Tres (trace)

Water

Today, warm raindrops

glass blurs, the blurry glassy,

sharp sparkles sugar.

Behind

Evening, it was good.

Leaves all turned into shadows

sky palette blending.

You

Broken glass, a cup

a puzzling of pieces

holds onto nothing.

Painting by Claude Monet, 'Pond at Montgeron' c. 1877 via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

Taken for Granite

Whereby

a  storm comes ambling aloft

which builds upon itself and

You are there to 

Witness the change

in atmosphere

Almost a reconsideration of

Truth, as it pours down 

Over body and soul.

One becomes

Baffled by the way

Sound carries or

Falls

depending upon

the time of day or night while

those spinning hours

make a hum under

Thoughts that echo

Passing through

this chambered grey space. 

We are 

Well,

enveloped 

under this veil

Trapped in body and mind

the heartbeat is 

Small comfort

Persistent as gravity

the weight we hold

Ourselves

up against wind and wave

Enduring the 

Resilience

Even while

strewn about

We become

overflowing, dispersing

Violently sometimes

Breaking down into bits, drops and 

Grains-

Eroding to dust

before settling

Eventually

becoming a mountain

Once again. 

Painting by Marianne North (1830-1890) - View near Tijuca, Brazil, Granite Boulders in the Foreground - MN821 - Marianne North Gallery, Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

Summer times

Some days smell like

Freedom.

I was with a bad (hu)man for

Far too long.

Often heated,

Bad habits, scarring and some

Evil-

Bloody mess...

Honest, my guts

torn asunder 

then more

Limbo, a sense of 

Death...

Dante,

One could say-

Then

In some particular way

the sun felt extra good today,

Felt my skin thirsting and gulping

every atom, warm and

Yum...

Like a perfectly ripe peach 

cannot be devoured without a

Smile.

Pure and True.

Each peach- the same and

Anew-

Even though, simplified

Into

As above, so it is

Below. 

To grow or die

this time around

the Sun. 

. 

Painting by William Mason Brown (1828-1898), 'Peaches on a White Plate' c. 1880 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Clear as mud

Enveloped, as I had been
         folded
into the dark mournings,
one after the next stroke of
grey palette,

And when standing
         upright
among the five foot stalks
of daisies and poppies
where painted ladies
couple up twisting aloft

precipitation,
and what precedes,
a worm, a cloud, a momentary
          levitation
inconsistencies become solid

Silver change strewn across
the steel
sea,
sense
              the bottom
of the well, whereby my feet
have sunk
in.

Artwork by Umberto Boccioni, c. 1902 [CC0] in Public Domain.

Bulbous

The earth slows down
just enough to focus on a handle
as if made for us,
made for touching and gauging
the sum of all things
with the unbearable lightness of possessing nothing
earnestly.
Time flies, hope levitates, spines flex in-
tensely repulsing gravity
just to keep up-
right
after the fact, I heard back home
the mighty oaks had toppled on perfect-
ly calm days,
the redwoods, however, stood their ground.
Meanwhile,
down here, the passiflora
already swallowed the fence
and now nibbles away at the eave.
On this evening
the colors come too quick to name.
It was
the tulips
we were expecting
to Spring,
the wait was too much to hold still.
Over centuries,
it has been discovered
our heads have become rounder.
When I look harder
it seems like
Venus' belt is shrinking.




Painting by Franz Werner Tamm [Public domain or 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.

Color transfusion

September, said the sky
stirring the air into a bitter frenzy.
With tension
teeth bared, her clouds growl while
making steel eyes squint back
for clarity between greys.

A breath of earth seeking rain.

Pastels all put away,
slate carries excess white,
backing black and blue up-
on sun less days.
The sky fell into our lap,
sobbing at her reflection.

Autumn yellow goes red
where the seasons bled
(out).




Painting by Johan Christian Dahl [Public domain], Cloud Study over flat landscape (1837) via Wikimedia Commons.

A taste of some summer

Stretched high
that unspeckled summer sky
in periwinkle blue, not new this
sea turtles neck nudges out in
summer sweater suits for bathing
out of doors,
forever and a day
to summers naked sway.

Coastline coconut and stewing seaweed;
this nereocystis inundates and permeates
in the roast of the midday sun and sea
crabs sidle along the tropic of Cancer.

In peach fuzz glee, the caterpillars
leglessly free and by happily hatched
plans, musts still wet
behind their neon wings.

Exuding beads of crystal saline
skin that shines, bronze and blonde
lemonade hair behind slathered screens
glistening with gold plates.

Every body mingles in the lazy
couldn't care air that is now
carrying charcoal, a rite sign of
summery incense and cannibal ecstasy.
Lust served raw and seasoned,
to whet craving appetites
savory a la summer mode.

Aflame we sear 

in ember days

while Venus blinks
the blues away.




Painting By Niels Frederik Schiøttz-Jensen,  (1855–1941) [Public domain], c. 1913via Wikimedia Commons.

Spring Rite (Haiku)

May gray clears away

at sunset: seasonal tones

may be come clearer.

Photo By Mike Stephan, user:Mikosch (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

X Marks the Classism

The night people were quiet and blue.
The day humans fluttered, clashed and clanged.
They never crossed paths.

The winter ones were strong and leathery,
the summer selection was worn and weathered.
Spring would come around
and clear the scene.
Autumn arrived bearing gifts in gads
of epoch proportion.

Meanwhile-
Above, watched over want
Below, held forts in need
None ventured in between.

It had been seen once
long ago, a fleet
was shipped to second
check, the message never
sent to Here.

All told of a peek
over there
where
passers by
wave and meet
upon approaching
the vanishing middle
lies a broken chain
where it was said
Time told them
Everything is different
Now.





Image By Daderot  [Public domain], Astrononmical Calendar, Yunnan, China via Wikimedia Commons.

Solstice(s)

If the day feels short-

it is because

I skimmed some

off the top

for myself alone-

greedily, while nobody notices

what was never there

to miss.

When the hours stretch

their elastic arms

into

for ever-

ask for seconds

while time

is free.

Image by By Matzei, Winter Solstice 12/2011 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.