Upon Reflection

Upon Reflection

Listening to the world,

do I filter out distortions

or add them?

When looking through my lens

do I see enemies or

do I see friends?

What do you perceive

from the other side of your eyes

and mind?

And when the world

looks back at me…

what’s the version that it sees?

Mary Bach - Writing in the Bachs 

the little chinese girl

(with forest hair)

teeter totters

—–feet to feet,

——–(green neon laces)

as the elderly librarian

——-slow-scans

cd–

——dvd–  (i yawn)

———a couple books–

checKs for scraTches,

beep-loads silence, sparKs

of electricity, (felt only

on the thin skin

of my neck),

books piled on a stack,

reTurned, warm with fingerprints,

dive boldly back into the circuit,

& the cat has human eyes,

like horses that i talked to

in a painting by chagall

(there was a weird sense of trust, i swear

they moved their heads toward me)

& where would a painter put us,

as we throw no shades

nor offer color, i sang in the car today

(self-invented, life to tune)

but no one knows,

& now stand,

fish in row, two of three books un-read,

(sorry, but the painter wouldn’t know),

nor the little girl–

nor the water-carrier

with diffusing face,

he would proceed,

balancing two rim-filled buckets on his stick,

(with o-shaped legs) &

whistling on his way–

just like we all do

what we keep in giving back - Claudia Schoenfeld

Ask me what I cherish most of all and I
Can only answer the one place
I am always drawn to, a spot in between
The has been and the infinity of my thoughts.

There the trees are red. Their leaves, the color
Of Homer’s wine dark seas, sigh the sighs
Of sustenance for my heart that always hungers
To be released from the limitations of my body.

Some landscapes are dry and hard to cross.
Others, filled with hills, mountains, deep valleys
And weather that plagues a traveler. Here
The world is flat, with no impediments,
The views are all horizons reaching out
Beyond the bonds that hold me.
The air is always placid, moving just
To feel I am being caressed by the hands
Of invisible lovers unceasing in their ardor.

The grasses grow in shades of blue to mimic
The differences the sky assumes as the sun
Moves in erratic ways keeping rhythm
With the water that runs in shallow rivers
I know will take me a lifetime to cross each one,
But then, my soul is not my heart and dances
In and out from form to form at will.

As for contention with time’s distraction,
I measure the passage of the moment
By the marvels of things created
And miraculous aspects of things existing.
What is more important to cherish
Than all this.

Marvels of Things Created and Miraculous Aspects of Things Existing - KB