Levels Of A Cafe Window
Inside the narrow hall I perceive an opening wall
like a 2-D painting with scattered shapes and shadow
real as bricks or a Lasgaux cave
or icons glittering gold mosaic shards across a frieze
atop tall columns Gothic, Romanesque now seized
by black and white Art Deco mirrors,
vased and architected
things.
Original seeing before the depth of understanding
before the holographic rendering…
where all sides are one,
I face the trunk, then see the tail and convex gut.
All seeing, all knowing in retrospect.
Ah vision, blind illusion is photographically still.
Outside the windowglass, my ears protected
from the sound of sky and wind
and passing flights of geese,
just then, a man walks left to right.
Halfway through the sun’s light he splits in two,
and one beam bounces off his chest
one part hides from view
like a magic trick magician’s use to fool me and you.
But motion makes him more than flat, in fact
he becomes a silent film,
a replication of belief
in substance
in light
where petty algorithms of slight
appear.
MR. POTATOE HEAD
It is a pity that the knowledge came at last
as I gaze upon my distant past.
Earth’s young lined up to come and prosper from the time
when nine-tenths of the population
solidify the lessons learned in half the time.
Like a train from Penn Station’s underground
exiting the tunnel at the speed of sound
they found the key, the we, the profound seeing,
the moving stats from A to B.
What happened to me?
I see a woman sitting in her seat
she seems complete, slender,
tall if on her feet.
Yet as she stands her torso widens
at her hips and thighs,
her legs are shortened and her gait was
forward-leaning from her waistband.
What happened to her?
How did she get to be composite,
not personality, but body parts that seemed as one
but came instead as three?
I marvel at the disarrangement knowing all I see
is just the play of energy for my fun amusement.
Copyright Mary LaForge
https://howiescaped.com/about/
Thoughts, readers?
What's your favorite line, stanza or poem?
Image credits: Pixabay.com
My favorite line?
ReplyDelete"But motion makes him more than flat, in fact he becomes a silent film, a replication of belief in substance in light
where petty algorithms of slight appear."
Thanks for sharing, Jen. You definitely have a knack for this. :) Happy Poetry Month!
Thanks, Karen. The skill belongs to Mary, who wrote the poem. :-) Enjoy your weekend...
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