Dim sum theory

Since we rely on
past tenses
what sets the precedence
for our need of future sense?
Are we simply implying
some specific inevitable
consequence of
holding substance in time,
situated precisely 

where we put it?

What is the range
that our light casts
minus the projected
angle of shadow
from where you stand?

Could you confidently predict
the oncoming speed of
karmic inflation
in the reflection
or overall direction
of impending reproach?

Should one be wary
or Leavitt alone?
Most significantly,
is the aura of this
particulate curiosity
blue or beaming red?

Perhaps we pretend
its more purple or white,
illuminating opalesce.

A pearl of galaxy.
Then, postulate that the
overarching circumference
by a slice of antimatter movement
from a darkspace pin-point
to an extrapolated lightime theory
balanced even upon a string
what then?

It seems simple, really.

Symmetrically,
ones pulse increases
the closer one comes
to their relative space
and in one meteoric mortality
contains a multiverse of many
excited parallaxes on a plane.
At least, in a singular
variant, it appeared
that way,  time after time,
relative to hindsight
or about one lifeyear away.



Image By NASA, ESA and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Date taken: 15 July 2009
Description: "The (above) image reveals a small region inside the massive globular cluster Omega Centauri, which boasts nearly 10 million stars. Globular clusters, ancient swarms of stars united by gravity, are almost as old as our Milky Way galaxy. The stars in Omega Centauri are between 10 billion and 12 billion years old. The cluster lies about 16 000 light-years from Earth."

Water bearer

The gargoyle has a better

vantage point,

which explains the smirk.

Tho' he'll never tell

what goes on

over our heads,

while we lie

in bed

wandering in dreams

it seems...

'Twas Medusa that said,

Look at me, wait right here for me,

I will give you eternity-

and after a while

of peering at the gargoyles smile

clear as day

the words

came dripping out,

Try

first

to be happy

as you are

just in case 

this is your final face,

and then it began

to rain again. 

Image By Patchy at de.wikipedia (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To know and not show

I have a little crimson rage

who gathers his little demi-gods 

inciting a violent riot

assembled in order

to exact 

his welled-up wrath.

His rants and blames

sharply

backed up by 

observable trajectory

aimed and arched for the heart.

You missed you fool.

Penetrating rampage,

the bull sees red and enacts

his death charge

allegedly, no more time

to explain.

Veins bulge, blood boils, 

frothing at the surface.

The hide and skin

sizzling volcanic 

and tectonic.

Flying plates,

slamming doors, 

shattering windows,

shards skim

a schism.

Under his direction,

beneath falling debris, 

buried under all sense

of which way is up.

Ungrounded accusations,

underhanded maneuvers

defy gravity, suspended;

a salve of dali 

makes sense.

The Truth 

will always sink 

(in).

Image of drawing by By Julio Ruelas (1870 - 1907) (Mexican) (Painter, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Glimmering See

There is something I need to say but I simply cannot seem to do more than cross out not the way to say, how to phrase a blind beacon, a muted murmur translated subject, object
to say exactly
everything together
by letters as one
Force what it is, stab at it with a pen, draw it out like language, hone out the sharpest point, push it forward like blowing your nose, or even better sneeze it
when it feels like sex
you will know you nailed it
and that is worth it
freely, better than giving up or saying shoulda, or mistaking desire for a dream and doing what one shoulda-for some one else's cause, affecting none, be cause was lost on you, charitable lending of your ear listens to the echo for future gains of generations, all ways
that is your legacy
shining star in flight
will fall silently
orchestrated in a way that you listen to every wrinkle in time waiting for your name, miss taken with the world, waiting on a line.



Image by Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis (1875-1911) SILENCE [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Poem form Haibun experiment. 

Tide & True

The ebb and flow of tricky desire

peaking on crests

crashing loud and rolling calm

the horizon line wearies the eyes

taking in forever

a panoramic view

a scene in a moment with you.

Trudging against rocky seas

tip-toeing on the glassy surface

touching the liquid mirror

and licking the salt

of savory endings.

What does a wave want

more than release?

To rise and become more

than itself.

A glimpse of glistening face

in a marine metropolis

under the melting sky

gathering all the glow

and casting it back

in a reflection of the

whole whirled.

Image by By Amada44 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Your Gues(t)s

There,
where you are
I can see me
being shown
around by you
native trees and path
ways you cross
while I notice
the shade of the sky
unable to grasp
the name
the word
the color
or any delicate phrase
to turn
to say
the way the crisp air
nibbles on my nose
before piercing my ear
lobes with sugar frosted
sentiments thick with lust
lingering over us
like clouds
getting there
some time
where ever
There
is.



Image by Carl Moll, watercolor c. 1901-1902, Stroll in the gardens of Votivkirche, Vienna [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Just take a chance

The games we play

occupy our attention,

give us chance,

to entertain and refrain us

from certainties. We gamble

to participate in our fate

in the end, the outcome,

the odds

on us, against loss.

We leverage the inevitable,

predict the unfathomable

and recognize our own home range,

stable-steady,

gait in the headlong stride

of the dark horse.

-just to see-

We dance with destiny

then trip on our own shod

limbs that lead to

breaking those lucky legs

and just chalk it up to the chance

we lost.

Image is of a wood engraving by W.L. Sheppard (drawn by W.B. Meyers), Harpers Weekly October 1870, Betting on the Favorite.

Best Bend Forward

By bend and nose
by eyes and toes

we can only
go a head
of ourselves
instead

of looking up
stopping to stoop
and smell a beauty
that eyes cannot spell

what others don't see
what we cannot tell
about the roses in your past
kneeling eyes downcast

By not being Here
By smelling your own Fear.



Image of painting by John William Waterhouse [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, The Soul of a Rose, 1908.

Size Matters

How big is an idea?

People have said the internet was HUGE-

I haven’t seen it

with my own eyes, it could be all lies

like conspiracy and particle theories.

I know some HOPES are grander than others.

And I’ve carried some burdens bigger than a bus-

but I think that most people care less

about microscopic entities that they cannot see

or things that happen too slowly…

Have you ever stood

barefoot in the shoreline

Feet in the foam? If so, you know,

water always wins The Sands of Time.

Teamed together they make us pearls

of wisdom, bioluminescence,

a light within that begins

when one Believes

without sight

a tiny wish, a photon, a want to

that turns with light into a neutrino

that gets excited and becomes an electron

before any quarks form.

I think ideas matter,

stemming from a soft grey area...

And then there was light!

And then Atom,

and then we gain momentum,

molecule by molecule,

we are busy making molehills.

So blood is thicker than water,

and the homo sapiens denser than air-

I swear I saw a flying fear,

and my dear

it was GARGANTUAN!

Just like that GIANT ego, those

greenish, meanish miasmas

that all seem and smell the same.

So many slippery minuscule ideas,

evaporating into invisible shame,

hoping to erase your name

in the sand, 

eroding where you think 

you stand.

Image of Sea Wall at Bald Head Cliff, York, Maine 1901, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Innate Instability

Madness is

hearing voices.
No, that was my conscience.
Madness is
multiple personalities.
No, I am a caretaker, a writer, a witness in one.
Madness is;
Deep Depression, Soaring Elation, Paralyzing Fear, Boundless Joy.
No, this is the ride we're on.
Madness is
germaphobes and hypochondriacs.
No, there's a pill for that.
Madness is
the noise outside, the silence inside.
No, these are creature comforts.
Madness is
learning and forgetting.
No, practice is process on repeat.
Madness must get easier.
Madness is mostly
living on language.
No, that is poetry.
Madness is
intimately knowing death
while casually living life.
Madness is
arguing with ones self,
And now I'm Mad.

“I'd rather have a free bottle in front of me than a prefrontal lobotomy.”-Tom Waits

Image of painting by Hieronymus Bosch (circa 1450–1516) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Queen of Quirk

You are wise

it is said

better at analogy

You are tender

to all others

rubbed raw inside

You are smart

sometimes it hurts

with knowing

You are creative

making messes into

unfinished mosaics

You are so shy

paranoid of persona

better to be banished

You are pretty

much a pansy on a pedestal

dropping in the hot sun

You are so thoughtful

there's no more room

for empty things

You are nothing special

You are something else

You are finding yourself

lost in the crowd.

Image(s) by Russell Lee [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Crowley beauty pageant October 1938. 

Balancing Banality

It's too early. Only 3:20.

Now I'm late, it's already 4:18. Up. Slippers, blanket, shivers me limber.

Coffee on, kitchen-sink light, electric fireplace on, computer, charge phone, let Smokey in, let Bandit out.

Log in, open tabs, feed cats, get coffee, stir, sip, must pee, wash hands-warm...

Go through stacks on desk, left to right, read, reply, read, save, share, send, read, post, drink coffee.

All done, next?

For daughter waking up, more lights on, TV, News on, make more coffee, write, watch, read.

Poetry, philosophy, physics.

Stop. Take daughter to school. Thoughts…

Kiss. Goodluck on your test! Rah, rah!

More thoughts.

Done? Home? Yes. Next.

Take shower-towel-smells moldy. Hot water hits head, goosebumps.

Get ideas-hurry, hurry, hurry!

Warm soapy shave in fast strokes, lather, rinse, rinse, rinse.

Hurry...what was it...down the drain-

Next. Clothes.

What do I want to look like today? Someone else, for sure.

Preening Takes Way Too Loooonnngg!

Done getting ready for nothing. Next?

Shoot, chores first. Head down. Sleeves up.

Laundry, dishes, straighten, sweep, trash out, beds...8:17. What's for dinner tonight?

Do crossword puzzle, drink green juice. Nourished. Done. Next.

Shoot, where was I? Who was I working on?

Learn, learn, learn. Write, write, write, there-right there

I am, somewhere

aware.

Nope, Stop. Drop it. Head Down.

Pick up daughter, lend her my ears, shoulder, back.

Stroke pretty little fragile ego. All better.

Done. Home? Already? Okay. Next.

More laundry, more dishes, check the mail, bills, bills, bills.

More coffee. Read. Write. Read.

Interruptions-water plants.Done. Next?

Dinner, studying, Jeopardy, read. Think that I should be writing.

Read in bed. Still think that I should be writing.

It's too late. Read.

Escape, wander free!

Oh! There's me-right before I sleep, a peak, the top of

higher consciousness

falls back into the deep...almost

Done for the day

until the next

thing I get to

do over and over

and over until it's all over.

Unless

I look Up and find

it's a brand new day, never

Done before...

but will I notice?

Image By Marc Stone [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1939.

Finding your voice

I've seen it before and

after all,

it only happened once

upon a time well

spent, broke, long ago back

then when 

ever you were told

to speak

easy, think twice before

crossing the line

drive thru and through

a glass looking eye

lid, keep it on, preserves

or jam, like free-style and ad-

liberty to justice for

some reason

a cause and effect of

listening between the 

sheets, three to the wind

and rain and rapt on window

panes in the

riddle me this

one time, one point

bullet in the chamber

hallways that lead

by example how to

do it yourself, dependent free

will to say

what you mean 

and nasty and quick

like, Its My Life

or Death Wish.

Image of painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Veronica Veronese, 1872 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "Se penchant vivement, la Veronica jeta les premières notes sur la feuille vierge. Ensuite elle prit l'archet du violon pour réaliser son rêve; mais avant de décrocher l'instrument suspendu, elle resta quelques instants immobile en écoutant l'oiseau inspirateur, pendant que sa main gauche errait sur les cordes cherchant le motif suprême encore eloigné. C'était le mariage des voix de la nature et de l'âme—l'aube d'une création mystique. / Lettres de Girolamo Ridolfi

[Suddenly leaning forward, the Lady Veronica rapidly wrote the first notes on the virgin page. Then she took the bow of the violin to make her dream reality; but before commencing to play the instrument hanging from her hand, she remained quiet a few moments, listening to the inspiring bird, while her left hand strayed over the strings searching for the supreme melody, still elusive. It was the marriage of the voices of nature and the soul—the dawn of a mystic creation.]"

Panthera poema

Crouching in the shadows

its form blends into the pitch.

Pads perching on pillows,

lightly as an idea as not

to break a thought...

Whose scent fills in the breathing air,

sourcelessly seeping like smoke

with out fire. The spilt perfume vial,

wafting with ripe open stamen

acid breeze that chills your nape.

Of carnal mists and earth dusts,

pores choking on essence

smoking roar that singes

leaves, flashing green torches

smoldering for three days-be four-

Envy eyes curious to find

fresh tracks laid and lining

the way to walk without a 

sound, reason. Knowing 

you know it's there.

Indivisible pre-occupation with you,

incensed and bemused by notions

elusive to all traps set, over-gliding

to terminal reality

true never twice.

I prey the stalking, we share,

means we smell the same.

Image by Singer Ron U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

“...understand the nature of that illustrious vernacular that Dante claims to be tracking down like a perfumed panther, 'whose scent is everywhere but which is nowhere to be seen.' (DVE I, xvi, 1).”**-Umberto Eco (From the Tree to the Labyrinth, p 297, Harvard University Press, 2014).

** “It was thought in the Middle ages that the panther had a richly perfumed breath and left a trace of its passage wherever it had been. But, for the hunters who attempted to trap it, it was practically impossible to locate. So they would smell its perfume but never success in catching it. This explains how the panther became a metaphor for poetry itself.”-Umberto Eco

Close your eyes and blow

Close your eyes and blow

Your wish is my command
The voice would
Beam.
Thy Will Be Done-
would be added
for reassurance and
-brace yourself-here is where
CHANCE (in mighty fine print)
stands
smalland(wedged)
b/w Now and When
what you want(ed)
blows up
to the surface, swerving
amongst chandelier blades
whipping cream
making a breeze
Come and Go around again,
Like karmatic vengance which has
been like you, doing like that
never this now
never this same alike (and again)
selfsame
as wishing thy will
Be come
some one
over there
who Will want
every thing you have
right Now-
for wishes, all ways
(taken for)

granted.

Image by Marjory Collins of Dionne quintuplets, 1940 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Axiomatic

Look both ways.
Don't over do it.
Think before you speak.
Two hands for beginners.
What doesn't make you stronger
(and these)
may be fatal.
It may be
life or death
to learn
what cannot be taught.

Nobody will teach you
that it is (still) true-
You are
you-nique,
you have intrinsic value
beyond axiomatic calculation.
More than enough:
greater than
you give yourself credit for.

Yet you choose to be
(led) blindly,
nothing is never enough,
jumping out on a limb,
and losing grip
on brittle banalities,
broken boughs, evil vows,
twigs of truths
from Adage trees
like these.




Image By Snyder, Frank R. Flickr: Miami U. Libraries - Digital Collections [No restrictions or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sad today, more sorrow tomorrow

Squeezed my eyes so tight

I crimped my nose

trying to seal the heavy drapes

eyelids

the event horizon

line of eyelash hairs

black holes that hope

when

I open-

s  l  o  w  l  y  

to rearrange the world

around me

or just wishing to warp

and disintegrate my reality

I wish to be taken

hostage for a dream

it would seem most simply

escape is what I mean

I find myself thinking

of my keys

prism pavement

welcoming

the open road

to just go

a  w  a  y  

get lost

which I've found

you cannot do 

accidentally

to night 

I fight

gravity

pinned in place

notching another

non event rising day.

Image by Chameleon, via Wikimedia (Public Domain).

Just passing through

You are going to think
I am out of my mind but
sometimes
I pretend I am a tourist
in my town....
Just a traveler passing through
time and place, spacetime and outside
myself.

I examine the flora and fauna,
trees, blades of grass, the dress
of the locals
as though I've never been here before.

I watch the people on the streets, mid-week
converse or casually pass by
with warm smiles
and think it must always be sunny here.

I see dayworkers, most of which
nice enough, don't live here.

The police are all pleasant, people
drive generously,
children are clearly safe
on the streets with all
wheels welcome-
what a world they've made here.

A parade is about to begin,
Homecoming, again.
Art murals on walls,
scenic electric boxes,
cute painted fire hydrants
let no spot
be unbeautified-what a place!

Then I see me
driving around, doing errands,
chores, walking, sitting, reading,
and every time
I think-
It is clear as day,
there is no way 

she is local,
she is not from here.
But look-
she sees me watching, 

she's the only one
aware I'm there.
She smiles,
not like them,
and is clearly miles away.




Image by Robert Payton Reid, 'A summer's daydream' c. 1896 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cockcrow of the crows and a cockatoo

There are city dwelling birds

that are not your common stool pigeons.

The ravens occupy the east

side of the tracks.

The gulls guard the windy west.

On garbage day they all rise early

not for worms in the green box holes-

they know the small fries

are at the bottom of paper bags.

We had a murder

before our pine tree was felled

from illness. Yet, like serial flyers,

they moved to another pine,

preferring needles and sap

to the plethora of palms;

mexican fan, kintia, canary, 

the King and Queen and the Phoenix.

The ravens also get dates,

taking them out to 

happening intersections

and drop them so they 

get cracked by cars,
rolling through

while the fair gulls glide along

bellies filled with stale soft bread-

And I remember good old Fred.

Taken in and taught by those

crows

how to

blend in seamlessly-though he's a cockatoo.

They fly as one flock

rise and cockcrow,

the gulls sneer and squawk.

The city birds are not blind

deaf or dumb, 

winged with wayward choice

The murder

doesn't mind

one more white bird

or a cock or two. 

Image By Liftarn (Traced from Image:Odin's ravens right.PNG) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Doomsday of Dionysus

If it were dreamt
by a brilliant mind
it would be, come
divine prophecy.
And genius was one
prophecy away from lunacy,
we would certainly
believe
in the phantasy.

Time,
we would learn
to stretch a point
into a limber line,
into an affinity
of likeness in light.

The expiration
and expectation
of the End, of our race
of the chase, over-
taken by night
led a long, long the way
by our own
four shadows.

We would cry,
caulk our eyes
and think again
of never
the same tomorrow,
while waking
through the day
four saking 
the dream, imagining control
over (coming) what may (come)
too tired of trying
to rise again.

Unwound
in the pendulums pause
exhausted
all ready
the urge to be done
with desire
hung over our heads.
It never dawned 

Up 

on us
We will
Be come
intoxicated
incinerated
in opta-mystic yellow
when the sun doesn't show.

The divine mind is “…the brilliant darkness of a hidden silence.”-Dionysus

Image from Splendor Solis c. 1582 (Germany), [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Flame thrower

The children were called Embers
The parents roaring Flames
and in old age they All
became Coals.

Consumers only content
and subdued when all fuel
has been spent, lying low
until rekindled
into reaction
by a taunting breeze.

Always reaching
Up
for more
while leeching all the colors
and converting it into
expendable heat.

Dancing on destruction,
memories bridging by a spark,
the arc spans its dire
detonation
as quick as a wick
lying
next to another already lit.

Together the family,
kindling flames,
carry their torches
and blames. Sterno
for their kindred Inferno.




Image flame match strike, full color spectrum [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

X Marks the Classism

The night people were quiet and blue.
The day humans fluttered, clashed and clanged.
They never crossed paths.

The winter ones were strong and leathery,
the summer selection was worn and weathered.
Spring would come around
and clear the scene.
Autumn arrived bearing gifts in gads
of epoch proportion.

Meanwhile-
Above, watched over want
Below, held forts in need
None ventured in between.

It had been seen once
long ago, a fleet
was shipped to second
check, the message never
sent to Here.

All told of a peek
over there
where
passers by
wave and meet
upon approaching
the vanishing middle
lies a broken chain
where it was said
Time told them
Everything is different
Now.





Image By Daderot  [Public domain], Astrononmical Calendar, Yunnan, China via Wikimedia Commons.

Ether Between (or a part)

The known is seen
when the pine cones breathe
even severed and separate,
opening in the sun as though
still
a flower.

And about the rainbow
trout, whose beating heart
placed in my hands
after it had been filleted
and gutted, throbbing
as though 

despite this piercing act
that still
held power.

The birds neck cranes
before it snaps
limp, little legs stiff
yet it is an act, to relax
the cat only to escape
still
prey
to become devoured.

While a chicken,
it is well known,
hurries for pecking order
placement though far
removed from body.
It runs frantically,
unable to keep its head
still
it cannot see.

The sudden shudder
a desperate gasp,
noticing the sky,
a place to ponder, a rest stop,
a moments notice pends
on eternity, the energy
still
suspended and supposing
nobody will notice
what you do not have.




Image by Valentine Cameron Prinsep c. 1897 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ben Thare II

Been there, have you?
Done that, did you?
Why (not) bother
Practice make (less than) perfect
pitch a no-hitter-you must
(pay) Play to win
dry runs and walk-throughs
for the Final (test only)
of Faith and aversion
to Failure who
(makes) grades
and Frames
nth degrees
Proudly
Been meaning
to askew
how it (all)
Went
Wrong all along
I thought We
were straight?



Image by Édouard Manet [Public domain], In the Conservatory, 1879 via Wikimedia Commons.

Weakday Wether

On a cool lilac late afternoon
high stratus pass over
aloof and sparse.
The sea shimmers silver
reflecting rosy cloud belly's,
bodies move slow and deliberate,
leaden legs with distant gazes
heavy under hanging haze
our orbit blurs the way
of Monday into grey Tuesday.
The way the moody matter may
flux and such and such a way.
January jumped on fragile February,
leaping on faith,
landing on elsewhere.
Doing days in oscillation
wether
weakly such as;
Mundayne,
Chooseway,
Mostnessday,
Hersday,
and fridaylie,
Why(not)play.
Alternately,
try,
calling each day
new instead of namely
what you always knew.




Image By Pseudopanax at en.wikipedia (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Driving Ms. Crazy

Push-push-push

the words away-

Not Now, I'm driving-

Go Away, I say

to some voice who speaks 

whenever cotton choosing

time it strikes, 

fancy that

despite the 

distraction and cost,

I lose

my place

I will remember that 

later

I think

and try to trace

that thought I thought

I knew-flew

out the cracked window 

and is stuck back in traffic...

A bump in the grind

passed over like a pothole

or just a poorly patched-

over up poem. 

Image from 1902 publication, 'Motors and Motor-driving' by Alfred Charles William Harmsworth.

A novel nosh

Hungry for something good to read,
(a never ending need)
my nose went sniffing over the shelves
seeking something scrumptious-
after my last four hundred page meal
I simply wanted maybe
a metaphor more,
another piece of poetic prose
to satisfy my insatiable nose
for narrative
(like food, how I live).

So I crack open a new
book of morsels,
after reading the back ingredients
briefly-advertising its
nutritional value.
I put my fingertip in it
and get more than a lyrical lick
or a great idea for a story-
this one is tough to chew
on, a grisly allegory
about a girl and a black flower
but the middle is missing...

Then the next one I choose
is about a fantastical mythical 
rabid Time eater-
then I learn it is really about
an avid reader.
Like a bad nut, the taste
can only be replaced
by something yummy and fabulist,
like a sweet and savory fable...

So I grab a good old classic
about some animals on a farm
and take a seat at the kitchen table-
not quite considered a fairy tale
but unprocessed and easier to digest
than that hormone injected one
with the wicked white whale.



Image of painting by Jehan Georges Vibert, The committee on moral books, 1866 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Look it up

Label and Libel

are one i away from the

same definition.

published 1/9/16.
Image Warpath tobacco label, c. 1885 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sponge Rob and Kitty Pants

From the East, golden light pours out over the
sleepy soppy treetops.
The raw fence slats all smoke in the sultry sun
after a rough night of being naked and exposed,
unstained as of Yet.
Loitering lumberly after the storm,
the weathering of wrinkled wood
lining up swollen.

The injured cat laps the rays up
like this warm milk from my fingertip.
He has been hurt again,
he is healing in the soft morning sun,
and smiles like Buddha or Krishna,
with milk on his chin.

The topaz sky looks newly buffed
and polished, it holds no dark veins today.
Offering up another chance
to dry out and soak it all in a day.
Porous (Poor us), all stormy moods have been washed
away, now suede-ing softly

in the strong dawn honeyed sun.



Image By Photos Public Domain [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Enigmatically Silly

Why aren't riddles called puzzles,

and puzzles called logic twisters?

I don't know.

The math always tries to blend in

with the words

but blurs it all for me.

Teasing my brain is better than my hair,

I guess,

but I am often wrong

Rhetorically,

metaphorically

brain building blitzes

that run by you when you're looking

literally,

even spelled out

like a seven letter word

-(minus two letters)

equals eight,

more than its own weight.

See, it discombobulates

and misstates and

calls this a ball?

I figured it's more like a cold,

which can be caught

but not tossed (out)

with the enigma.

Image By Formanavt (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Little Ms. Pants on Fire

My black jacket with the fur-rimmed hood
whispered in my ear yesterday,
that one day
we will go live in the snow.
Although, we don't talk much,
since I live near (warm) San Diego
(now) it has been cold
so we've been friendly lately.
Then, when
I was having dinner
with a lemon verbena candle
the other night, thyme on the table
I read something interesting,
which actually gave me quite a fright-
but the candle jumped in and uttered a spark,
'You wont die in the dark-
and it wont be from fire,
those words were written by a liar!
Tho', idle fears, I have years and
I don't necessarily think so-
acrophobia,  arachnophobia and pyromania.
Fear, Love and Webs, scary things
to get tangled in.
To things I harbor like hobos
And as I begin to listen in
to assorted precocious objects,
threadbare trinkets and baubles that pop
I harbor like lazy houseguests,
I still hear the ring of fear
in the old quaking clock
five-fifty-five-tic-tock
five-fifty-five-tock-tic
I was told
this fateful mortal time
I accommodate and appropriate,
still chimes in my head.
My watch has no comment,

it's face, expressionless
and lays like a remora, leech.
I proceed  with today anyway

as though I too, 

have no need to know
such sagacious

miscellaneous things

such as where, and when, by how

I will die, not now

from animated things with no eyes
who see my future
and how it
lies. 

Composed 1/18/16.

Image by By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Flash flood

On the day of Epiphany

the sky floated dirty grey sponges,

called storm clouds by some

which wrench and wring overhead

my tin box called a truck

for the second after-

noon, awaiting the bell, it begins to flood.

El Niño, they all point, name, and blame-

not the children though, who don't know

him yet and squeal at the thunder in de-

light-ning, claps all around.

An ominous sound to

a sitting truck, quaking the floorboards rumble,

but I am grounded, in technical terms.

Rivers run along the roads,

gurgling gutters are choking

on the leaves and it is okay,

I had nothing to say today,

anyway. Listening to the lights

blur and sob, struck dark as night

at two-until a conflicting flash, a

sneaking streak, the epiphany speaks,

Time is not everything.

The wind is whipping

laterally, bending palms

like cracking knuckles

lumber joints that prefer

dancing with Saint Ana and yet

a seasonal storm is all winter needs

to feel right

on Time...

Pouring my heart out into the rain,

watching all my words spool and eddy

washing away, skipping over school

and strangle the drain

plundering prudence

scatter the slated soggy students.

Composed 1/7/16.

Image by By Eliud Echevarria (This image is from the FEMA Photo Library.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.