To: Night, There will be no words

Moon shimmer atop the sea
                              Take me
Into your crested,
              Closing, wet black
Mind-
          If I
Stand here,
                   listening to your
gentle snore, rhythmic as
                     White noise
No one voice
Rises up

High moon,
                    Mid-nite, we stand
edge to edge, like the
                    Folded note
I tried to sing
                   To you, like serenade
I made a solid
                        Offer,
of my devotion
                        Hereby

Anchor leaden legs
that sway and stay
in Place
              seemingly,
ceaselessly churning in places
                              vast, liquid,
Beckoning as foreign skin,
sucking in
                  the air between
Us,          as a magnet may
Be attracted

The Other
shore
is out there,
We stand here
and just Believe
We must.



Painting by Winslow Homer, "Moonlight' c. 1874 in Public Domain. 

I Pink up the phone and say Yellow

God called me on a rotary dial phone with the piggy tail cord.

That is how we met, unofficially, when I was just five

my grandparents took me to a church

and the man in the middle, his name was Revren was happy

to be the center of our attention, he beamed and bowed

although I remember details like pulling out the tiny threads 

from a cotton lemon dress. 

The bald man, Revren, wearing the dark dress, 

a stage costume, I guessed having been to the theater 

much more, before-

he handed me the receiver of the phone, and shouted 

{He 

wants to talk to YOU!}

Grabbing the phone, 

I held it up to my ear like a shell,

no ocean, hell, just a loud sound called a dial tone.

When I handed it back after Revren asked me what He said,

I simply shrugged and muttered, { I don't think he was there-

anymore.}

Revren bald man shouted to the audience-That

i {did NOT BELIEVE}

{Pray} for little me, but I did see

i saw the light 

through the stained glass panes throwing yellow strokes 

liberally down the aisle

and understood others don't see this

from over there, it may be blue. 

My grandmother who had been a teacher,
slapped my hand
for unraveling her homespun delicate
pinafore
No reason. 

Image credit By Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums, titled 'The camera was great but her new phone wasn't working (1964), [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

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. 

Taking in the Aether & the Higgs Ocean view

You see
             the problem is:
I need someone to help me figure out-
or to talk to,
theoretically,
hypothetically
(poetically)
I muse
in a place
I cannot quite describe
I will not come near
being able to show you
the particles
flying and suspended
suffocating the air with the dots
of the question mark,
Specks
they're sometimes called

I see them flying in the air
suffocating and thick against each other
compelled, repelled, forced and willing
mixing cosmic stew, stars colliding
thick with dark matter
Sometimes
I could choke
on the chunks of thick loneliness
attractive pollution, vaporous resolution
the pressure we place
on a black hole, I feel
                                    my heart exploding
in symmetry                with infinity

You see
these words
this world
-what's the matter?
the anti-matter and all that allusion
the illusion said of what should
particularly
not see

I feel them touching me
like gravity-a weak force
but you're not floating away
                                             from me yet
                                                                 just expanding your magnitude
So how do I show
that I know
                  the connection-in reflection-
the theories of strings beyond beings
staff that carry the notes
                                      that fall on deaf ears
like blind stars
like us
who would rather
Not see
the day come of the dying sun
with no one
to talk to
but someone not looking
and
saw it too.


Image By NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Image taken by ROSAT shows confined hot gas captured via X-ray providing evidence that the gravity exerted in groups and clusters of galaxies is attributed to dark matter. 

Anchors cut by angels

“O my soul, do not aspire to immortal life, but exhaust the limits of the possible.” -Pindar Pythian lii

I believe in little angels
                            although,
not those in Dante's Divine version
                            yet we all understand his grand design
poetry left letters lynched, hanging in his story.

I believe in angels
                           that are not molded from mortality
but leave tangible gifts
                           treasures we didn't know we wanted
like uncoveted luck.

I believe in bantam angels
                           that drop hints
and lift eyelids
                           shift the butterfly in flight
while waltzing with the wind.

I believe in angels
                           not as conspirators, or muses
I am not one of those poets, that would be insane
                           those who claim to hear voices
I believe in angels
                           that leave language to loons
whose call I understand, just as planned
                           like destiny's low decibel note
I believe in angels
                           that make time
to rescue, rally, recover, ruin, redeem, reiterate
                          remind us of what we must have known
already.

I believe the angels are our audience
                          listening to our poetry
reciting their favorite parts
                          while waiting for tides to turn.

Faith: “…a silent waiting on the truth, pure sitting and breathing in the presence of the question mark.”-Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury 

Image of painting by William Closson (1883-1978) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.