly echoing off the backs of brothers.
Centuries counted in rings
are now exposed to frost bitten air.

Fathers bend to read their own fate
in the bowels of their kin.
Nightmare nights are filled with different howls –
the wolves have gone to bed.
It is only the owl and the man who are awake.
One to ask “who” and the other
to carry off a fallen tree –
their house will be warm tonight.

In the morning the survivors
will be called such words as “beautiful”
by children as they pass.
Such are small honors
but honors none the less
and with the sound of starting cars –
more dipping,
more creaking.

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