These words have no form;
they are not here.
What you see, you don’t.
What your think, you are wrong.
Ones and zeros or zeros and ones,
No matter their order,
no matter their matter,
they can be formed or unformed
as you think proper, descent, or.
© rl busséll 2018
As You Think wipeout
He lay bound,
bound tightly, red cord thrice wound,
neatly tied with flourish; found
his life pooled round,
pooled round rock, stand and ground.
Turtle-dove swiftly beats
wings in frightened fleets.
Caged by poor reed,
poor song, poor lead.
Little lamb beheld
holiest by holy held;
saw with faith,
faith fulfilled.
Then his life was spilled.
Hard and poor
hands held forth,
with fluttering heart,
fluttering wing.
Ephod took and held high,
then with holy hands
spilled heart upon the rock,
upon the stone,
upon that ancient stone so newly hewn.
Then infinite infant eyes
saw Rachel where she lies.
© rl busséll 2018
Turtle Dove sketch © rl busséll 2018
Remember light splayed against the night;
Etchings, a hundred guilder strong;
Men all gathered round death’s blight,
bright in deaths’ dying song.
Remember too, a side with piercéd wound
and arms outstretched in loves’ embrace.
Never forget the sponge held ‘loft to swooned;
Dagger-long swiftly slicing flesh in grace;
The sounding song upon the cobbled stone;
Victory had by him who wasn’t trundled home.
Rabbi is the son of man off his throne,
instead of grasping onto airy home.
Judge he silent stone, sand and mustard seed.
Now is heard joyous cries from all the freed.
Inspired by Rembrandt’s Hundred Guilder Etching
© rl busséll 2018
Oil on paper 12″ x 12″ Panel 02 of 37 after Rembrandt’s “Hundred Guilder” etching
Sit by the sounding sea.
See the clouds as they whisper,
whisper, loud and quiet things.
Things that you dare not ponder.
Ponder, instead, your hand as it traces,
traces o’er lovely mountains tipped in rose;
risings and fallings n’er seen by other eyes;
ayes, yeas and yeses scratched in the sand.
© rl busséll 2018
The cry of the crow mauls the dawn
tearing holes in the morning light,
as the silent snow settles on the day.
© rl busséll 2018
The man-of-war floats.
in the soft cool air.
His fingers graze
leaf topped trees.
Their life slowly
withers,
leaving,
only brown hard death.
© rlbusséll 2018
a tree in the snow tendrils from the sky
The shriven tree shivered for want.
Lifting lissome limbs t’ward grey cold sky,
she remembered new hands, new thorns
and old days without tears or torn and weeping ground.
All the days that could have been. Lost. Unknown.
branch of a tree with fruit
© rl busséll 2018
I get lost in the darkness of the day;
my wayward heart leads me astray.
This labyrinth cannot my minotaur contain,
and yet I strain, strain against the unyielding chain.
This herculean task I fail day to day;
my beast I never slay.
© rl busséll 2018
Minotaur © rl busséll 2018
Camels still,
still remember the water held,
held on shoulder, strong and well.
Well, deep and long.
Long their song. For that water, still,
is passed from well to urn and urn to tongue.
Still is that story sung,
in dromedary’s garbled tongue.
Of fair lady, she, so young,
and servant’s thirsting tongue,
and bangles-dangles strung
and nations, just begun.
You may think this all far-flung,
but I heard it while among,
among two camels slung.
Heard it, in their garbled tongue,
“angles-angles ung”.
Heard it while I hung,
tween two camels slung.
Heard it sloshing in their humps.
Heard it while twas sung
from old to young.
And if you listen strong,
you too may hear
what their ancients sung
in their garbled tongue.
“angles-angles ung”.
© rl busséll 2018
For Wendy, who loves camels.
camel © rl busséll 2018
Like the whirligig, she’s
trying to capture the wind.
Cervantes was never her friend.
Catching her breath, she spins
round again, then descends,
and tilting t’ward earth
she makes amends,
then begins,
again.
© rl busséll 2018
a sketch of Don Quixote
rl busséll — poet 
You must be logged in to post a comment.