Shuttling

Potrait of Dora Maar , 1937

by Pablo Picasso

Shuttling between
Two halves of myself
Day, afternoon and night.

Before a moment of laughter ceases
Hark, the other peg.
And as the head finds a spot of rest
Rings the parting bell.

I rush this way and that
With clumsy entries and exits.
Trailing behind disappointed faces
And too much unfinished business.

Shuttling between
Two halves of myself
Day, afternoon and night.
I am quite certain,
Long ago, on this very ride,
I have let slip a part of myself. 

To Be Alone

Party in Paris 

by Max Beckmann, 1947

To be alone isn’t an emptying of the room,

Faces vanishing into the night,

Walking other lanes,

Turning other corners.

To be alone isn’t voices no longer speaking your tongue

Abuzz, alien, apart.

To be alone isn’t just eyes turned away

Smiles beaming elsewhere.

To be alone perhaps

Is my steps slowing down,

Toward.

Across.

To be alone perhaps

is a sealing of the lips.

A turning blind with open eyes.

The smile left unused at the dresser.

To be alone perhaps

 is to leave the full room

And step into the wall.

Growing Old

Seated Girl Facing Front

by Egon Schiele

(1911)

Growing old.

What does it mean?

I think not, the stray grey hair

Trailing amid the careless black.

Or the shortness of breath

After a flight of stairs winding up to you.

The change happens deeper within
Silently but decidedly.

Forgiveness, a closed fist,

Wounds heal not quickly.

Belief darkly tainted

Smiles held hostage by gloom.

Love once abundant in the heart

Trudges heavily and uncertainly

The road to imminent doom.

Memories

Portrait of Asian Woman with Flower

by Rhoda Weissman 

Memories

Like Russian dolls

Hide tenderly

One inside the other

Bright hued

And sometimes brittle.

I burrow through them all

To reach the littlest one.

The most distant now

Yet the most precious.

And to hold her in the cup of my palm

Is to fall in love all over again. 

Swinging from the Sky

    Spirits of the Flying Umbrellas 

      by Leah Saulnier

Swinging from the sky
Standing upright
On a bar of dazzling metal
I saw myself through the window tonight.

Though far away from me
I could feel her ease, her glee.
The breeze, the light, all made her shine
And swing with a lilt so carefree.

She had companions
Yet she stood apart
Hugging the silver rope
And stared down at me.

I wonder if she could see me after all
Could she feel my prickly skin and aching bones
My knotted heart and leaden feet?
Was she mocking me?
Or seeking me?
Was she here to stay?
Or just a passing dream?

My Wretched Sphere

Maha Bindu 1988

by S. H. Raza

It almost always starts 

With one of Raza's large dots.

The magnified black sphere of my moist eye.

Still 

but surely searching. 

At the outset, it latches onto things closest.

The clutter on the bed

The somber painting hanging overhead

Perhaps that novel on the shelf

Replete with its winding nightmares

Or that Greek composer playing on loop

Piano, oboe, strings

Piano oboe strings

pianooboestrings

A melodic lump lodged in my throat.

It could also just be those things he said

Or didn't say

Or almost just did

Last night

Or many nights ago

By the window, right here

Or much further away.

Or that new note

in voices everywhere

Doled out in spurts

A nauseating amalgam of panic and pity.

I take a stroll each day along the elliptical orbits of my life

Looking for the sources of the cracks along the way

But this steady gliding and less than graceful sliding

Almost always slips me back into

That wretched black sphere

of my very own eye. 

Lone Bead

Village (1956)

 by Syed Haider Raza

Linked tight into the human chain

Suddenly something snaps

 And you drift like a lone bead come undone

Slow whirling into space

Regarding the abyss below

Bewildered at those faces

Onward in their braces

Now so dim, their sheen

Much softer, their chug.

A grey cloud hanging overhead

Draws you in its embrace

And you wait spellbound

For the crack of light

To cut you through.