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

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

it is the certainty we would choke
on the very air we need

if only we could see how Primo Levi detects the miasma
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.

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.

Saying Hello to Yellow

Yellow is such an excitable color,

I wonder why it was not chosen on the dollar?

Go for gold, so we are told, now green means greed (or anthropocentric-ecology).

It gives its gist, its tones surround

awash in amber sunlit streams, a honeyed round.

These bees knees.

Evaporate to dissipate, all yellow with its white,

Ideological color-coded representing light.

Puffy clouds up there dispelling do not care.

A wisp, a wind, invisible in blue,

yellow of miasma, a heavy stench to view.

Blinded by the light, illuminated insight.

Details and dust, minute moments under highlight

backlit aura in glow, a heavenly halo gets bright.

It is the color of embrace, a warm greeted face,

a marvelous matter in Persephone's case...

Flaxen, ashen, wheat grain hair looking for more fun.

The Ylang-ylang used fruitfully in Malay

wouldn't tell or like to smell any other way.

Innocent in assertion, overpowering in desertion.

Wrapping around, at the end of the ray

yellow is what makes a beautiful day

Drafted, swilled, mead drunk filled pores.

The dying man's last words, a fluttering flock, a bird

tweeted the suns secret, in the buzz, it goes unheard.

You will find the secret in your Sol.

There's nothing mellow about yellow.

Faces of happy, or warm air, and for daisies,

slowing down, its pricelessly making maybes.

Composed 3/15/15.
Image of painting by Gustave Caillebotte, (1848-1894), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons."The Yellow Fields at Gennevelliers".