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.

Beyond Reason

Tell me please,

if you have seen,

what lies between the magnet

and the object of its pursuit?

It's a pull, yes. Explainable;

quite easily, right-?

But can you touch the chord;

pull it like a string, strum it, interrupt it?

Of course.

But where is it from-

beyond attraction...

So, gravity has the same modus operandi.

As nondiscriminatory, as flexible, per se, so one says.

It's a Law of Physics too-one can be sure.

While we break it every day, obsessed by

Air Anarchy, in our endless tries to defy

flights of fancy, let’s do levitation, zero gee.

Not explaining the monkey on our shoulders,

elephants squatting on chests, legs like lead,

and arms that mysteriously float

after being constrained, contained, compressed-

beyond extraction…

Okay, now what is that smell, and why, or how does it work?

The innate swoon of a baby’s head,

making a maternal perfume; loves incense;

coconut oil melting in the sun, beads rest on sandy shards,

smoky wood in campfire rings, popping on a summer's night,

warm cinnamon...

The crook of your neck, just behind your left ear lobe

crackly new books,

squeaky clean skin-

beyond satisfaction…

I won't bother asking, from where or what,

is this thing, so refuted by scholars, called intuition-

since it is beyond my simple human erudition-

but is scientifically, senselessly, purely poetic,

beyond literal abstraction…

Image of painting (oil) by Jacob Philipp Hackert, 'Fisher Family at nighttime campfire with turbulent sea', 1778. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.