Spring palette

Some nights such as these

in Spring

the crispest ones forebode

dramatic scenes and

will only be appeased

with warm words, the genteel kind

unlike those dark corridors linking

hollow rooms to alternate realities

and how easily

we may be misplaced inside,

one sees clearly-

Poetry possessed the palace,

the chorus charmed themselves

considering changes

are made in continuity,
contemplating,

harmonium found itself

outside sound and dancing

in full color in the deepest
dark.

Painting by Henri Le Sidaner, 'Small table in evening dusk' c. 1921 [Public domain].

Fond

Pink of dawn,
the rosy day
positioned itself
precisely between
love and light.

As day breaks into
warm undulating prisms
through angular concentration,
you may find
yellow
swirls through blue,

Let it grow

as Indigo
will remain underneath
and eternally holding stars in a place
we have said is filled
with dark matter
but it felt lighter
to some
and held-

ever so gently.

Painting by Alfred Heaton Cooper, c. 1905, titled "Dawn, Coniston" in [Public domain].

reflection

The difference between man and his
                                              Nature;
Primarily,
the words will fade away
                                        meaning
                      altogether

whereas colors come
                                bright and new
blending in
after each and every rain.





Painting by Henry Ward Ranger, 'Bradburys Mill Pond No. 2' c. 1903 in  [Public domain].

Held

We carried decimal places in our pockets,

there was never enough change

to evenly distribute amongst us.

We put pennies under our tongue,

never noticing the green words growing out.

we nestled ourselves inside boxes like silverfish

swimming from page to page.

We wove blankets with blame and empathy for others

and died our thoughts of progress and peril

in complementary colors.

Our choice by natural selection never counted

on such a vast assortment of unparsed persons

holding onto everything in case the anchor 

dislodged and diluted by oxidation,
broken down into byte sized bits.

We will fill any holes with our fitting figures,

leaving no space for any one lone light to escape

in a flicker.




Painting by Charles Willson Peale, Portrait of David Rittenhouse, 1796 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Chlorophyll-ed

I am as incomprehensible as the granite

underfoot as I stand on the fence,

teetering on the post tops,

scrambling across the jagged riprap,

lava on my left,

ice on the right

wondering if I will ever touch down

and it will be enough.

Sometimes, I lean I little too much to one side

and become painfully aware of needles stabbing my cheeks,

and of the physical struggle I wage

against gravity and giving in to the wind.

My eyes hold a glare, grazing across seas of green,

hungry, nauseous.

I remain the thing that sticks out.

I pretend I can hold my composure.

I pretend I am mending, securing and building

back up

the differences between sight and seen, observed and obscure,

between then and now, overhead and right under the soles

heat rises.

The sky blended primaries and found 555 nanometres

restful to the eye. It was a gift in lieu of fight or flight.

A boulder in space time adds up,

this occupies me

for a time
as if I was getting somewhere.

Photo credit By Sonja1982 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lie Lack

The lilacs in full bloom against the lattice fencing,
biggest by all the grey skies and wet clouds
we had

Dark green metallic leaves long and narrow curl
away from the insistent sun,
now a paling display
in this spectrum
spun towards
Spring.

Those celebrity roses build new spires,
spiders have their scaffolds up,
clovers cover dark dirt over a sheet of pily moss
in cracks, softer for a time, lush was once castover.

Now pollen and fruit gather in groups,
sucking it all in sweet lemon dew
it is the tart, fill those pocket lungs
with rich new air
made just for you, lavishly the last lilac
flake falls.


Painting by Mikhail Vrubel. Lilac 1900 Oil on canvas. 160*177 Tretyakov Gallery via Wikimedia Commons.

Under influences

Because we are

Self Aware Beings

we wonder like amnesiacs,

how we got here

and desperate for colors

we believe almost anything fantastic

as though we are all diamond fragments

of stars or angels displaced

from heaven or space.

I mean, magic is making new matter from nothing,

magic means we matter, we made this matter.

If we make-this-matter is magic made, elementary

with rock and metal.

This is simply us discovering

alchemy and fire and calling out surges, reactions,

such as desire and emulsify

concluding for every x

there is a why.

Of course, we are all-chemical beings

and we play with this, naturally

moving letters about

being creators and more concoctors,

self-prescribing physicians by our own

curious volition to flux of powers,

that make New (again).

We often curse our many selves for attempting

escape, a wait-less trip would be idyll...

on Holiday from everyday...

This must be common.

What is pressure but awareness of mortality,

destiny maybe an attempt to fly

is a stab at free will

that gets too thick and close

to the heart and mouth

for sobriety to say-

How many times must Death come knocking

before you hand him the key?

Painting by Andrei Ryabushkin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Abundance

We mind rarified
elementary considerations such as
helium and hope that just
stream out the o-zone.

While we worry about coal gluttons
and electric vampires,
the signal still comes
in crystal glints,
colors are just
extraneous.

The most resourceful
were generous
making love-
concurrently, we are
interfering.

Simultaneously
sucked in
shiny silicon i's.
Unwound and seriously
needing respooling.





Image credit Hugo Gerhard Ströhl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The child contemplating comets

What color do you see?
The child asks her mother,
after reflecting-
The blue eyes take care of the oceans,
the green ones tend to grow everything
the brown, found all around,
those brown eyed bodies built the mountains
by blinking.
The child wonders what exactly
the sky sees.
Her mother mentions the birds in a vee,
points to the bees and
Honey-
The child sees no kindred spirit afloat,
she is grounded and feels pressure.
She scours around the ground
in search of relatives, by proximity,
puts them in a pencil box
after making them shiny,
and then she names them.
The child collects her rocks and hounds her mother
about the origins or babies
of granite and geode
and likes the lineage, the idea
of the clouds trapped in crystals
and how close purple seems to black.
How did the rocks, and
the sand the water get born-
She asks with her eyes squinting out at the night sky.
Were all stars once planets?
She asks that moonless night,
and feels sorry about the answer.
It will be back, her mother explains phases
and patience.
The child misses no more
and wonders what container would be good for keeping
stars. Look around, says her mother,
all that you are
is Here, touching her heart,
let the stars fall where they may...
Is that why my eyes are grey?
She remembers
as though it were as close as yesterday.


Painting by Edward Lear, The Marble Rocks (1882) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Color transfusion

September, said the sky
stirring the air into a bitter frenzy.
With tension
teeth bared, her clouds growl while
making steel eyes squint back
for clarity between greys.

A breath of earth seeking rain.

Pastels all put away,
slate carries excess white,
backing black and blue up-
on sun less days.
The sky fell into our lap,
sobbing at her reflection.

Autumn yellow goes red
where the seasons bled
(out).




Painting by Johan Christian Dahl [Public domain], Cloud Study over flat landscape (1837) via Wikimedia Commons.

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.

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".

A Charming Third Time

She reached out, compelled
to place her hand on the spinning wheel.
She trembled toward the blur,
despite the risk, she was unable to resist.

She stopped it on an arrow
whose two points of infinity
changed direction in the light,
no two rays the same color.

She drew back and it spun again
wildly as if it had never stopped.
She noticed the colors blending
but never overlapping the white between.

She looked around to see if anyone else
saw, or had seen the giant wheel
before her, spinning on its own accord
humming in its smooth momentum.

Alone and reckless,
she tried to touch it again,
this time to only grab the blue
but landed her hand on an arrow.

She knew the symbols well,
circles, arrows, points of interest, color codes
but could not decipher the definitions-
clearly, each stood for something.

She watched its speed grow
the longer she waited to ask again,
the more dangerous the choices became
even though they always stayed the same.

She closed her eyes and flung her weight
toward the wheel, groping for anything solid
finding herself on an arrow
not knowing how to hold on, she let go.

She watched the wheel whirl,
murmuring about momentum.
She heard one of the 64 arrows
call her name and whisper, The Way.



Image By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons. East of the Sun West of the Moon, 1922.

Patina's Purples

Remember-
Under the light of dusk,
when our eyes are quiet;
wordless, we watched
pink crests crowning purple clouds
passing by on the pale canvas sky...
Grey grabs all with its notes
taking the lead
.

“I want to see a new color,” she said-

I remember, “but there are none left.” 

Instead

Imagine a new blend, a color made from none of these

I pretend it cannot be seen, but better felt-
inside closed eyes

like blue

or a red
Aura

“A new hue,

another shade made of you.”

“I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror,” 
she confessed.

You ripen while you rest. 

And thus this innocent request

was bestowed.

A complimentary color, 
a gradual gradient 
evaporated and echoing
the tone of dawn

a radiant hinge on the fringe
of the rainbows wheel
angles ajar
prismatic and enigmatic.

Image By Anonymous [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Flammarion Woodcut, c. 1888.