I am-phibian

A line in the sky
caught my eye

the barbed hook
of crescent moon

took no time
pulling my chin up

and out
of my element

and taking my breath
outside
the warm body

weightless
I can only wait
for lightness
to break

through
a comforting zone

at terminal velocity
relevant
only to the speed of
dreams and nightmares

piercing through
this illusion

of you
waking up
or falling down
but always catching

a peek
under the surface.



Painting by Lionel Walden, 'Twilight, Evening Star and Crescent Moon' c. 1925 in Public domain.

Warning signs

Red dawn
sits quietly
behind Eastern hills.
Space
is blue and cold
in moonglow flood-
light.

A candle flickers
inside
the window.
The birds stir
leaves,
while wind
picks up any loose
thoughts.

...the purpose of a flower,
color can make us
feel.
Beauty is perishable,
like the light
of this day.

A reflection glows
warmer,
warnings signs were every-
where
day breaks
hearts as light as air.




Painting by Herbert James Draper (1863-190), 'The Gates of Dawn', in Public Domain. 

crisis

Crisis:

(“a decisive point in the progress of a disease, 

that change which indicates recovery or death” Latin

also from krei-root (to seive), krinein, to separate to 

distinguish to discriminate-Greek)

jolted me awake, outside myself

only to find myself-upright-

reflecting inside squinting

the first S of this ultimate

silence in a feminine sunrise,

and savoring the final T

of the next fiery sunset,

                       this too shall pass, 

green flash-

I spin, and reel and feel

too thin, out of alignment,

this mis-a-line-meant

Crisis 

            was coming,
bones were showing

and there was much to do

about what cannot be undone

in one revolution
nor by
            coming back
to room temperature.

Painting by Ross Turner (1847-1915), "Sunset, Cape Ann, Mass.' c. 1861-1897) in Public Domain.

A new day (refurbished)

Meeting with the sunrise again,
alone,
time strikes me as the lone
witness to this.

The mirrors are everywhere,
blinding.

I wrote it all down
to get it out of my head,
to silence the voice,
to make it go away,
and then it was there
in front of me,
like the horizon
line,
too terrifying to retell
today.

Better to watch
the light change.



Photo credited by Fancibaer [CC0], Morning Sunrise, 1/2013, in Public Domain. 

In other wor(l)ds

A new day called my name in the mouth of the mockingbird.
In the bullseye of the black widows web,
light is caught in crystal sections
as it tends to happen-sometimes
we don’t hear these things or fail to notice
where chimes and footsteps flail in midair

we were suspended there.

I proceed to contemplate the unwinding of
allotted time, in all its shrinkage and compression
I stuff what I can in my pockets
and balance my left foot precariously
upon the nearest dark cloud that appears
solid enough to leverage my being upon
while I levitate upon
accumulation.

At least, in this way,
the sacrifices won't seem so removed and far
fetched, as stars for life cluster with emission,
timing is everything
and nothing.
The silence can become crippling with
such volume of errant data,
unsynchronised heart beatings
in unison making static lines blur.

Meanwhile, the earth rolls inside of its shell
as if there were nothing to see here
in Turtle Town.
No lingering, loitering, savoring, reminiscing,
embellishing-
making no more mention of
names of things.

The best of it is yet to be made our own.
I take in the wind, I take notes
as I go
this way-paraphrased-what is said sounds familiar
as if we have heard it all before this way
our re-membership lapsed into disparate sounds
it sounded like a name.



Photo By Claudio Giovenzana (Claudio Giovenzana www.longwalk.it) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Barometric Duration

Days end, All that could happen

Did.

That said,

It all comes back to you.

Last chance to change

your mind

in my direction.

One point aimed

at your heart, a foci.

Mist. Barometric pressure.

The duck glides atop

rolling water. Surface levels

Stones skip

Hurried to land.

All was settled

where places were

Set. 



Painting by Robert Vonnoh [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hooker

I do it better in the dark.

Think-that is.

It could be because this is when my hair is down,

I can hear my breath living for me.

Most likely, it is because it is the only time

for me when I do not see...

Feel the sky loom its clouds,

the careless way it does so often rise and shine,

too bright for my light eyes that eat too much.

I am blinded by these opportunities and unknowns

of the day.

Overwhelmed. 

I say nothing I cannot see.

Overhead, empty as moon shadows I can be,

more thoughtful.

Night gales match my mood,

and pelting rain covers my sounds

in steam

across the taunting window panes.

I dry my face 

from dreams that drench the den.

Alone in my dark head.

Please-forget all I have said.

While others claim tight-knit sleep, 

I am loose and listening to every

one thing.

I do it better at night. 


Photo by Eugène Atget [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

All in a day

Will it ever cease?
The stars don't give up to-day.
Lumens were simply a clue
of brighter futures
not a past promise
for ever.



Image By Internet Archive Book Images, Cornell Poetry Anthology, 1920 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

A lightyear travels this way

A mere
two and a half hours before
I made it through a full twenty-four,
and it feels as though my head were spun a full three sixty
around again.
Why I felt like a wild witch of the weepy west,
crazed and amazed at my wicked self
under the full moon light, combusted on fumes,
blazing smoke laden trails on quiet sleepy streets,
by forests alone, I inhale and blindly wind the way
by feel, it is left,
I have the moon.
Bright tomorrows where days are too long
and night crept by all too discreetly
to remember
how fast-when did we get here...
In the dark speed seems greater.


Image By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.Looking across Tower Bridge, c. 1940.

Light cycle

The scalding star
                      bursting in beams
gives way, in due time
                      Tho not without a heated conflict
our only satellite set on high
                     sending signals where no one
can hide from the wrath and the aftermath

Both positions be known
                      observed and heeded
the dynamic cycle, black and white
                      from day to night
the changing of Our guards

who compose the length of our sentence                    
wardens we watch back.




Image by Henri Théophile Hildibrand [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.