A BROCADE OF TENTS©

 

 

 

ART HISTORY

 

 

not clever descriptions of familiar things

but plain expressions of unimaginable ones

 

change feeds upon itself

like a thunderstorm, clouds roiling, passing rain

tribal chieftains become senators

slaves raise presidents

dictators hide in spider holes

 

even diamonds eventually disappear

in a shimmering mirage

floating pyramids

 

painted clowns

avant garde, dressed for the occasion

become fun house guides

welcome to the museum

 

the seeds of today's zucchini began

in a galaxy far away and long ago

 

 

 

 

UNFOLDING TIME

 

 

the accordion played a funny tune

squeezed together in years

when no airplanes flew

 

then

a few years before this life

the machines appeared

 

from the mountains of Montezuma sometimes

a distant drone

fading

 

listen:

follow it ever so gradually

into forever

 

planes are normal now

forever is everywhere

best heard on a quiet day

 

then

stretching apart

the pleats came to a pause

 

suddenly

the favorite practice of a quiet day

fell short of forever

 

it had all depended on the arrival of a machine

how sad it might seem

but an accordion is simply a machine

 

 

 

 

BLOSSOMS

 

 

Halloween has left vaporous sunny skies

shall we look forward to cherry blossoms

without bees for celebration?

 

in any place there is a center

not lost upon artists, writers and quiet people

it defies canvas, cameras, blocks of stone

and words

 

but not silence

waterfalls roar its presence

great tomes defer to it

images refer to what words cannot convey

everything is the center of everything

 

the powers that be are equal to bees

no more, no less

a Vietnamese coffee filter is equal to a mountain stream

ghouls and goblins are conservative investors

trick or treating future value

sewerage treatment plants are virtuous

the effluent has no gritty grounds

it's all more or less

a cartoon

sketched in haste

a mandala brushed back into the desert

the melody of a haunting flute

 

 

 

 

THE SECRET

 

 

the Arco station in asphalt meadows

shimmering mirages

swamped by crows, mocked by pigeons, ignored by patrons

of Mail Plus

a pseudo village of convergences, ancient trade routes

silk, spices, regular gas, corn nuts at the counter

the cashier from Arabia

reigning over Mexican mechanics

their flea market canopy shading a lawn table siesta

sombreros, trumpets, and the running of the bulls

crushed nuts

a rolling brocade of circus tents

 

an improvident wind

ignorant of the village

rips through our side yard geraniums

torn from bedroom walls that do not belong

to the mirage

an ill wind that did blow good

since now we're getting ready to paint the place

 

our cantaloupe has given its life for my breakfast

and with a dollop of yogurt suddenly I recall

my customer of forty years ago

as we had a glass of wine discussing

or so I thought

what is existence?

the wild area with persimmon trees

 

 

omniscient trade the subtitle of civilization

 

 

 

 

THUMBNAIL

 

 

the tipping point will be

when climate change becomes catastrophic

 

no one

no holy man, senator, nation, alliance of nations

will stop it

comparisons with earthquakes, asteroids and volcanoes

will yield only cacophony

 

fears of the elite: realized

debts: obliterated

migrations and spontaneous uprisings roil over each other

secret police and surveillance cameras littler polluted rivers

rulers and low lying sand bars disappear

this is not your average haiku

 

 

ramen noodles dwarf bacteria

galaxies teem with planets

quarks inhabit physicists

 

and right here should be a stone

neatly top knotted with a rope

haiku are brief

 

 

 

 

LEARNING

 

 

whether to submit to subconscious forces

clearly powerful

or focus attention on their origin

which does not pick and choose

 

the absolute ruler will not be found which condescends

peace depends upon the defender

to dissolve battle lines drawn up in weakness

 

bumblebee

bumping heads unintentionally

freighting pollen

wandering off

to farms and villages on the outskirts of memory

sees only the present flower