Ripples of rhyme

There were poems in there...
A whole slew.

Now all I hear is a faint
whisper of you.

The pond is still
from over-fishing.

I have no more pennies
for poetic wishing.

The water waits
without reflection...






Photo By NPS Photo [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Muffled cries in the marine layer

Everything comes in waves.
Everything that matters
will remain but moved.
Droplets as dew travel
covertly along these liquid lines
where air and water are harmonized
and expressed as external forces
weaving winds.

Victims of our voices;
cliffs conduct the falls,
reefs set the pitch,
reflections in the glass face(s)
blink back sharp silver lights
tossing frothy stinging beads
and foaming at the rabid lips.

The water was left wild.
The sand shows where steps,
the lines, the lyrics, the chorus
soothe all savages, beckons all beasts,
who seek definitive ends
in horizons.

The sirens wail while
time takes its toll in salt
and lets the rest settle.
Absorbed and absolved
in a sea of selflessness.


Image By Pogobuschel (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Paltry pantry

Opinions are like canned goods;
I have found
none mind donating
some of their supply-
sealed potential in
security stackable stock
piled and lined up but inedible
without the proper cutting tool.

My grandfather ran
American Canning Company
across the great pacific railways
back in the good ol' days;

which goes to show
not everything keeps
nor is good to preserve
for all ages.

Do not forget, they suggest

dents and dings
are deadly defects, flaws
in this manufactured
metallic mix,
with an added bias of botulism.

Yum.
When you swallow,
you will know
its poison
by the after taste.

As for opinions,
fresh is always better.





Image By Daniels, Gene, photographer, Photographer (NARA record: 8463941) (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Positively pessimistic

Is it easier to accept all good things
must reach their end
than the bad times
that meet this same demise
because we repel
what its worth,
reject positives,
deflect compliments,
to maintain our polarity
or sense of balance
diametrically positioned
in the middle of the mundane
generally relative
to the negative subjective
circles we spin,
where we begin
pessimism is always possible.



Photo By OSU Special Collections & Archives : 1949  (first day of school),[No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two-hundred proof

In distilled-the man
she loved drank their life away
this was Truth-in part.





Image by Hill & Adamson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

It is Uni-verse-all

It is not enough

we must make more

it feels slipping through

air-we grasp at wildly

but remain empty handed.

It is up to us

who know

how it all goes away

shown in the sky

by the expansion of our

space-

the distance between us grows

evermore.

It is easy to ignore

something missing

never noticed before

gone.

It is more than

we can handle;

so small

we were never meant to see,

so vast

we could not ever fathom

its depths entirely.

It is when we fall

our eyes catch

the brilliant flame

and make a wish

for more.

Photo credit: By NASA; uploaded by User:Dipankan001. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
Photo details:

English: Resembling looming rain clouds on a stormy day, dark lanes of dust crisscross the giant elliptical galaxy Centaurus A.

Hubble's panchromatic vision, stretching from ultraviolet through near-infrared wavelengths, reveals the vibrant glow of young, blue star clusters and a glimpse into regions normally obscured by the dust.

The warped shape of Centaurus A's disk of gas and dust is evidence for a past collision and merger with another galaxy. The resulting shockwaves cause hydrogen gas clouds to compress, triggering a firestorm of new star formation. These are visible in the red patches in this Hubble close-up.

At a distance of just over 11 million light-years, Centaurus A contains the closest active galactic nucleus to Earth. The center is home for a supermassive black hole that ejects jets of high-speed gas into space, but neither the supermassive black hole nor the jets are visible in this image.

This image was taken in July 2010 with Hubble's Wide Field Camera 3.

Escher the MC

From up here
you can tell where you are
by referencing a point
from the angles and eaves,
the director boomed in-
action, following my line
Alice watches her head
so she misses the low
hang-over and re-echoes
shown here as shadows
shaking in the corners.

It's all the same, anywhere
you begin, there is no easy out.

Canvas the scene, he challenges
placement and position for Pandora
in an artists annex, up in the Atticus
where the finches have nested,
the view is the same slanted
song with its linear lyrics,
stacked and overlapping
shingles, evermans jingles
trading timberline
for roofscapes
envisioned as eternity.

It's all the same anyway
you look at it.




Photo by Danilo Škofič, taken 2/10/1961 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(The) Professor New

“Art is how we see the world”

she said, and it was

pure poetry precisely
made New

by the way she looked

at exactly what she expected

to see, in awe

of (extra) ordinary beauty

and its blinding

ability to blend

Me to You

Grasping at Ghosts

“Imagination like electricity,”

he responded,

shocked at his own

physic-all-poetic-kinetic-energy.







Image of painting by Theo van Doesburg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Minute drops

The first train blares its horn
ripping thru the quiet town
at five:eighteen
in lieu of the alarm clock
that ran slow-
it goes to show...

Kicking up dust and sand,
it may take some time
for the eyes to adjust
to light rays
lasering the pupil
shrinks as day
cracks the ceiling
wide open.

It smells distinctly like rain
that none saw coming
since there were no puddles
to prove it.

Tho the tracks
were both still
warm to the touch,
and the mist counts
as precipitation.

It adds up over time,
and passes the miles.
Blurring the light infinitesimal
strewn across space
in broad strokes.
Time keeps losing its place
on the train of thought,
while the whistle blows
such primitive perceptions
as these right
outside the window.

Crystal beads streak
backwards behind the ears
as memories
dew
condense and transport us
while wide awake
but a little late.


Painting by J. M. W. Turner, pre 1844 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Geocentric gluttony

The body is a satellite,
it probes the air around
taking in
bits and streams, intervals
in waves two miles per second
perpetually.

Its sensors are set
on hyper-sensitive,
it blinks and thinks
oft from aloft,
flashing reflections
for frozen photos
at shuddering speeds.

Collecting all inertial information,
which is then converted
upside-down
into mirror images larger
than they may seem.

Orbitally over and over obituary,
that last time around-
when all the light hits just right
for focusing fractally...

-Halo-

By and bye,
balance comes alone
as attitude control.

A hovering soul,
holding a body in space
that filter feeds on forces
consuming raw data
for a sensual feast
with a heavy tip
for the payload.



Image by NASA and originally uploaded to wikipedia by Reubenbarton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A taste of some summer

Stretched high
that unspeckled summer sky
in periwinkle blue, not new this
sea turtles neck nudges out in
summer sweater suits for bathing
out of doors,
forever and a day
to summers naked sway.

Coastline coconut and stewing seaweed;
this nereocystis inundates and permeates
in the roast of the midday sun and sea
crabs sidle along the tropic of Cancer.

In peach fuzz glee, the caterpillars
leglessly free and by happily hatched
plans, musts still wet
behind their neon wings.

Exuding beads of crystal saline
skin that shines, bronze and blonde
lemonade hair behind slathered screens
glistening with gold plates.

Every body mingles in the lazy
couldn't care air that is now
carrying charcoal, a rite sign of
summery incense and cannibal ecstasy.
Lust served raw and seasoned,
to whet craving appetites
savory a la summer mode.

Aflame we sear 

in ember days

while Venus blinks
the blues away.




Painting By Niels Frederik Schiøttz-Jensen,  (1855–1941) [Public domain], c. 1913via Wikimedia Commons.

Extremes

The sun peaks over
still with heavy lids.
On the other side,
the moon is full
of light-ness;
all the while,
Venus winks
at her valiant exposure
in longing along the same
celestial sphere,
wanting the words
to sync in solstice.



Photo credit: me (taken 6/20/16)

What goes up?

In response: it is unpredictable
Whose to say-
They know-
As though tempted to laugh aloud
in the face of morose climes, and
inhale all, indiscriminately.
Felt a scream well up,
savored its aftertaste like a wave
wash over.
Neutralized and
thought long about taking a trip
anywhere away without aim
now
the timing is never right.

What's wrong?
They say that's not like you-
And it is positively not attractive-
you couldn't agree more.
As a tiny and compliant
particle of the whole
that changes matters,
reactively
by the slightest exposure
to radiant negative energy
and bursts into nothing again.
You'll see,
it always works out in the end.







Image credit via Wikipedia, postcard series, The Dream of Flight.

Morning brew

The curtains tickle cool and
I get the impression crisply,
while I can, spots all separate,
the symphony tunes each section,
from deep purple set on dusty rose
to ashen greys settled on lazy lilac
unfolding the old periwinkle sheet
low-lit and pink pill speckled
as though white was never needed
in dawn's steeping sky
tweaking the tune of day
in the background.




Painting By Unknown artist – Artist [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Representation

Only artists know
the sky is never painted
wrong, everything goes.





Painting Sky StudyBy Unknown artist – Artist [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

All (of us) men

All men equally;
She is just a he
that is many more than one.







Painting by By Gretchen Woodman Rogers, 1915 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Damsel in distress

When the guards eventually abandoned their posts
this is when, creeping out of overflow,
the words gush forth in a rip current-
coalescing in magnetic links-
weaving white sheets with
brown knots, by her dirty hands;
the escape plan finally hatches
and she knew she would now
let it all out.
Deliberated and free
to mouth the lyrics
all wrong.
She sings them
hums them along
in sweet harmony with self,
knowing all the words
had been mis-taken.






Image of painting by Evelyn De Morgan, Hope in a Prison of Despair (1887) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cool as a coloquillialism

Art is no job
do what you love
and the rest will lead you astray
To Art is human
Thou Art That
I think
therefore

I project
and put out there
the Golden Rule
and a silver bullet ricochets
silence is gilt

words will never hurt
but sorry makes the hurt
go away, they say

don't look back
at the distance that enchants
your view

where dreams come true
when dreams do become
better than you imagined

save for your future, spend wisely
save your wisdom for a rainy day
spend your future, it expires today
experience is the mother of wisdom
wisdom is the child of possibility

Don't be penny wise and pound foolish
count your chickens at the table
a pound of pennies
are thoughts all the same

and endings must come,
good or bad are just
consolations
for you and me
soon to be
ancient art-
i-facts.




Painting by Giovanni Boldini [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

pirahnas

Society needs
pleasure and fear to feed its
lonely appetite.

Photo By Jh12 (Own work) [Public domain], taken at Aquarium of the Americas in 2007 via Wikimedia Commons.

tursiops

smiles remind us
we are not the only ones
Here-Optimistic.




Image National Undersearch Research Program (NURP) Collection Location: Temperate-Tropical Atlantic & Pacific Ocean Photographer: M. Herko Credit: OAR/National Undersea Research Program (NURP).

In the Out Door

Do not believe,
Just Be-Live, Do
Not exist
Just to exit.



















Image By Rosser1954 (Own work) [Public domain], taken 2/21/10 via Wikimedia Commons, Dalmore House front door. 

My right, your left

It all worked out,
                      things, that is,
what are nows
                       are exactly how they
should have been
                       we never needed
to worry and plan
                       all that armament
and added security
                       all for nought
knowing it would be good
                       as the old days
back then when it was
                       too dark to see
ahead or two
                       eyes do nothing
but distract, in fact
                        you made it that way
blindly feeling
                        your way
past
                        ifs
extrasensory gifts
                        finding a fit
and working your way
                        back out.




Image of painting by George Frederic Watts, c. 1886, Hope [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Watering wants

Starting with a seed
that has broken its hull
which contains all spores
solidified
which is the same as
visualizing the details

And so where to sow is also
of grave significance
to its future growth.
The miracle is in waiting
and forgetting
you are waiting
this is the cultivation
of fertilization.

Nor will you know
where or when or how
until there are disturbing signs
of a breakthrough below,
still too slow
to see move-ment

Lightly,
nourish the belief
that wishes dig deep
and are just enough
to support the heights and weight
of multi-layered wants and
buried wishes
that may flourish
or become part of more
starting with a seed...



Painting By Целебровский, Пётр Иванович (1859-1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Medium fits all

As the novelist is tempted to try
synopsizing and to nimbly stitch
a concise buttoned-up poem,

The poet reaches for the artists brush,
hoping his blended colors
will all come out in one broad stroke
as envisioned,

So does the artist become moved
by music in strokes of the latest
color combinations,
he paints a score to settle harmony
that escapes the canvas as a song,

And all are collaborations
of hand-eye articulation
expression in action,

As the photographer
captures realism completely
out of context,

The actor is able to enunciate
eloquently since he has had the script
beforehand,

interacting with his set he mimes
his role, the actor assumes his costume
as liar and professor,
adapting for his audience

The play,
what to think.

All artists play in living color, mixing
dead words and sterile symbology
waiting to be revived,
imbibed and misinterpreted
as original(s).




Image of painting By Etienne François-Eugène Lecoindre, 1882 (Sotheby's) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A city called Home

If I were blind the first question would be
Where,
then Am I?
If I were to listen I could not tell our places
apart
Your city sounds no different than my home.

When I close my eyes
                to turn up the volume,
when I strain to listen in
               the sounds become deafening.

I can hear your train
               passing through.
I can hear the rushing waters,
through my fountain
                or your pipes.
I can hear conversations
                not for me,
laughter, underlapping rise and
fall
of voice-
a plane passes also
                not for me.

I can smell the cafes, the local fare,
I can smell the clothes and bodies,
I can smell the trash and perfume spent
for no good reason.

The pots and pans,
footsteps, traffic, coming and goings
of whims from my window
it tastes exhilarating.

Smiles, and dings, rings,
jewels, tones, excuse me's
and gotta go's
seem exhausting.

Everything
I could ever need,
under one roof,
safely knowing each footstep
                      to the door, down the hall
                      to get the mail
                      to get back inside
                      (where I hide)
called my place,
or your City
Where
        I am right at home
taking in
the blind view.

Hyperborean

Under the shield
of summer and satire
It is cold inside.

They are all as lost as we are
so don't follow Those-
taken outdoors to witness
the sky
holding up,
while others grasp for air.
What can we learn from horizons...

At night,
desist does not do
enough
to take the edges off.

There is color coded warmth
coming from a flaming star-
it sinks in Riga Mortis
drawing a line
from my moment
to an eon
in some dynamic way.

Thus, an impression remains
obsidian and reflective,
oblivious of fixed polarities
as cinereal origins.

A sense of exposure manifests
at-most-fear,
in a moment of raw awareness.
Just-like this-cold air-
I shudder
to think
of a point
taken too far.



Photo credit By NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
Astronaut Scott Kelly posted this photo of the Perseid meteor shower taken from the International Space Station on Instagram with the caption, "Space weather forecast from @ISS: Moonless with a chance of Perseid meteors! YearInSpace space spacestation wx weather meteors meteorshower constellation astronomy nasa".

Scratch and sniff

We rose                        Sun hid
I have smelt                  falling stars
pungent peopled          drapery for day
leaning up                    steadfast
petals out                      rooted repetition
for dew                        digs deep
                   Sinks in

                   (either way).






Painting by Winslow Homer, Woman with a Rose (1879), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Mirrors without reflection

Easy acceptance is a mirror
some more flattering than others
framed and hung
for anyone.

I avoid telling and tip-toe around showing
despite being told
do not believe simply
what you see...

It should be said, instead,
Believe in everything you cannot see
clearly.

The best way to tell the truth is gently.

Does anyone discuss a passing breeze?
But oh how they know about that last tornado!

You too,
have felt time jump and stretch,
but can you feel yourself slipping
on the surface-
if you catch the continental drift-
you know-
Archetypes and Adaptations are Alive.
The same story with new lines,
reflecting the ages
for anyone
that does not appear
in natural light.

A mirror is no
window.



Painting by Vilhelm Hammershøi, Interior with a mirror (1907) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sob Sonata

The rumbles around sound-
roars that surround--
no discernable locale---
indivisibly missing
musicality, pressing

pieces like piano keys
vibrations strung out
taut us to feel
the re-percussions
in our bones, marrowly
on tune.

Aural artistry struck dumb
by letting too many high notes
float
off the grid.
This is how it sounds
when tears chime in.

Unlocking grooved records
teetering on a clef and
caught in a cosmic web
solidified as steam,
in thin air,
the words will find you
on the treble
if you feel deeper
than the brute beating
of unsound bodies.




Painting by Thomas Eakins, Elizabeth at the Piano c. 1875 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Canvassing the scene

Perhaps it is only when we paint
that we can taste each dash of color
on our palette.
Like when we listen
to silence
and find none.
And where we see
almighty vistas
and are awed in a splendor,
agape at the sheer place
of our infinitesimalness.

If you close your eyes and exhale-
notice, the black dissipates...
The volume condenses
to more than a sense
of some thing.
And when you look again,
it is evermore,
 the first time you've seen
this way.
That is
a work of art.




Painting by Henri-Jean Guillaume Martin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Broad Cast: Carbon Copies

This is a test,
this is only a test.
If this were a real catastrophe,
instructions would follow.
This test is a measure to decrease alertness,
required by the Prevention Committee to spark
vigilance and fear, consistently in support of
Public Welfare. Watch the ticker
for more minute details about your
nether region and up dates.
Consider fleeing with your family,
as if this were a true tragedy,
remain orderly in fashion
ably late-
If then
run for your Life,
but you must stop
copying the answers
and putting your name on it.



Image By Partridge, Rondal, 1917-, Photographer (NARA record: 8464464) (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ampersands asunder

Just (between)

You & I

ampersands like seeds sprout

One of Us

on either side

& I still

freeze sometimes

-deer at the sight of you-

safely separated by a symbol

We have made it

strategically situated solo

sharing Our time

with ampersands

(in between)

sowing seeds

growing individually

along the same line

You

& I follow

asunder.

Painting By Malyavin (http://territa.ru/photo/925-0-65632) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

What does it take (Hi-Q)

Why remind them Why?
Perseverance requires
more than one person.















Painting by August Macke, c. 1913 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Be wildered

When I think about it too hard
I get vertigo.
When I don't do anything,
I turn morbid and green.
When I consider giving up,
I feel less...
closer to Death-without it.
When I write, I feel right.
When I forget all of this
I make sense.



Painting By Frederick McCubbin, 'Lost' 1886 (1855-1917) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Alpha-betting on-Omega

All whole words are concocted symbols
lines scrawled to convey meaning
not unlike painting,
sweeping strokes of generalities
whet form into abstract impressions
desist and seize definition.

A collector of rare words
admires antiquated articulations
and such-and so forth
forms thought into projections
as aroma refuses to go unnoticed
inoculating ideas, contagion cures.

To say the words aloud, incant
taste the tone on the tongue, palatable
digesting the dreams of others
does wonders.
Look (it) up.

It is alchemy really.
If you have dined around
the periodic table, you know
letters combine
to become more than themselves,
explosive elixirs
of ionic interpretations.

I get the Impressionism
and I objectivist
for surrealism, cubed.
Post-pop abstracted
Neo-classical characters,
re-defined and framed
a sentence for Life.




Image of artwork By Coles Phillips [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fuel for me

You must exude your

brilliance, the world needs to see,

He had Faith in me.

Painting by Félix Vallotton (1865-1925), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Finding my way to say

Knowing the words doesn't count for much.
Some sayings are worn thin,
and should be treated delicately,
like I love you.
As far as directions go-
make your own map,
my destination is different than yours.
I offer no solace, I cannot save myself.
I have quit only to find one must start again,
this is why you must love what you do.
Holding on is easy when your life depends on it.
Well-being is a verb that goes past tense.
I know all the words, this doesn't help much.






Image of painting by Pieter Claesz (1597/1598-1660) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Noon at the lagoon

I tried to walk it off
                               (instead of keeping me in)
                             heading afoot toward the lagoon
                                     (a Tuesday at noon)
For peace sake,
                        with the marine layer pushed back
                            convinced, I headed onshore
                        (at times against the salty breeze)
Attacking it sideways
                       and I knew my grandfather would have said
                                              Invictus-perhaps
                                                  (I plod on)
Not exercising, I stood out,
                         with my pedestrian thoughts
                                       (aimless wandering)
                             but I find sense sometimes...
At the lagoon, bright blue-green
                          speckled with orange
                          Garibaldi all along the riff-raff
Ah-the smell! Simply incredible, soulfully edible,
                         (through rose colored glasses)
                                        savory and savoring the solitude...
And I did find what I was not looking for-
                                        On cue-loudly from the rocks below
                                        a ground squirrel stood chirping, erect,
                                        ear piercing, his body jolting- he sung
                                        (bellowing for none)
Happy with his little self,
                                         a lone mammal on the precipice
                                         squawking on a Tuesday
because he had something good to say,
in a barking beechey marmot way.
                                          I think he said I should stop
                                          (chip) monking-around
                                          I heard him, loud and clear.

Mountain Men

Listen,
It said to
Stop & Breathe
Forest
For the Trees
are lain out like a lumpy quilt
pinned to dry under fiery skies
of patchwork orange,
a citrus of sepia
trimmed in sheeny emerald
sat in
wonder when a wind yawned
wide, stretching cool brisk air
over my shoulders
gently stirring the quiet giant
in his bed of canopies
where he lies leisurely
tickling the sky
who cries in merry laughter
some times
while nobody's watching
He must have just turned over
and fallen back
in the deep
thickets, amongst
the dark womb roots
settling down
lulled by
a song
Foresting.





Image titled 'Orange Forest' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bells & Whistles

Ah, a gift for thee
        a token of my love
           a bit of magic by mans making
Look and see
         the face
              the hands
                    the delicate machinery
Of the precious dial that
          is alive
            it beats
                its face reads with guile
Please, carry it with you
              always keep it
                  close at heart, handy
                      it wants to feel your pulse too
A handcuff? No!
                a shackle-perhaps
                    for some its a ticker, a fuse
                         Coded lines that sign in analog tho
watch its powers,
                 you'll see, this little clicking gift, a tricky token
                            from me, will count unto eternity
                                 all the ways and each of the hours
of my love
making time
trying to be
when it was
is all
we needed
(and a piece of time for thee).



Image By Seriykotik (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

(wee wonder)

What can we say
in One True Sentence,
said so-the Hemingway?

What can be
eternally true-
except, accept,
What is thought
by the poet...

What can the poet
paraphrase and contain
in one line taut
itty-bitty with immensity...

What can we imagine
and utter as real
What can we feel
and express as solidified
What can we read
that has not been said
What can be True
when nothing is eternal
except, accept,
what cannot be named
love.



Image of painting by Alexander Mann (oil on canvas) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Salty seeds

Across the street tall sunflowers loiter casually
erect against the discontent grey sky
dropping back to night.

These evening hours offer no glow
save the ineffective citrus streetlamps,
whereby all black birds along the wires
wring out some final notes, an outline.

It's safe to suppose
the sun wont come out from its heavy covers
tomorrow.
It is June already.
There are no high noons
or bright summer blues.

The cat peering outside
the window with me
just opened the door and left me
for more real things
than light projected
imagery.

And as the grey becomes plum
I lay and delay entering the fold
for fear
of waking in tears
again, chest heaving and caving in
to-night.

When the sunflowers slept
standing up to thick dew
I wept
with my salty lips persed
quivering and inept.

My substance too,
tiny inside.

The promiscuous sunflowers
stand their opposing ground
as phosphorescent agents
of small seeds at eye level.

Despite this disposition,
knowing blended night-
it is tempting to drop everything.

Their swollen faces
turn away from me too
in defiance of summer sun
and still bloom in full gloom.


Painting by Claude Monet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Blank as a sheet

The white space
was where to put the truth
It makes some
uncomfortable.
Black seems more
accommodating
since dark energy and dark matter
abounds.

Night conceals and reveals all
color theory,
holes condense, space expands
whence we
subcontracted time
to finish
painting the picture
in tones.



Image credit By English: Clarence Hudson White (1873/1925) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The people flocked

To see a bird in a dream
I looked it up and it seems to mean
something more than freedom, more
than reading Emily Dickinson before drowsing off...
It was not until I reached this peak
that I could see
the birds or Emily fully
from above.
Born again,
by seeing trees for the first time too
we are blessed by birds and nests
the air we share, the weight we don't...

and a wee spotted wood-pecker
that taps the fence post
by the rain gauge

Or the Orioles
befriended by our two brother crows
from when the ficus finally got cut

And that Cardinal
caught by the cat,
¡olé!

Yellow-bellied fly-catchers
curious about coming insde-
demanding even!

Hummingbirds in harems at the fountains
and in your face, buzzing your body
as though they own the sweet place.

A lion's lair
with four proud but lazy cats
on the prowl
Those falcon feathers we found
must have been provoked in part
by the mockingbirds.

Homey chaste egrets
cruise the coast
high and aloof
cool and superior.

Pet parrots, emancipated avians,
piss people off, like loud immigrants
simply because they cannot understand
the squawk, making crackers into crumbs.

Couples of doves,
whose coos irk none-
because we relate to love
and at some point read Emily-
observing migration
in a dream or wide awake
from up here
it symbolizes liberty
in limbs.


Image By Jerry Segraves (en:User:Jsegraves99) (http://www.fhwa.dot.gov/byways/photos/64091) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fence-lines

The grey fence
leans sleepishly against the morning fog
that lay dew upon the field
which will turn into pixie dust
as the plain rolls into the suns warm gaze.

Before the birds
muster a lilt to try;
the sound of swimming
between tidal flows of atmosphere
immersed, they listen to the mist.

A dappled doe blinks its black eyes
rapidly twitching its ears
seeking the source of the crunch
by the hare munching greens for breakfast,
whose nose twitches up
at the white whir of a hurried wind

chalking up the slate of new day.
A heavy scream shatters the stillness
as the birds scatter in spider cracks
folded inside, the echo
doesn't bother coming back.

What was here
always moving on.



Photograph by © Dietmar Rabich, rabich.de [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0), CC BY-SA 3.0 de (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/de/deed.en) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Echo-interpretation

Few knew
how little we were
hoping to be noticed

Not that
they wanted more
and less to be seen
here

Some found
they never heard
(of) the likes of you
before

Some sought
outside as outcasts
too frigidly
accommodating

Some stayed
in place and inside
by the fire
alit with artistic rage

Not many
more than we
can handle
touching
poetry
without scalding
the tips

And know
none pine
for ringing cedars, pet rocks
or chop words, but quarry
here
for the echo...


Image of painting By Adolf Mosengel (1837-1885) (Dorotheum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Luc(in)da

You again, I say
As though I dreamt
We had never met.









Image by Evelyn De Morgan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Night and Sleep (c. 1878).