“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label fog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fog. Show all posts
Thursday, April 30, 2020
elasticity/density
The anticipated fog
steamrolls over
terrestrial things
in ways worthy
of emulating.
Clearing in manhole
windows, a glint of caught
starlight hints at the presence
of an eternal watchful
vigil by the moon cast.
Slow and muffled comes the
hollow sound, conjured by a presence
stirring the air.
Straining to hear
a muse muttering
your name as if it were
pronounced in the echo
of Nobody.
Painting by John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836-1893), 'A Moonlit Evening' c. 1880 in Public Domain.
Saturday, September 22, 2018
Obscurities
Dense fog rolls across the chiseled terrace
steps from West to East.
Downtrodden and quite oblivious
of Man's conventions, this mocking
mist, as in a gathering of ground clouds,
shrouds the serial sequence of events,
entrances and exits undefined and occupy
our focus, hazily
we get stuck
when we cannot see
ahead.
Shadowless spaces between,
scoff at the series we expected,
anticipated
of Inventions and Evolutions
and Apocalypse.
We've tried to rise and plunge
gradually
to adapt
in this solid state.
We seem to seek the End as if it were
the top.
Admiring an ascent out of view
despite our narrow window
to appear or seek
escape and opportunity
everywhere but specifically
over there.
Such low lying obscurities like
grey matter gathered in this way
concealed the landing
so we may walk across the clouds
making us feel mist
the most, despite always Being
invisible at certain angles.
Artwork by F. Childe Hassam, 'The Spanish Stairs' c. 1897 in Los Angeles County Museum of Art [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Mud day
Thrust outdoors into the somber metallic dawn whose grey washcloth
dripping with fog covers my exposed face and outer extremities, slips into
folded crevasses, as in the crook of an ivory neck, exuding an aroma of must
flooding pores make a body all the more aware of vulnerabilities,
small against the vast backdrop erasing evidence of the transference between strata
and stratosphere.
One leaden foot lurches forward despite the denial of movement on raised skin,
my hair collects the dancing beads and leaves my cheeks ruby
in the shameful way that I have seen how my hair stays grey instead of brown when wet,
and yet no time has (a) past...
the mists persist in making all clouds disperse
at our feet collecting weight on lashed eyes dropping diamonds between the sharp tan blades
repelling the chance for new life, making the bed of earth condensed to gather all the necessary elements for the making of a Mud day.
Painting by Frederic Edwin Church [Public domain], c. 1869-70 via Wikimedia Commons.
Monday, November 27, 2017
Round the bend
At this time
change felt like the fog rolling in
and when driving into the road mirage
and not hitting a thing-
in a blur that stranges the familiar,
stretches out time a little
like a band,
rubber or air-the change
lingered heavier than mist,
more solid than virga,
icy in all the same clear ways that
when you try to cut it out
from what was always
called Now I am-
like routine and rut,
running along the edges fray,
more than decor, drapery, or flax
like flux, anticipated
or a natural change
of season.
It could have been
Only that-
At this time,
comforts naked shoulder
cooled in the exposure,
where same,
felt somehow strange
like never before.
Image credit By U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, February 10, 2017
Captains Log: February 9th 21st century
Marine fog has come
and gone all day, it is similar, the same,
the way Gaston B was obsessed with this very mist
the way Gaston B was obsessed with this very mist
I muse over its movements in particulate.
Blue skies peek through,
a thin cloud rolling by,
and it has settled, for Now
rested thick, wet and multiple times
it is a clear day, others say, just on the other side…
It does stop us, coordinately
from believing what we see. See evidently
I am most grateful for our limited scope,
as far as hope floats
as far as hope floats
it is the certainty we would choke
on the very air we need
on the very air we need
if only we could see how Primo Levi detects the miasma
that hovers above all smoky cities.
that hovers above all smoky cities.
A gritty plume, caustic and lye, and lie like
light always gets to you.
No machete necessary, under a chenille throw of clouds.
No doubt it always will get through to someone,
as it has always done,
before the big banging and seed sowing.
as it has always done,
before the big banging and seed sowing.
Before the smoke there must be fire,
Before we could relate to the sky speaking in sea,
Collecting the mood in glimmers and vapors
The fog finally makes it all clear.
It was something in the air, where the light broke in
And scattered array.
Image credit by Tuxyso / Wikimedia Commons, via Wikimedia Commons.
Image credit by Tuxyso / Wikimedia Commons, via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Naturally Resourceful
Foggy today.
Not outside.
Expecting nothing
of this Sunday
that cannot be named,
securely crated and/
or mass produced.
Must everything be ahead of schedule
in such a small time?
At least our brains are stocked up front
for processing and Random Access
Memory.
Memory.
There are no explanations for this,
but go on...
Name what you need.
Struggling to say,
assembly by poetry is perhaps
assembly by poetry is perhaps
helpful to visualize intangibles i.e.
physics and such phenomenona
as aspirations...try.
It could be, most simply,
about physicality-
that my nose is out there,
too far to see transparently
or cross-wise.
or cross-wise.
I do feel exposed, but that is not it
either.
either.
The dull light doesn't care about mood
or money. Funny how we do...
A penny for my thoughts.
O yes, it was reconciliation.
Counting the change
in the air.
Painting by Friedrich Preller the Younger [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
all that cannot blend
trying to show green flash-
hear a heart flame burst
along with the after effect of shock
and awe
with rolling whispers when arisen
out from shadowed souls-
As it would be seen-from where you are,
already white demonstrates for us,
space occupied for air and water,
yes oil and blood are better
for what has been said.
Image By ISS Expedition 23 crew (NASA Earth Observatory) Sunset from the Space station [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, January 23, 2015
Incubus
Resembling the unwakeness of a Dream
blurred outlines
crisp sounds that echo hollow
sleep standing, meandering adaze
muffling the view
obscured by heavy air
pushing on pores
licking your eyelashes
in salty sentiments
sealed and enveloping
brilliant opaque light
shadows perceptions of depth
an oceans deep breath
fractals that float
bonded in obstinate anti-gravity
careless of time
synchronized now
grey matter of mass
drapes close on the sky
sinking in silky soliloquy
rolling softer than thunder
momentary miasma
of soggy bliss
soup was ordered as a starter
to wet ones appetite
for a serving full of
mist
delayed
by fog.
Image from Wikimedia Commons "Fog" (Public Domain)
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