COPD

 

“Breathless” by Rachel Nelson

 

dead lungs

black bladders

hang stiffly

from sins in a

crumbling cage

every breath

drawn at rest

nonetheless

a pained labor

for tissues

time turned

into lifeless

sere parchment

the least-made

exertions

trip desperate

cascades of

deep gasping

a breathlessness

drowning in

indifferent air

inescapable

penance for

nonchalant folly

offending the

most precious

gift of a life

penance now

come to due

during this

the last phase

of my moon

Sensitivity

“Empathy” by Sergio Maestrini

 

no such thing as

invisible illness

it’s right there

behind unfocused eyes

under fricative

sighs of speech

in detached

helpless gestures

if only you

care to notice

 

 

From my books Bohemian Scents and Legacies (vol. 1)

Chasing History

“Playing Cards in Fryeburg Maine” by Eastman Johnson

 

Sensing mild adventure
My spring forest beckons
Boughs like green-handed arms
Overhead sweep me in
Crackling twigs underfoot
Start critters to scurrying
Darting through shimmering
Figments of latticework
Sun-woven shadows
Cast down upon air fairly
Pungent with pine-scent
And redolent bark

All the while looking
For traces of passage
Among mossy trunks
Around angular boulders
Half or more never seen
Dry icebergs that jut up
From brown-needled beds
Sprouting tussocks of turf
Alert for the odd bit
With color or form
Suggestive of artifact
Waylaid by history

Bull moose and whitetail
Track snowmelt-charged streams
Coursing rocky treed foothills
Where smugglers annulled
Prohibition by hauling
With oxen-drawn sledge
Furtive freightloads of spirits
Canadian contraband
Routes marked by ruins
Crude stopover shacks
Rotten planks overgrown
With woodland encroachment

Local lore hints one such
Way-station stood up
Right here on my land
Though no one knows where
My crown-antler Bowie
Hacks passable trails
Through vines thick as thumbs
Sturdy saplings like pickets
Slow progress until one good
Yank frees a fanned clump of
Maidenhair ferns whose roots
Tangle with rust-crusted chain

My ironwood staff
Pokes and prods fertile earth
Tracing widening arcs
That stop at a massive
Rock shelf cantilevered
Across the slope face
Sharply steepened above
A good twenty feet long
The ledge caps a space
Dense with thickets of
Buckthorn and bittersweet
Grappling to fill every inch

I poke horizontally
Jabbing lush verdure
And jump from a thrill
When I hear report back
Telltale thumps of some
Hollow-backed wood
Well concealed from the eye
Tamping down my excitement
I vow to return armed with
Counterblade loppers and
One-eighty lanterns
Once autumn drops leaves

In hobbling back down
All my pain burns more viciously
Scorching what courage
I might draw from rousing
Inspiriting echoes
An eager mind sounds
But these thought-killing fires
Make me frequently lay-by
Without peace to wonder
How many more seasons
Will give me adventure
And finish my history

 

 

A fictional reverie from my books Range of Motion, Music of Scars and Legacies (vol. 1)

Pharmacopeia

“Comfortably Numb” by Mario Sanchez Nevado

 

vitreous mosaics

of chaotic yellow-green

arrogant ampules

archaeology discovers

under unmade beds

tell their decadent

broken glass histories

in ancient cut

opioid hieroglyphs

tinted by tears

painless bodies

cannot decipher

 

 

(originally posted April 2013)

Chasing History

 

Illustration from the Game “Hidden Chronicles”

 

(A fictional reverie)

 

Sensing mild adventure
My spring forest beckons
Boughs like green-handed arms
Overhead sweep me in
Crackling twigs underfoot
Start critters to scurrying
Darting through shimmering
Figments of latticework
Sun-woven shadows
Cast down upon air fairly
Pungent with pine-scent
And redolent bark

All the while looking
For traces of passage
Among mossy trunks
Around angular boulders
Half or more never seen
Dry icebergs that jut up
From brown-needled beds
Sprouting tussocks of turf
Alert for the odd bit
With color or form
Suggestive of artifact
Waylaid by history

Bull moose and whitetail
Track snowmelt-charged streams
Coursing rocky treed foothills
Where smugglers annulled
Prohibition by hauling
With oxen-drawn sledge
Furtive freightloads of spirits
Canadian contraband
Routes marked by ruins
Crude stopover shacks
Rotten planks overgrown
With woodland encroachment

Local lore hints one such
Way-station stood up
Right here on my land
Though no one knows where
My crown-antler Bowie
Hacks passable trails
Through vines thick as thumbs
Sturdy saplings like pickets
Slow progress until one good
Yank frees a fanned clump of
Maidenhair ferns whose roots
Tangle with rust-crusted chain

My ironwood staff
Pokes and prods fertile earth
Tracing widening arcs
That stop at a massive
Rock shelf cantilevered
Across the slope face
Sharply steepened above
A good twenty feet long
The ledge caps a space
Dense with thickets of
Buckthorn and bittersweet
Grappling to fill every inch

I poke horizontally
Jabbing lush verdure
And jump from a thrill
When I hear report back
Telltale thumps of some
Hollow-backed wood
Well concealed from the eye
Tamping down my excitement
I vow to return armed with
Counterblade loppers and
One-eighty lanterns
Once autumn drops leaves

In hobbling back down
All my pain burns more viciously
Scorching what courage
I might draw from rousing
Inspiriting echoes
An eager mind sounds
But these thought-killing fires
Make me frequently lay-by
Without peace to wonder
How many more seasons
Will give me adventure
And finish my history

 

 

(originally posted April 2013)

Symbiosis

 

“Dead Tree Trunk” by Gordon Wolford

 

 

a gnarled
hollow tree
stands deep
in high forest
encases my pith
replacing its own
it is my shell
I am its flesh
symbiotic
immobile
we two remain
rooted in place
skin to cambium
I can’t recall
when I gave up
screaming for help
through the crevice
in front of my face
days or centuries
maybe since
making my peace
with the wood
understanding
that we keep
each other erect
fully knowing
without it
I’ll simply collapse
to the ground
still unable
to move
until dying or dead
I dissolve
decompose
into bits of
detritus

 

 

(originally posted April 2013)

For You

 

Photo from pinterest.com

 

 

if I could but dance

I’d lead you through waltzes round rays of the sun

and speed you through polkas, mazurkas on end

 

if I could but jump

I’d pluck the bright stars to adorn your fair hair

and tuck the moon tenderly into your lap

 

if I could but run

I’d race the fleet winds across mountains and glens

and chase down each songbird for your serenade

 

if I could but walk

I’d stroll with your hand in mine up country lanes

cajole the world’s blossoms to sweeten our way

 

if I could but stand

I’d fold you in close like I did when we met

and hold tight forever your heart against mine

 

(originally posted April 2013)

Cigarettes

Image from pinterest.com

death dances

its lulling ritual

in the soft gray undulance

rising from my fingers

I nonetheless savor

warm Mesmer tastes of him

drawn from his embering leaves

around and across

my decadent tongue

pulled down

down and into

the centers of me

where I trap sticky filaments

gluing his powers

all his terrible powers

releasing the rest of him

thinned and diminished

encircling my taciturn face

while I wait

in my centers

wondering

when fortune or fate

will subsume

his ugly dark residue

(originally posted April 2013)

ALS

“Woman V” by Willem De Kooning

 

nerves degenerate
muscles wither and die in
rapid progression
endured by an intact mind
therein lies the agony

*       *      *

(ALS = Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease)

Under the Knife

“A Broken Eye Still Cries” by Marsha Elliott

 

 

counting backwards into the ether

rush of moments remembered

illogical sequence of images

flash like the frames of a movie reel

speeding through sprockets

a ratcheting ratcheting diminuendo

pulls consciousness deep

down and down to the void

the black bottom of nothing

where pain can no longer be felt

but is nonetheless

horridly dreamt and imagined

aware of the cutting

through gristle and bone

vicious violent strokes

precise surgical actions

in synch with unhearable

rhythmical beats of insidious

heart and lung pumping machines

life no longer completely contained

to this flesh and blood entity

shared now instead with

strange grim apparatus

inanimate engines and objects

of rubber and plastic and steel

where the unsleeping soul

finds uncomfortable annex

and desperate prayer

races to and fro coursing through

stiff inarticulate hoses and tubes

back and forth between

mindful and mindless receptacles

frantic in search of a terrified voice