POEM: The Falling

I am not the fallen,
but the falling --
he who never hit
the ground.
And you may hope to 
know my call,
but I was never
there at all.
I was sitting on the 
tower.
I was dropping to the 
ground.
I never emitted a
flash of light, 
and never emitted a
peep of sound.
I am the falling,
not the fallen.
The one who never
hit the ground. 

POEM: A Rainy Day in the Dry Season

Rain sidles up in a commanding cloud

-- early --

And so it waits in its cloud,
like the awkward party guest
who sits in his car,
waiting to be fashionably late,

but - not having decoded 
what "on-time" really means -

arrives early, nevertheless.

POEM: Moving Stillness: or, Stillness in Motion

I stare at the flowing river,
and, for a moment, it seems still,
as the world whips into
a wild ride of vertigo,

leading me to question
all I believe about
the still & the moving.

Everything that's still
is spinning, orbiting, 
and expanding

Everyone who's still
is a seven-jetted
space monkey
on a rocket ride. 

POEM: The Hands Have It [PoMo Day 10 – Free Verse]

They say hands are the hardest human part to artistically render --
to draw or sculpt or paint,
causing artists to hide hands,
or at least to not replace them 
when an earthquake or inept movers 
break them off.

I believe them.

The perfect curve is not easily attained,
all those random crenulations and creases,
the lumps and knuckle nubs,
the veins and blemishes,
all that is necessary to convey life --
be it a hard, hammer-wielding hand,
or the soft suppleness of an unworked hand.

Straight digits can create an uncanny valley
as surely as does a rubberized face. 

Emotion is expressed through hands,
as through faces.

I heard that the straightened fingers of
Olympia's left hand caused quite a controversy
when Manet presented the painting,
causing almost as much of a stir
as the fact that she was an ashen, 
syphilitic prostitute.

In Dream Yoga, we do reality checks with our hands,
looking at the hand,
looking away,
flipping it over,
and then looking at it once more.

Doing this whenever one sees 
anything strange or suspect.

It trains the brain,
which - in sleep - shuts down its suspicious bits,
to take note of the nonsensical.

If you're awake,
you just see your same old [underestimated] hand.

If you're asleep,
you won't see five perfectly curved fingers,
you might see an expansive fractal pattern,
or a cloven, bifurcated, mitt.

Even our sleeping brain can't keep track 
of five wriggling little digits. 

No wonder they give artists such fits. 

POEM: Frangipanic Empathy

I watch a frangipani blossom --
its elegant five twisted petals 
swept downstream,
drifting toward the smooth laminar lip
that rolls over the cascade.

And I feel a teensy queasy,
watching it be lifted and whipped
over the edge.

As if I were it,
and it were me.