i got my picture back today

and even though i just sat quietly
in a corner of my room
with the blinds shut
and the door locked,
even though i stared at the ceiling,
breathing in and out, in and out,
and came to terms with it,
even though i convinced myself i'd be okay,

somehow my skin looks ready to be checked out,
my eyes are two overfilling ponds,
somehow my voice chokes and croaks,
somehow my fingers have stained the carpet

and there's this girl in my head
and she's screaming
and i would give anything to make her stop
stop digging at her cells
stop burrowing into her DNA
stop exhuming her genes

i will always stay this way,
i wish i could tell her.
i will always stay this way,
and it's pointless to think otherwise.

If I could,
I would paint a picture of you across the sky—
A canvas of clouds for the world to see.
The rainbow, my palette, dipped in hues of my heart,
To illustrate the boundless depths
Of how much I love you.

A picture might capture a million words,
Yet a million words falls short—
They can’t hold the vastness of my love,
A love that spills beyond the edges of language.

I try to voice the feelings I harbour,
To let you glimpse the ocean within me,
But every time, my voice falters,
Drowning in the waves of emotion
That crash and recede, leaving me silent,
A debtor at the banks of words,
Struggling to pay off what cannot be expressed.

But if you could see the sky I paint for you,
You’d know, without a word spoken—
That my love for you is as infinite as the heavens,
And as enduring as the light that breaks through the storm.

the lovely picture window (always the same, always different)

There are painters who must,
having found the place, must,
repaint it, compelled to repeat it,
each a variant, yet always the same,
always different

I awake to a perspective that is wide,
always differentiated from the prior,
always almost similar, but never with
the same exactitude, differing attitude,
same longitude, identical latitude,
always different

horizon distanced, in all ways a view
encompassing, duality near, far distant,
harmoniously, eyes open, magnetized
to wake before 6am by the suns modesty,
first light, first clarity, a curtain risen, yet,
always different

am I so blessed or thus cursed, for the urge
to disclaim and ode, compose and thus self-
decompose, analyze, reflect, slice apart, needing
the comprehensive understanding this me/place
scripts the raw appreciation, daily differentiated
always the same

this peaceful venue seizures, chest calmly
pounding at the insistence it commands,
the price I must pay for the prize to praise,
to sing, weep, reward restful sleep with lyrics
eked out, pouring, unsustainable yet finished,
always different

a single May Iris, returns, born from a torrential,
thunder, lightning, sky mayhem, rises by a sundial
greets midst a planted clump, upright rises, lavender,
in a majestic solitary, absent but a day prior, yet mine eyes
failed to witness its discernible emerging birthing creation,
always different,
always the same

here, I am Iris too, always the same, a day aged,
but the differences minute but stolid actualized,
this overnight sensation, my body’s restoration,
what I visualize, indivisible, now visible, realized,
miracle of continuity, unchanging chained change,
always different ,
always the same

wonder, am I more blessed, or a s~lightly cursed being,
my breath restored, wet eyes full brimming, changed,
revived but always modified, a newer old man, whose
sum total always a different number, but in sequential,
compelled to confess, no understanding of this miracle,
always the same,
always different,
this daily visionary miracle


6:36 AM
Fri May 24
2024

Silver Beach,
Shelter Island

The Door to My Heart, was left open.
To a Woman, I had given the Key.
She never found, what She was looking for
and soon returned it, back to Me.
I held back Memories of Her.
The moment She decided to Part
and nestled them, Safe and Secretly.
In the corner of My Heart.
I drew Her Picture in My Mind.
A Picture which I could never Erase
and painted the Picture, in My Heart
with Colours no one could Replace.
Each Night, I played the Moon to Her
and was building Her, a Mansion on Mars.
I kept building My Castles in the air,
While She chased all the Stars.

The Picture Window

The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.

The  subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.

Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.

My soul?

Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature  and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..

The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.

Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.

But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy,  where disorder minimal.

My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.

Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.

5:50 AM

P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.

Ghostly shadows, but what ghost
really casts a shadow—cousins?
The ghost and a shadow, still in my room
at the edge of the bed.

A ghost of unhappiness, and a shadow
of these lonely despairs. Both related.

Mother nature taught me how to grow,
Father time forces me to wait for it.
The Mistress of death would love to rush
the process. Brothers in arms, alarming the gun
sounds in my head—my constant ringing headaches.
Sister company, sharing the pain of a common
parent entity

Interesting family picture.

The many moving things,
moving scenes; that are stuck in between my eyes.
Look at life; and it's fragile creations,
through the window's glass.
Held on the weight of time,
those holding onto their past. But it all must change;
from the old seasons to those anew.
The many winters of cold, soon surpasses on the grass.

So many pictures, so many little things,
and so many moments. All caught in the prettiness
of an everlasting flower.
A tower plant, trying to kiss the glorious sun,
the Son of Man, and the sweetest rose.

The holies of all holies; resides inside of me.
Walking the testimonials upon my feet.
For how far have I gone to seek?
I've seen blackness, as a changing tide of darkness.
A ***** sheet; barely covering the littlest sin. But there's
still the greatest of all light within.

A Christ within me.

How are my eyes shut to the window;
and their curtains covering itself on a dream?
A dream to be free.

Freedom of will.
Freedom of speech.
Freedom to choose peace.

I scratch the tiny hairs under my chin,
biting the collar of my shirt with my dry lips.
There's no duty to being empty all your life.
No command to live that way, or any sort of drill.

But there's a thirst on my tongue,  
running down to my heart. My spirit's cup is waiting
to be overfilled. And to go on and spill.

I as myself,
only long to be spirit filled.
Holy Spirit come inside of me.

A thousand pictures in the window,
and I only long for the one picture of Him.

emotional kata
series of strokes
against the resistance
of canvas
a picture evolves
almost like nature
becoming organic
an extension of emotion
battle conquering calamity
the brush talks
even shouts some passages
poem based in
pigment and oil
at the end
everyone is exhausted
something happened
beyond the reasonable
control of evolution

all the small things you work on gets bigger altogether,
imagine the bigger picture and start now.