My move

"You fling it open for the first time
but I’m gone” 
M. Kahf ~ Wall

There’s flowers and a makeshift shrine.
Not meant for holiness or mere mawkish
memories ignited by tealights.
A kind of covenant though, promises
in this world and the next,
still kept. From your corner there

a few mementos, even the small beachcombed stone
buddha like, as in Japan. Monochromed
and framed, you gazed lastly at my camera
and now those eyes consider
strange surrounds, rooms unvisited.
The silence is profound, familiar as convent hush
without shared music or improvised duets.

Another Christmas unpacked, and buried
under bric-à-brac and baubles, a luxury, sliding box.
Some sympathy messages laid within, rubber-banded
half-perished now. And pretty cards with precious words
in familiar hand, in fading ink
as poem or passion, intimate as us.

I’d thought to keep you bundled there forever
but only stale air rose at the opening
and sentiment, fruitless as dust in cupped hands.
Objects cannot shore against time past.

Our paths diverged.
So long I’ve stood and watched
your back. I’ll say it again:
“It’s time to make my move”.

The epigraph of Kahf is one from my Poetics prompt whereby I give a choice of poetry endings to set our own poems in motion: "Beginning at the End"   


This is not a factory
a socially structured mass of ONE
the living organism view overlaid
as human paradise, if only…

I’d walk through amber walls
exactitude of hexagon, tessellated to infinity
as needs must, as decreed by queens.
Imbibe potpourri scents secreted here
flowers of field and hedgerow
– elixir and dust. Sip water siphoned
from depthless pools that cool
and liquefy the honeyed crystals
wrapped in wax.

A myriad iridescent wings
dulled by shade soak up the spectrum,
dot to dot each sortie traced
and compassed by the sun. We hear the hum
imagining the beat of ailerons
it is the daily concert
of harvesters, an upbeat festival of feast
before the want of winter.

Mish prompts us to take an object and write about it subjectively, beginning with “This is not a ______”. A beehive came to mind immediately, I'm not sure why so I went with this for "Object Poems"

looking Glass

"Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish".
~ Sylvia Plath

It’s tempting to believe
visions deceive, through a glass darkly.
The lens phlegmatically receives
a topsy-turvy replica – it cannot lie.
Only the systemic post-processing
converts until the world comes right
before our eyes.

What if Narcissus never found the pool?
If reflection was pensive, the thinker in stone?
Neither the self-image we seek to see
in others’ eyes nor in the solitary silvered glass.

Dusty with age and thickened
layer upon layer of pasted faces.
The countenance in contemplation
before the tasty temptation
to tittivate, adulterate
and at the vainglorious end of vanity
to turn mercurial mirrors to the wall
and ask…

Touching on some existential authenticity with today’s image prompt from the Sunday Muse