Storm front

 

Nor did I chase

the storms, even as 

they came for me, that way

Did not run

for shelter stops

Nothing

we wed in between

such pouring days

as if a window

Opened

to a raw and fresh world

Where death and birth

dwell in unison

A reddened dawn 

bled deep

into horizon lines, gashes,

words of warning defined

Old

wives tales,

words of prophecy

fairies and fantasies,

Or metaphor

like We could be

Happy, sirens.

Thoughts as thick as 

Mammatus

dissipate for clearer 

skies shall 

Pass

Blinding truths

anyway...

For now 

I stay shuddered

while wet and wiser

atmospherically.

 

Painting by Hart, James McDougal, 1828-1901  (artist); 'The Storm is Coming' L. Prang & Co. (publisher), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

The Monarchy of October

From my quiet pitch in my pj's

the dawns dark fire rekindled

under the coal clouds

embers embracing day 

remembering and warming

their undersides

pink lily liver bellies 

waiting for white to shine on...

The shadows never slept,

spoke the moon softly

who watched 

the menage a trois

of Mars, Venus and Jupiter

atop the altocumulus stage

late and lascivious at this hour-

A hush and the sky gives way

to orange, Octobers delicacy

indulgent, licking glad and warm, 

Indians wave

at the passing warm breeze 

the kindred Monarch

of summer reborn 

taking the Santa Ana pass

linger now

A black phoebe cracks

shells in the slow stir
of rise and shine

human voices splinter

lips labor for slivers, 

making first words

untruth

whispers and thoughts

are better for the butterflies

already dressed 

for Octobers occasion. 

Image by By Lisafern (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.