for M., who never
had to. And never really
did.*

Forty degrees Celsius, and I never felt the sun
when I was at your doorstep. Here is the problem
with waiting. Stably idle trying to perch in a perennial
position knowing that there’s a chance of
a never comeback. I’m used to
it.

High noon, dressed in black. No there were
no funerals, just my usual self. I am
just waiting for you to comeback like the sun
had not forgotten about this place; caressed
it with its fingers till the whole place melt.
And we try to find enough shelter
from hot spots like this.

Like I said, I never
have felt the warmth of the sun.

Not in your doorstep.

Forty degrees Celsius. The grasses and the flowers are
wilting in your front lawn. I can’t blame them,

perhaps they’re just like you, wilted
from too much ember on my fingers—

wilted, so you go home; found shelter.

I am at your doorstep, heat stricken, ready
to die, and all I’m asking

is a voice to comeback,
like the sun does.

Sifting Through The Dross

Fire, flood,
War and blood -
It is no wonder I can’t stand
The papers and TV,
Those apps aimed right at me,
The dearth of quality,
The deprivation, loss of lives,
The angst it gives.

Preferring comedy,
Cartoons by Disney…
Am I cowardly?  
Maybe.

Fixated on the negative but well aware
Of heroes all around each day, each year,
Deeds of goodness and devotion,
Yet, there is this bleak emotion, yucky fear.

Another factor is the greed:
The pressured need for growth and profit.
Prophets sow salvation’s seeds.
Many listening, few that heed.
With much to win and much to lose,
One mostly feels the costly loss.
But sifting through the dross with trust,
Stably doing what one must,
One gets a glimpse of tunnel’s light,
Decides it’s worth a willing fight
And pushes on through restive night.

Sifting Through The Dross 11.15.2019
Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

in  the foreground the past horizons backgrounds
remain stably consistent
in parallax focus the relative sizes of near
past over far
arises converges in a distant view
of fences shadows on the edges of fields of
diverging infinities,
darker plateaus.

He is a fine painting
The delicate hand of Nordic genetics
painted on a symmetrical face
His face, although youthful, gives away a spiritual antiquity
His mind is filled with sand carrying gales
from the great dunes of knowledge facing the ever-wise ocean eternally. churning up new grains of sand from her deep bed

The windy world of well-stoked book shelves pass through his mind and turn into lukewarm water for those with thirst to drink

He zips through the world on a flying fox
The line tightly and stably fixed to an inbound destination
Draining girls like cigarettes, each one long and slender providing a fix and  moment of satisfaction
His heart radiates to his hands and he uses them as noble puppets, even missing two digits

He crusades into the world with a sword of passion and a shield of God's fortune
Tightening up the loose screws in the worlds clock
To keep it ticking for everyone at gaze at

He fights, he wins, he will be remembered long after his atoms cut themselves into dust

He receives a passionate kiss from nature filling his soul with passion

Until he finds his white bowl, table cloth, soup with a dessert-spoon-keychain

You, one step forward.
Me, one step backward.
"This is a bad idea",
I voice as stably as I can.

I am a menacing typhoon
Curated by the sighs and whispers
Of the burnt and the buried.
I am their reincarnation.

I am designed specifically
To be masked like a poker player.
Do you think you know me?
Too much behind these foreboding cards.

Your soft kind flame has rekindled
my combustible mould of stone.
But I must keep you safe from me
By keeping you at arm's length.

Don't be foolish, I am hard to love.
What did you think, honey?
The cherry-red beneath my eyes
Are no dark circles.

the foreground present looms
in  the past horizons backgrounds
stably consistent
in parallax focus the relative sizes of near
past over far
arises converges in a distant view
of fences shadows on the edges of fields of
diverging infinities,
darker plateaus
and converging realities