Divisible

Blessed are thee

memories

chosen to be forgotten

dissolved into distant haze.

Cherished are those

brilliant first rays

alighting the new path

of unknowns.

In the sky

and in the sea,

the clouds and waves

do not recall those passed.

Likewise, made of the same,

and never the same

You and I

remember-

Painting by Henry Scott Tuke, 'Looking out to sea' c. 1885 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

What Floats

 

Above all

else in the daylight

my favorite sight

or Phenomenon

occurs in the Sky;

Fallstreak holes, lenticular halos atop

tall peaks

and the mighty Mammatus.

I seldom seek

the Why's

As cycles spin

I think I may see them again,

when the Sun's slanted spears

Disrupt

It all-appears 

Darker, more real,

an occurrence

of grounding

without sounding too

Heavy.

Image credited by Alpsdake, in Public Domain (CC0),'Mount Fuji from Mount Ogochi' taken 10/22, 2000 via Wikimedia Commons.

Scar Tissue

 

What are you doing with this body

The soul asked the mind

To and from bounced as echoes 

Evade their sources

Proof

You want to know

Who

You are

Now, is past

Then, next I plan

On finding 

A voice

hat Does 

instead of making sound waves

with air

Going to and from

Self and I 

just to know

Nothing

Is true

Is false

looking 

where questions

make marks

like clouds,

See

the blue.

Artwork by Konrad Krzyżanowski, 'Clouds' c. 1906, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

May Grey II

After so many May days
that curtain the skies with a fine marine haze
only breaking up under the heat of midday
donning a robe of satin blue wash
without any white spots
there was nothing more to be done

On other thick
midweek days, the same sky
holds up
a solid grey smoke screen
sprinkling into something
like too much timelessness.

Today the sky tosses
shadows and demands
attention with
thick padded clouds which
loom and tromp and roam and all
seem to know each of our names
and where we live precisely
by our current shape.

This high wind
has brought a wash of relief,
like warm atmosphere
even while
things were still moving
I felt still...

and kept getting my focus
pulled into the deep sky
and mesmerized
by the outlines,
the shifting journeys of these
mammoths
made of magnetic mist
I am drawn
into.

The harder I focus
and try to hold these empty gatherings
in my mind, tracing as they were racing
past, suddenly,
as if met with resistance,
and shyly they all slow
to an amble
and stall directly overhead.

And all that seems given
in the world
for closer observation
is made up
of grey matter
upon further reflection
I think the cloud sees me blue
while it seems white.





Painting by John Constable (1776-1837), c. 1821 in Public domain.

Line by line

Life unfolds this way,

the face now resembles our grey matter

what is inside comes out.

The clouds will unravel again,

you can hear the wind 

moving them along.
I am done
telling others to listen.

Paper, then. My life. Drawn to fire.

All those the people carrying dead burdens
on their cracking lips.

They burned books
into their memories and cauterized the wounds

with chanting and invocations

shaped to sound like smoke rings

they read the signs.

As with people and colors
they gather but do not become,
one another,
as with clouds, the heaviest fall
and we say we needed rain.

In these conditions

the symbols bleed together

and it is red
Open.




Painting by Emile Claus, c. 1898, 'Ampelio, old fisherman of Bordighera', in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Skywriter

The clouds pursued an equilibrium of their own.

The jaundiced glow fell over the soft heads of innocent beings

not looking up.

It may have drawn more in, pulled more up

had the wind changed dramatically.

as if the dark atmosphere

and hot air

weren’t enough warning

persisting in taking shape across the glass bubble sky.

It was clear as day to those that study the signs that clouds make,

The ambiance made moody thoughts thunder through.

Painting by Konstatin Bogaevsky, (c. 1920's), Clouds, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Decorating mud cakes

Apathy spreads so easily,

thriving amongst any localized

biodiversity.

Ears sprout in fields from yellow seas

of mono-cropping. The wind grinds down

our meals into muted mush, nourish us,

the sun glows, chicken,

adapting itself in ambiance to the best

propagation of pessimism and

immunology in world-wide webs.

Saturation is more suitable for delusional

desires by dreamers who water down rainbows

as casualty.

There is no wonder

anymore.

Where does the marrow go

when our spines shrivel...

Clouds cure any silly thoughts of happy

or stupid glee, i.e. beauty. Muddy skies slog unmixed 
clods and none bother asking why

Life continues this way.

Over our heads. 
We would never see any reason

for it coming

down

in all shades of brown and grey.
We wont look up. 

Painting By Rogers, Gilbert (MBE) [Public domain], c. 1919 via Wikimedia Commons.

Squiggly lines

Draw the wind for me

                                             That is a line

This is a wave

                                             It is a cloud

it is not raining

                                             It is floating

It doesn't resemble energy to me

Because it can fall or disappear

If I cannot see it, it is not there

                                             What do shadows show

Movement

                                   You must move-first to see 

I see stillness, yes

                                   this second, do I breathe

Alive, you must Be.

Not imagine

                                   show me the difference

where water and air masses separate 

conglomerate as clouds 

                                   demonstrating the movement

of nothing.

No thing                     that floats.

Now your turn to draw the water

                              well are not those tears 

Artwork By Вера Владимировна Хлебникова (1891—1941) ([1]) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Loch Smith

Before sunrise on this particular morning
I came to see-
quite unmistakably-
right in front of me
a gaping fallstreak hole
hanging wide open, saying high.

The cat and I,
our curiosity got the best of us
and I suppose
I teetered too close to the edges
which tend to be
slippery slopes of padded History-
also called Epiphanies-
and well,
I fell in or out of sorts,
tumbling through a tunnel
my vision blurred briefly-
white.
We can see-

the mountains lining the dappled plain,
the plane piercing the wall of clouds
intermittent keyholes
blink like red EXIT signs in bright blue blips
appearing further away than they seem-

And although it may all appear
as this lucid dream at dawn
-since the hole has long closed-
I was simply unable to resist peeking out,
fell up, skipped in and
if you've wondered where I have been
before the first light.


Photo By Kittelschürze (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons

Sky scrapes

contrails drew all day
as one would fade, another blade
cutting in on blue, gilt by sun
without a red handle
on it to be seen

what chalky lesson
is trying to be relayed
that the entire sky should
altruistically accommodate
and become frayed to mineral slate
from all points of you

grey matter made of our machinated arts...
and those parts of paths remain staining royalty
bleeding lines out
ward, the cons alibi
covering for clouds
on a crystal eyes day.



Image by By Willow2012 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tying rainbows on Mt. Moody

Up there-
rolling in cumulus
open fields,
tumbling down with
empyrean echoes-
they sniffled
there
and heaved a last great sigh
before resting
as simply shaded shapes
or hanging
thunder clouds.
Where
they lay
their puffy heads atop
the solemn iron mountains,
they reflect
your steely glance in silver volumes
of sharp light.
And slice right through
grey matter
with gentle insistence
by ninth degrees.
Up there
the birds begin to
propose,
always asking
hopefully...
They then spun
a soothing song
across beryled acoustics
waving conductive wands.

That is where
the avians weave bows
in the rain,
seeking to tame
those tangled tresses
inherently
cast over cold
granite shoulders
where shale shawls
lie stoic
dark and morose
under the mercurial masonry,
They are
always adding color,
muffled and soft
unflappably
making rainbows
with nothing but stone and air
up there.

"I try to think about rainbows when it gets bad,  

You have to think about something to keep from going mad." 

-Gwen Stefani (In My Head, No Doubt)

Image of Mount Rainer in Washington state, US, By US National Park Service (http://www.nps.gov/media/photo/gallery.htm) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Thin air

The clouds kept 

getting sucked up

in tall towers,

weaving spindles

of cotton wands.

It makes

ponder,

it makes

wonder,

it caused pause

to feel for my feet,

small as they seemed

from up there.

Image By GAURAV MAROO (MY DIGI CAM) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

About Clouds and Me to Your Ology

As the pressure builds

                         high and low confront,

trapping in between them a compression and

                          depression, folded in thick layers.

A cumulus of collective thoughts

                          gather gem-like crystalline

shards that slice through thin air.

                         In a Doppler of cirrus

the stratus changes, morphing into

                         unstable mutatus Mother clouds,

hovering, heavy and thick with milk,

                          curdling and separating their wheys and way

lost, aloft out of focus like mist and blur

ragged ropes, pull and bind, fraying edges as taut by

                          knuckles under the pull of Virga.

Then-

letting it all go,

unnoticed into oblivion, minute like tears

                          reigning in sheets

down Fallstreak holes

                          through the ceiling

that bears an air of Nacreous ether up there, apart and

                          weighted by the moody swing fronts

of days and nights.

                           The phases fade, leaving

traces of birefringent dreams, seems like

                           floating behind the Fisher King and moon man,

who overcast

his holy net, his wind we felt

mingled with water

we breathe.

1st composed 8/5/15-edited multiple times.
Image By Sensenmann (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Clouds over Yucatan, Mexico.

Clouded

“It is better to have your head in the clouds, and know where you are... than to breathe the clearer atmosphere below them, and think that you are in paradise.” 

–Henry David Thoreau