The Fog of War
1. In light of this day, Jan. 4, 2024, I found that I was wearing the fog of war. Looking ahead, it appears that this unexpected garment will remain my daily clothing for a little while longer; at least.
2. The mist that surrounds is not kind.
Eyes hold no gaze,
Hands are forgetting the art of a touch.
A texture anticipated from a distant
Patiently
Seductively
Cares to drape my pulse
The Last First Days
1: My religion is interrupted.
Ringing in my ear – at times a friend, at times my nemesis.
Language twisted in welcomed grief.
Tell your truth – no more a friend, time positions your silent opposition.
This moment is-not the encounter of faith.
Ears hear no turning time.
Boxing Out of The Box
1. Steady hands
Throbbing pulse hides in the throat.
You told me,
Yelled at me,
Screams pierced Me.
A better version
of myself.
I learned to forget
about myself.
Steady hands
Empty
Silent
Linear and flat.
2. The door that welcomes
still welcomed.
Three times came fear.
The talkative mirror
Turned away.
No “thank you” shared.
Torn life lead the
walk of shame.
Microscopic focus
out of time.
Fourth fifth sixth coverings
hollow crowd-like sirens
Pace a gazel’s whip
counterpoint crawl.
The marriage of colors
steadfast in vows
First eyes open cold
Fear number four.
Remember
It’s complicated.
Questions asked,
Life changing questions.
Struggling in place
Directed ways.
Ongoing complications
Words desire an open mouth,
Intent chose another path.
Dead again each day
Mapping design shows no lead.
Complication veiled
complications.
Blind Complication
saw.
Deaf Complication
heard.
Complication changed
no-thing,
every-thing.
The sought for sight searched time.
Meaning looks more than these times.
I Was There-Not There
Calls were made
Directions had passed
Views claimed witness
I remained confused.
Slow was understated
Timely braved itself
Quick left behind
Clarity waved good-bye.
Words turned around
Knowledge queried heart
Tomorrow never arrived
Here was I
Not I
No.
2.
The mist that surrounds is not kind.
Eyes hold no gaze,
Hands are forgetting the art of a touch.
A texture anticipated from a distant
Patiently
Seductively
Cares to drape my pulse.
The Last First Days
1. My religion is interrupted.
Ringing in my ear – at times a friend, at times my nemesis.
Language twisted in welcomed grief.
Tell your truth – no more a friend, time positions your silent opposition.
This moment is-not the encounter of faith.
Ears hear no turning time.
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