Bursting Beakers

Have you ever met someone who failed to fit into any box?
Maybe they fill them all or just couldn’t be contained.
They would spill over any container, bouncing off the walls.

She would always surprise me as if to tell me “Just you wait and see!”
I imagined her like molten metal still hot and malleable,
still rebelling against that old time mold.

One garment, or shoe, or anything new, bubbles over.
A new song or sunset lights up her canvas like it’s the end of 1999.
Explosions of thoughts poor out, absorbing all the colors.

“Welcome!” she says, “Please don’t fear me.”
Is it curiosity that fascinates and gawks at this aberration?
Is it wise to watch chemistry without wearing goggles?

She is not a gas, liquid, or solid,
No single element or isotope defines her atomic mass;
Her shape is more than cubic, more than realism.

This is not a high school science lab.
She is more than base or acid, more like both combined.
She is a chemical reaction, and a magnetic attraction.

She would laugh at that scientific description,
Those eyes would say, “You’re crazy and still not even close.”
Maybe I just haven’t figured out her style of art, but I’m just guessing.

This is not art history class.
There is no single era, artist, or genre I can reference.
Then again, some of the greatest masters took their time to lovingly refine.

Perhaps she is a great masterpiece in progress,
An oil on easel, or pigment and water, a mess of tile shards.
There’s a maker’s touch, a chemical explosion, paint dripping off the walls.

Confessions from an Aberration

She sat alone at a table, accompanied by  bound friends,
and waited upon by a cup filled with comfort and warmth.
Her eyes found mine in a flick, and spoke a bared-up welcome.
Then came the sideways huff as if to dismiss an aberration.
I was not real, and my flesh turned transparent in that glance,
The look of crossbow bolts finding a home in a hollow chests.
To be fair my absent mind may have warranted disgust.

I might have misplaced her name in a poor substitute.
I might have mistaken her identity in passing salute.
I might have been oblivious to some personal foul.
My existence might have been more than grace could allow.

It is well that my pitiable state inoculated me against Medusa’s gaze,
for only men are frozen by her eye’s disinterested weight.
A drizzling cloud preceded me, shrouding me in apathy,
an armor suit, a dressing for my sense’s mortal casualty.

For years I walked by unphased, a patient of that burn ward.
I would pass that table many times without a second look.
My breastplate stood strong, and with my visor down I felt impervious
to the danger, yet I felt the clouds lifting and the son breaking through.

I could feel again!

Even now that I know her name, I never discovered the nature of her wound.
That table sits empty ever since her new friends entered service,
but she hasn’t forgotten the comfort found in a faithful book.
As far as I could tell her skies were turning and bowing in a promised reward.

She could see then!

TBC

Magic Shag Carpets and Stale Chocolate Music

When I close my eyes, I can picture grandma’s living room.
It was a room of shag carpets, trinkets, and clocks,
A sagging sofa accented with a llama skin throw and guarded by a gramophone.
That sanctuary of stability, anchoring memories, changeless by so many years.

Grandpa’s new chair and a flat panel TV at odds with that theme,
and though he’s gone now, that booming voice still echoes in the air, punctuated by his crazy hair.
Grandma would sit in his chair for years after, riding the recliner down memory winds.
Flying through turbulent patches, times rapids, on to some slow sweet summer days adrift.

I know this by that flat smirk and a twinkle in her look.
A regular visit paid to that place, Friday night’s after dinner tradition, traditions TV channel.
Like chocolate cake for her reflection, fondly held in many memories, and religiously consumed.
The rest of us experienced show flavored like stale bread, but stayed for the sake of her happy thoughts. I didn’t fly to neverland’s timeless channel every Friday, but that sound remains in my ears.
The sound of folky gospel, vocals braded in choir, boisterous bands, and singers.
The sound of tap dance shoes hailing like so many high school drummers.
Grandma’s favorite music cake, a sweet melody to her memory, the Gaither Band.

Dumbstruck Redo

If I could go back to when I first met her,
I wouldn’t stamp and stammer sifting through my thoughts
I wouldn’t discuss the weather like my mind couldn’t fathom something other
I wouldn’t stare that way with nothing else while my heart and blood fought

Were I to meet her, it would go much better
My smile would be sincere and smoother
My mind would enter gear without a chatter
My modesty wouldn’t fail me in my ecstasy either

Then prepared with proper warning, all my faculties would fail me not
For I would slip the chains of fear never to be caught
For I would speak with elegance and wise forethought
For my heart would be prepared and ready for this moon-shot

Oh, to return and do it over, that time when I met her
Oh to get a second chance to set that first impression slot
On that moment my mind took flight and left me blubbering there
On that day my eyes first found you in that precious spot

Then you might have really looked at me beyond the frozen stare
Beyond the quadriplegic frightened animal so scared
Beyond the mindless dribble, and small talk impaired
Beyond all that I’m here, me the man dumb struck though I bee.

That World I left behind.

A world of mango trees,
where parrots fly and scream.
Markets filled with ripe bananas,
giant jicamas,
savory papayas,
or baskets of guavas,
with a mix of art and all forms of necessity.
A world of child hood friends,
Andrew, Joel, Junior, Ben.
A life bubble in the midst of the jungle,
where all are aunts or uncles.
This world my mind has made,
sets even the sky ablaze,
with wee-hour lakefront hymns,
and evening walks under amber haze.
Those tear filled days dissolve and fade,
the longer my mind tastes this favorite treat.
Bitter trials ooze away like that mud from my bare feet.
like chocolate memories,
like raging flood waters eroding banks,
above which a cement bench sits to watch and ponder,
the affects of time on life’s mind
for me, it’s a world left behind.

Was it the wrong foot?

We met in that enchanting way
in palace corridors spying the other.
Our eyes would meet as worlds fade
and thoughts of others dimmed to sputters.

We danced a careful ballet
not sure the steps of summer
nor could muster forth words to say;
just smile to time beating drummer.

Then two minds ran for cover,
no charm, barbed wit, or buffet
could coax apart the pearl mother
shielding treasure, beauties cache.

Her name I could not remember
and as I spoke, I felt her shutter
spell broke and truth betrayed
to flee in autumn’s bounty sleigh.

I still have that magic shoe
but there may be other feet more true.
I trust the feet who’s laces I shan’t undo
to find me one, in time it may be you!

Moon Face

Unveiled souls shining all places,
The dowry’s glory on breeze felt
Sings from knees on holy ground knelt:
“Come help blind men see; fire burn and blaze.

Holy, Holy, Holy, is the Lord
God almighty, Holy is He
Promised one of Jessie’s tree.
Woe on all who see the Word!

Flay sin scaled eyes, for why you died,
From thy grace, my face glazed,
From thy blood, my mud saved,
For sins price you came and cried.

Maker mold my mutinous mud,
Washer cleanse this clay, burn lips,
Cut stony hearts, and facet my moon.”

Eyes soon find the sign after flood,
Rising o’er the stone that snags and trips
Blind men, whose pride shuns thy blood.

Chosen priestly few will soon
Kneel on bride’s altar, a corner stone.
Jeweled faces crowns, thrown before thy throne
Where Son’s light these faces moon.

More than Friends or Friends no More

Consider friendships frozen in position, impossible the asking,
Between the cliffs of finally knowing, and the pit of cowardice.
For one, a friend more than friends, she more than passing,
In the other friends are friends but nothing more, no other wish.

Even were the man, man enough to know the no, and smile still,
Would she, in grace, patiently endure the friendship less the More?
Graves of former friends marked by wounds, bleeding, left with Less,
Yet, bedsores form scarred hearts too, timid, comatose to the More.

Hearts are more than silly shapes, more than life’s wellspring;
Symbols of our souls, they aquafers, pulsing man’s emotions.
Friendly hearts can break, in pity mourn, or scorned will hatred sing,
Broken hearts hurt more than one, as breaker in self-loathing runs.

Take the heart, jumpstarted on hope’s haunting, wanting More;
Time passes, forming, forging friends, friends draw closer more.
What kind of friend sinks low, what heart beats but spark no more?
Hearts must beg conscience, protector crack the door, beg for More.

Manly giant or hired power climb, assurance in whom their image borne.
Midgets lost in future past, fearfully fly from toils so tall, slip in sinking sand.
Good friends haul the ropes, in encouragement calling on wisdom’s iron,
Foolish friends, the signs ignore, like blind men leading through swampy land.

Some virtuous friends, lope on with Less, oblivious to looming More,
To them, friends in fun and games but nothing else, expecting Less;
Encountering More, choose end in fearful Less, few explore More.
Ceaseless Less the strong endure and in brotherly love linger still.

Would that your cliff, were friendlier, that your command be my wish.
See beneath this mask shielding my soul, sparks form at your passing,
Eyes fixed, watching signs for wanting More, tung silenced in cowardice,
My wish for More, Less if your wish desire it, please assist up cliff to asking.

Only one answer can True Love speak, as you wish in both Less or More.
Less quenches soul sparks, More may end in Less, still Less is More
When asked for, I gladly bow and utter True Love’s motto.  More
still love that died of Less offering More to everyone who ask’th for.

Ode to Chocolate

What is the point of chocolate?
In madness do we question what for,
Or study it and say: why does this exist?
No, we surrender to savory bliss;
Oh, we delight in its earthy flavor!
Once consumed and in our belly lay,
caffeine, sugars, creams brighten day,
Then we smile, and on lingering taste soar.

From sun, water, and soil comes cocoa,
And again, with much toil, sweet canes,
Add milky cream, then behold: chocolate!
No one can refuse it but the loco,
Who do not belong among the sane.
Chocolate, glorious, none can balk at it!

One palate flight, leaves addict wanting more.
Yet, with reason and sound mind on display,
Delusive sense can, an audit, outweigh.
Likewise, sublime verse engulfs the lore,
And meaning of the lyrics with beauty’s kiss.
Heed soliloquy imparted by McGinnis;
Regard poetic pictures and adore,
Passions so heavenly, so chocolate!

Life of a Sock

When life turns tumultuous twisting and churning,
Which way should I go, which way is up? …Squirl!
What does the sock experience when washed?
Does it like the squeezing, rubbing, and spinning?

The end will come when the dirt is gone,
But to be of use is to collect stains and stench.
Every worn cloth is subjected to this carnage,
If not now, then after goodwill recycles.

I pray that my weave withstands the friction,
Holes or frays render harsh judgement from the maker.
Nor will filthy rags escape this fate,
They are tossed out and languish in the rubbish heap.

No cloth can wring the filth from its fibers,
It must accept the help of the holy washer.
No fee, no soap just a simple please,
The washer washes as soon as you believe.

The weaver is a willing worker,
Talents are given to all cleaned by the washer.
With dexterous fingers the voids are filled,
The threads of life knitted a new.

To know the weaver lends a new perspective,
A strength and desire to fulfill the calling.
What rag should fear the washer,
What is there to hide from the weaver.

Once washed of filth and woven anew,
A raiment of fine clothing we are.
One day my cloth will be eternally clean,
Oh, the joy of knowing this turmoil must end.

For now, I feel unworthy to be a sock,
Or to touch the feet of the maker.
Even so, when the drawer is opened,
I scream “Pick Me!”

Blue Smudge’s Muse

On a crisp fall evening I heard the most peculiar thing,
when the trees swayed and the wind curled by.
There in picture frame reverberating as if to sing,
blues and greens, yellows and whites of night’s sky.

Stepping closer, gazing, straining silently to listen.
Then above the chorus, from the center of the swirl,
a voice cries sharply, disgusted, fading in the din.
“I suck” came a dejected lament from the star lit girl.

Looking about confuse, “who was that, who are you?”
Weeping followed sobbing, and that by a huffing sigh.
Again the voice cracked, “look here a smudge so blue..”
“Oh smudge, what is it, what causes tears this night?”

“Can you not see the shape and boldness of my figure?
These pigments stand out from all the other finer colors.”
My heart ached, my mind raced for words to give her,
but no words formed to sooth the wound so suffered.

My own conscious stands to form those sounds in my ear,
accused of lacking value. Words my constant companions,
beating drums, like marching songs throughout the years,
and only here today, saved by a love which never abandons.

“Smudge!” I cry, “There’s more to you than meets the eye!”
Backing up, embarrassed by my forwardness so confused,
and yet my eyes are blessed to see this sight, I cannot lie.
The signs are true, a master painter’s touch clearly used.

Cupid’s Parenthesis

Parenthesis
Curved containers
Punctuation drawing emphasis
Bowed frames demanding considerations

Swaying in the slightest breeze, beckons me to see

Twins dance in the star light under crescent moons
A single noble peak overshadows sculpted furrows
Gusty gales rise from mirth’s fount eagerly amused
Bright birds, timidly dart and flutter in the willows

Beauty locked within, veiled by this espresso tree

Don’t hide or shy from these observations
Fired darts explain helplessness
Mirrored archers
Parenthesis

Mournful Man Minus Mate

Look and see; a tree stands alone atop a hill
One soldier nationless, wandering absent moto
Nowhere bound goose, silhouetted by the moon
Examine a sock with other lost, no longer fit to use
Left in a drawer untouched, like a lock missing keys
Inert is the book with ideas lacking, empty but folio
Even right needs left, and darkness light to hide from
Reckless is the man fording life’s tides without a mate

From giddy girl to beautiful butterfly

I once met a girl and wondered on her skill
I once met a girl and she seemed so reserved
I once met a girl dressed modest yet frill
A girl tender as a child, giggled and squirmed

She spoke to me with a smile unnerved
She talked to me longer each passing
She conversed with me seriously concerned
Attentive and calm, listening is compassion

We walked and talked after a fashion
We teased and taunted like old friends
We tested each other to see what happens
A confiding struggle, encouragement lends

This woman on occasion like a girl pretends
This woman possesses intelligence and whit
This woman captures beauty through a lens
Admitting inner weakness, builds an outer grit

To her these words are written, fret not you are legit
Forget worm’s ways spreading your wings in new life
Remember black brightens blue so don’t hesitate to air it
 You are gorgeous in kind like that darling butterfly

Silly butterfly such stunning beauty, oh-my,
Silly butterfly no longer you of old but new,
Silly butterfly not halfway, that worm truly died.
Be not confused by purity so absolute and true.

Good friend, know when you hurt, I cry too.
Good friend choose not for me but thee.
Good friend so true no matter what I do.
Be a mirror to goodness, reflect with glee.

Promised one these implications I see.
Promised one welcome change don’t remain.
Promised one, my honor commands I flee.
Be that woman, even as I act the slain.

Lonely me sought remedy to staunch the pain.
Lonely me blundered into trouble I can’t undo.
Lonely me struggled to restore in vain.
Be not sad if my goodbye meant adieu.