What goes up?

In response: it is unpredictable
Whose to say-
They know-
As though tempted to laugh aloud
in the face of morose climes, and
inhale all, indiscriminately.
Felt a scream well up,
savored its aftertaste like a wave
wash over.
Neutralized and
thought long about taking a trip
anywhere away without aim
now
the timing is never right.

What's wrong?
They say that's not like you-
And it is positively not attractive-
you couldn't agree more.
As a tiny and compliant
particle of the whole
that changes matters,
reactively
by the slightest exposure
to radiant negative energy
and bursts into nothing again.
You'll see,
it always works out in the end.







Image credit via Wikipedia, postcard series, The Dream of Flight.

How a breeze can bring you to your knees

On olfactory memory
that can catch you unawares
at the speed of smell
which is faster than that of sight
I thought
while caught
today

How the waft
of a good mood
is heavenly perfume
(or juicy fruit gum
fading with every gnawing moment
sucking it in to sap the zest out
savor the sweetness
by drinking it in)

The scent radiates below
detection, rising up to your nostrils
in a pitch to high to hear
a good mood like the tireless Sun
penetrates past pores
gets under your skin
fingertipping, taps your soul
on its sleeping shoulder

I am happy
being optimistic
letting the pessimists
handle the problems,
carry the lead
drug like dead weight
some call “fate”

I am always positive
things will work out
for someone's best
as a selfless test
whose answer is always True

I am even
elated
elevated to cloud seven
by not relying on heaven
for a hand
it doesn't have
to help me up
or out or
the 7 billion and growing
people
being negative
obsessed with doom
(chewing on juicy fruit now bland
gnawing and stewing on doubt,
instead of just spitting it out)

I often smell something burning
that's toxic
commonly applied as a caustic
solution

Then
There are days
just like these
when a single gentle breeze
suggests a smile
drips drops of adrenaline
across my bumpy skin
letting butterflies go
in dark places
where beauty should be
places nobody else can see
released and increased
the passing smell of happy
arranged amidst
a mixed bouquet of crappy.

My soul remembers
smells like these well
made of unmemorable stuff
that never lasts long enough
like fading flavor
tasteless and gone
with the wind.



Image By John William Waterhouse, 'At the Shrine', 1895 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.