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.

Go Fourth

The fire works
while clutching the cool stem
of rose colored glass
gleaning the glaring
moonlight into amber
crystalized tears
petrified
bead

kaleidoscope shaped pins
spin
colors that streak
high, piercing this purple sky
while the clouds bend low
to gather and take in-
side themselves whole
sound waves
to blind and echo
by distortion
and distance

like thunder,
like lightning,
like electricity,
like this short life

as in
sparks
that leave only traces
of sulfur
in a sense

bonded and bound
by this friction
as if it were
a release.


Painting by Thomas Fearnley (1802-1842), A Terrace in Moonlight' c. 1834 , in Public domain.

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. 

Muerto de la Noche

A solitary soul stirs
this night around
its geared dial.

Icy on the rocks,

all that matters
bends the steel air
sparks subdue any singes

While other carbon bodies
lie in their nests
heaving gentle breaths
through resting rib cages
my feathers fall out
and the kitten chases them
under the couch.

Watching the speed of time
and loaded with momentum,
and anticipation
for the light that breaks

anything it touches,

it dawned over me,
 (after all) an awareness
that all feathers fall
at the same speed coin wishes
sink
under the weight of water-

sometimes out of sight.

The brown widow and I weave
simultaneous gossamer threads
from what we have left
of the night that never
imposes its intimate knowledge

without our consent

and an entwined desire
to witness this place
we seem to not belong
but are required to prey in
for survival.

The kitten purrs in a ball,
the humans snore, fetal in their beds,
while I draw out long lines
the nocturnal pace
themselves
into the unforgivable light.


Artwork by Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916), 'Figure reading at a table at night', medium-chalk, c. 1891 in Public Domain.

Post: Meridian

What happens at night
to the air?
What is this
chemical cocktail
we absorb through osmosis,
take in-minus the photons
that cause thoughts to
sink
so heavily
and their intentions
stand so tall?

In this darkness,
we witness,
the end of days
and feel time
reeling
felt more forcibly by
the ever-changing set of
constellations that arise
in our latitude, or even-more
so by the
nocturnal notions as in
phases of the moon making
destinations
always
revolve around us.

By blending into
these dim hues,
our blue veins
resemble the Empyrean skies or the
dirty paint water in a glass jar,
wherein, all
blends, naturally
together to visit the heart.
This is all right.
It is only a subtle shift
in tone and pressure.
The blood always finds its
dew point.

These feelings will all
evaporate
with the sun-
rise.


Painting by Edwin Henry Landseer, 'A scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream' c. 1848-1851 in  [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].

Light flavors

Now,

without the sun

                        overbearing

we can be

just

Honest, say don’t hurt

just

because you can enunciate

                        I can.

            I can-say it-

Now you say it

Strong like Bull-

            Head

Built like brick

            Chicken

-house-

Homeless vagabond renter, 

                         squatter be

categorically dissimilar

part Yokohama

                        by strolls through Ipanema

Say, there goes another

                        Bohemian

Fine

Young

Cannibal 

               could eat you up!

What have you to say 

that won't sting?

From where we began

Now finds us in the strangest

                        Truths.

I too prefer plums

                        To lemons. 

Painting by Hieronymus Galle (c. 1636-1646) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wont you let the wind in

No poetry-

Silence it said.

It was raining and how could we live without

The yellow porch light, that lit the drops aflame midair

sent falling matches while we inhaled its sultry cologne,

It smelled like kerosene.

Nothing should be said,

but sound jumps and throttles anyway,

hits its edges

and snaps.

Let it fly,

was another way to lay claim on wind and smoke rings.

Seasonings and salt made new flowers, steeping in the dark

deeds have been doled to uncharted territories, stay-

what else is there to see?

The words will escape me just

this day without poetry… 

Painting by Paul Cornoyer [Public domain], 'Madison Square after the rain' c. 1900 via Wikimedia Commons.

Eurydice got jaundice

Be cause
the slight sulphuric smell
whisked off the top
by the cool purple night
sent signals, scented
words artists understand
as beckoning

-It is safe to come out Now-

And,
as far as frequency may go
undetected
and we hope to scatter awe,
                       curiously as
indiscriminately as dreams
Do.

Why choose these
creators, creatures,
to translate such dark
thoughts to bodily form,

two birds on one stone
already shared the whole sky

what more could be said...

How could feeble eye
capture any more light
with one small grounded
sol

such as
belief in something more there
may be, brighter than this thought
could scatter its spotted array
today
sketched out in perse ink.

Dried pens and then,
bruising egos bright,
all of this goes garish yellow,
away and tinged
in tangibility, catagorically,
and it is no longer clear,

How
my fellow man,
plans to capture
all of this
so beautifully.

The artist listens
to brilliance breathe regularly
in deep starlight strokes and matches its
rhythm. and tries to remember
every thing that has ever been created
for arts sake.

It is reason enough
to wake.

Artwork by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope (1878) in [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.

Super Moon 2016

Shadows at night
where wolves delight
soloists under spotlight
weaves and watches
the carnal illuminators
make mythic obscurities
to taste to night.

The frozen pine aches fixed
posing proper around the palisade
bats swing silently in the eave
while a couple of country owls
seek around in unisong
for the fox that plays the child
while the puma preys, and remains wild.

An hour more magical miscreancy
left to fancy fullness in excess
lavishly luna lends her silver linings
in phantom phases
bewitched but ever grave
over night like this luscious

black sea, velvet
tidings in abundance
this softer sway
to ward
the lite of tapering
day, courtship comes
home.



Image credit: unknown, (source: social media share) account holder anonymous. 

Sleeping suburbia

Suburban street night lights

show collarless cats on the dusky prowl

for others and Friday night laughter, squeals,

leak out over the rooftops.

Venus loosens her belt

of lavender lingerie.

It is called, Good Evening.

A front door closes, somewhere

down the block-moan and thud,

then a dog speaks up,

in protest or jest.

Kerrr-clunK, kerrr-clunK,

rolls a skateboard by my

bedroom window where my

bed is against the window.

I see a silhouette where

the belly of the open rose

is quietly collecting dew.

Beauty sleeping bloom.

Cast in the far corner

on my white walls, the moon-

light speaks, near the door

-Beckoning-

for more room fortnight.

Photo Unknown (not given) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Nightvision

Silver sliver slit of moon

acts archaic atop adorned academies, antiquity

of old ordained, ornate, obstinate, and now obtuse

proclivities, profusely posing purporting professorship,

impelled into impervious impatient improprieties.

Notions by night, nearly now, it's too near novice to notice.

We will wait while the world wakes wearily,

today, teach the truth, telling tales, trusting stories to-

gether, gathering, groaning, gaining girth and gravity as we go

up right, up-tight, up early, up-side-down, unnoticed, in parity, and undulate.

Caught, covered by coal clouds carpeting the charisma

blue-black-blinking-bringing-back

wisps of white words which purple pink

disappear during daylight,

alone little line left

hanging on the hazy horizon, humidity hovers heavily

upon us.

Image By Long, William J. (William Joseph), 1867-1952 [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.

Night words

Orb-sessed with moon-ness
stalking the same language: Flow
aglow in phases.



Painting by By Casimiro Sainz (1853-1898) (Pinterest) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.