if I could

If I could
I would write a poem
that paints a picture
that says a thousand words
in less than that.

– matt at shadow of iris

faces

We don’t understand faces any longer
we don’t understand attraction
back then, time was
when life was harsh
physically
it took a toll
you were out there in it
meshing with it
and the cold hurt
two much smoothness frightened us
but a rough, worn face
a face that could take it all in
and keep it
then still move on
that was a face that reassured
so back then
everyone wanted a face like that
yet now the biggest concern
is knowing when and how to smile
to show you’re not so dumb
and that older face
has gone out of style
everyone’s afraid
they don’t quite fit in
and it shows in their faces.

– matt at shadow of iris

speak in dreams

Speak in dreams
every word a picture
iconography
a visual collage
that tells you a secret
you can never quite
hear.

– matt at shadow of iris

gears and time

Rotating machines
with cut teeth meshing
going round and round
inside my head.

Time moving;
some say it’s a river
flowing endlessly to the sea
but I think it moves diagonally
across corners catty
and in and out of cul-de-sacs.

Two gears working in tandem
creating a transmission
that yields a mechanical advantage,
a simple machine.

Time is a funny thing;
sitting alone in my own reveries
I’m certain it has reversed,
I’m growing younger by the minute
until I am a small child in my room
scared of the dark
and too afraid to scream.

The teeth move
each one falling
into the next
a perfect harmony;
this is the meshing,
each gear
feeding off the other.

Entropy works against all things,
we are unwinding
like a curled spring bouncing out
in slow motion
a twirl in the dust creating
an infinity of forms
here one moment
gone the next
insubstantial mirages
fading fast.

A simple disk
teeth projecting radially,
the edge of each tooth
straight and aligned;
I’m flying away from
the axis of rotation
and I can’t get back.

Enthralled by
the movement of time;
watching the hand on a clock
as it clicks off each second
and trying to fathom
what happens
in between each tick.

A refinement,
the leading edges of the teeth
no longer parallel
to the axis of rotation;
instead, set at an angle
making a crossed orientation
possible, but only
if you can hold on.

Time is different
when you’ve no watch or clock
to tell you how to count
each passing moment;
time is different
when you stand out
in the forest
at the break of dawn
and watch
as the sun streams
through the wildlife
highlighting the fresh dew
on each spreading leaf,
the sound of birds
suddenly going aflutter
and sonorously crying
at the coming light.

A rack is a toothed bar,
a sector gear
with an infinitely large radius
of curvature;
meshed with a pinion
rotation is converted
into left and right
motion yielding direction.

A tiny bud on a tree
sprouting out
a small curled stem
unfurling into a large
flapping leaf
covered crisscross
in an intricate pattern
of circuits and passages
taking in energy
and feeding its mother
all summer long
under a hot sun
and then as the air cools
gradually wilting
first red, next brown
then gently letting go
fluttering to the ground
and waiting under ice and snow
until again when the heat comes
to be taken by a bird
slightly torn, but back into the tree
part of a nest
holding eggs that give way
to small feathering birds
that finally fly off
leaving you to slowly fade
back into the dust
from which you came.

– matt at shadow of iris

better to be

Better to be
a fly in the ointment
than
a cog in the machine.

– matt at shadow of iris