The Man-Moth

Necessity in death and dying;    
its cold nature a hardened breast  
  of rocks nursing the evolution    
of time and time gone by    
   
Come the coastline in season    
  burning its way through glassy sand    
shattered shards of granules    
  sinking beneath its watery breath    
   
You remembered your mother    
  that Nova Scotian ice-rattle of lungs;    
their spindly pinnacles dissolving    
  under arthritic air brittle with bone    
   
You sit, serenading a seal    
  its interest lacking in salvation of self;    
the bellowing hymn reverberating    
  the chorus of your throated larynx    
   
Where there was wood came moss    
  steal came rust, planktons suckling    
brine from the underbelly of boats    
and silver, silver everywhere you looked:    
   
the sea tolling as melted molten;    
  fish houses glistening intestinal remains;    
ramps ribbed with codden scales    
  all the color lining clouds;    
   
deep shadows suspended overhead    
  absorbing dark secrets into their womb    
spilling when too bloated to carry further  
as human burdens dredging truth    
   
Perhaps unwanted knowledge    
  stillbirthed before its time    
to burgeoning lives unwilling to learn    
or accept alteration as a peripheral term    
   
But you observed from the start    
  beauty in a changling death    
glory in the art of aging    
that some knowledge, somewhere    
   
  would finally explain if you sang. . .  
or looked just a little bit harder    
~    
 
 
Inspiration  
 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52192/at-the-fishhouses
 
#ElizabethBishop

Oil-ladened landscape  
  atop a filthy plot of concrete -    
its native inhabitants        
      connoisseurs of grease;    
their laborious toil rotates    
   lubricating worldly wheels    
of cadillac sevilles and corvettes          
          
You sought, found life beyond globular       
  molds of oil saturating cracks        
across a dirty reality check;        
  Texas crude bubbling up, black gold --        
    except for the blue collar coveralls        
stained with its blood            
         
   A crocheted doily, red begonia          
or, perhaps it was orange, autumnal        
  burnt sienna complementing
worn comic books fingerprinting  
  each grease monkey attending        
   this kindred career center          
         
Your camel cigarette ashen, astutely      
observing - ESSO-SO-SO-SO-ING          
  the burgeoning pearl        
within an otherwise worthless oyster
dredged from a contaminated sea          
  of commercialism:          
         
   LO-LO-LO-LOVE        
       and family          
~        
         
Inspiration:  
 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52193/filling-station  
 
#ElizabethBishop

Alabaster bones reflect    
 warmth of an obscure orb;    
their pallid membrane dormant    
  - lacklustre of any verdure      
     
Winter pursues first green    
  as gold,  but she escapes -    
  her youthful diligence scattering    
a surplus of burgeoning buds    
in her wake;    
     
tiny nubs, hardened as pearl-    
   moist, glistening in halflight      
of compressed dew      
     
I read once about Spring in Ohio;    
the belly of a tulip engorged with snow    
  a slow death of sharp frost    
masticating her laden ovary black      
     
But still they come, bursting forth;    
  an underworld of army rising up    
- stamens puncturing air, uninhibited    
by the thick, cold skin of fog      
     
Soon, hills will be kaleidoscopic;    
  prismed in our tumbling irises      
  - dark insects buttercupped      
  white Bradfords and Cherry pinks    
     
Crusading Dogwoods bearing a Cross;      
Templars in a holy rite by birth      
   exalting the equinox;      
Knighting mangey landscapes      
  - dampened dull from wind and ice -    
with fervent love and life;    
     
Earth becomes a breeding ground      
  -species bask in cyclic light-    
mankind pauses hatred and strife    
  if just for a second in time    
     
Their song clear: "Wake up!      
Wake up and dance!";    
their message strong: "We survived!    
     
We survived again!"    
~    
     
     
#ElizabethBishop    
 

The pot-belly stove was sultry with warmth
 its iron-embered eyes dissipating
as we dressed in our old country kitchen
  bleakly confined on that cold winter morn;
our stomachs rumbled as gangs from dire lack
our fieriness made frigid by icy drafts
 
Sly wooden cracks coerced the drafts
  seducing the last of our warmth;
bare cupboards creaked with bitter lack
  their miserly contents dissipating;
hope worked despite that wintry morn
miracles in our old country kitchen

We scoured that desolate country kitchen
  for curtain or cloth to dissuade the drafts -
coffee and crumb to cook that stark morn
  to quell our hunger and dwindling warmth;
prayed miracles without dissipating
for a meal despite provisional lack

Forecast predicted provisional lack
  out windows of the old country kitchen
the wind increased without dissipating
  and threadbare cloth was overcome by drafts;
our cheeks were reddened by little warmth
on that hypothermic Saturday morn

Saturday evening mirrored its morn
  as a neighbor knocked to assuage our lack;
brought provisions and coffee for inner warmth
  filled cupboards of our old country kitchen;
our welcoming entry sanctioned drafts
to challenge heat before dissipating

The storm billowed without dissipating
  but we rose on a pristine Sunday morn
the kitchen was cozy sans any drafts
  with n'ere a sign of provisional lack;
we shared miracles in our old country kitchen:
brewed coffee, bread, and increasing warmth

Gelid temps were dissipating to warmth
icy drafts surrendered to meager lack
Sunday morn in our old country kitchen    
~  
   
#ElizabethBishop