Beading

The wind breaks
promises

and I storm off
in bitter retreat,

sucking out the sour
isolation...

And the shoreline
waves
recognizing its relationship
with the timeline

inevitable as the tides turn
over

Revealing
what has been there
and who is dancing at the edge
unafraid
of falling in

for a pearl.

It comes in waves;
pain, sleep, sound, this feeling
the crashing is closer

becoming brackish
tumultuous and turbid for a trace
of gold
in every full glass
we see through

The warm breeze
blew away
our differences.

How easily mist
the rising and falling
of all things

may be made
more
than solid or whole,
as in part

of us
is always drowning

and becoming
one and the same.


Painting by Władysław Wankie (1860-1925) 'Fisherwomen on the shore', [Public domain].

absorption

The storm was done
and so it fell
into a fine mist

of crystals spent
in shards or more
mineral.

The after taste
of iron
smells like the steel sky
blowing by

or coming
from my mouth
in thin whispers...








Painting by Arthur Partin (1842-1914), 'Misty Morning off the Coast of Maine', c. 1865-67, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Storm chasers

Pulled one over on our Mother

Nature-When we 'wise ones'

learned how to chart               and predict, guess and check

her moods                               and storms associated with wrath

and names,                              personalities,

alphabetically                          with indexes and eyes.

We behold

color coded paths

where weather may walk-

sirens and alerts follow us

In spite of-direction.

Now that is not good enough             -anymore.

Without footage,                     there-ness, like live streams

in microwaves, invisible proof for the eyes-

It never happened that way.

Painting by Karl Bryullov, 'View of Fort Picu on the island of Madeira' c. 1849-50, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Lee alee

The moan returned, and it always came at precisely the wrong time. 

In these conditions, concentration pulls away and tapered focus spreads

its photons in flooding streams of white thought.

The wind knows this and is relentless, always. Careless 

to human needs for calm and order, real food and clean water, it blows- 

every which away.

The rising whine coming in all corners should have reminded us, nothing

is sealed completely. Same never remains cremated-

change or would be by the same name. Ashes. Should anyone notice. 

It is justified, to claim not to hear, to feel no steam rise, to believe 

this arrangement is permanent or static. Hope is clean energy.

Electricity is not a friend.

Dear me. It could never end. A break, a breath, and shriek, 

its thick harmonic resonance extending its reach in waves. 

The breeze dances its heart out down in the valley. 

It will twirl itself out haphazardly and we will see 

no steps in the routine. This storm was not predicted. 

Every light word goes out the window. 

The pain sank through.

Painting by Jerônimo José Telles Júnior [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

May-be a storms a passin'

The way the sky hangs,
on every note between birds,
pending with tension that is thunder.
A surge of need rides the backs,
rallies the clouds around,
now surrounded and we are small,
audible with weakness, loudness,
madness amplified.
And with a warm breath,
the sky relents with rain,
a sweet sigh, cleanses in resilience,
brilliance.
Miasmic mists that appear
thick with self,
but calm all along,
the bird holds its song,
while the storm subsides,
in mutual mercy of May.




Image By User:Imagaril (Own photo) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.