Offering other-wise

At night

I did not know love

in darkness,

as if sleep-walking and dream-

making could be seen

with a naked eye.

I remember warmth

on my bare skin,

raw at sunrise 

near the hibiscus

holding its dew 

until it too 

opened

when the suns first 

rising rays 

touched its clasped red buds.

The grey-brown finches, twenty-four

or more knew just when 

to join around the fire

of a new day,

swarming in sync

into the tangled branches 

consuming this light

that pried us open.

I remembered then,

when this dawn rose

with my presence long gone

a self perched 

outside

consuming the same sun

and sharing the infinite moment

of opening

to love. 

Artwork (woodblock) by Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), 'Hibiscus and sparrow" c. 1830 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

The Happiness Pursuit

Personally,

I found Joy

frequently 

in fleeting moments

such as when 

the forty finches

fly into the ten-foot-tall

hibiscus 

for a breakfast buffet

of aphid ecstasy, 

platters sparkling and

moist with dawn dew

while the sun undresses

all the buds and

peels back perfect petals

with warm invitation

as in seduction.

Watching my cat

Goose

standing bipedal and erect, 

head cocked and

cackling quite curiously

at the busy borage of birds,

attempting to talk to them.

The finches 

feel no fear

seeming to respect

that we were here

first,

fleeing only when full.

Image credit: Poyt448 Peter Woodard, Hibiscus splendens - flower, a rainforest tree or shrub of eastern Australia taken 11/2005 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

crisis

Crisis:

(“a decisive point in the progress of a disease, 

that change which indicates recovery or death” Latin

also from krei-root (to seive), krinein, to separate to 

distinguish to discriminate-Greek)

jolted me awake, outside myself

only to find myself-upright-

reflecting inside squinting

the first S of this ultimate

silence in a feminine sunrise,

and savoring the final T

of the next fiery sunset,

                       this too shall pass, 

green flash-

I spin, and reel and feel

too thin, out of alignment,

this mis-a-line-meant

Crisis 

            was coming,
bones were showing

and there was much to do

about what cannot be undone

in one revolution
nor by
            coming back
to room temperature.

Painting by Ross Turner (1847-1915), "Sunset, Cape Ann, Mass.' c. 1861-1897) in Public Domain.

Light-years

The mid-September moon
rests its heavyset bulb over in the West,
while the new days sun
stirs behind the
Eastern shoulders.

The sky mixed the lights
just so-

-no conclusions could be made
mid-stroke.

What feels inexplicably
right about certain alignments
gives us false hope
that the observer ultimately
affects changes.

There is more in a moment
to grasp
than our primal hands
can hold onto.

The season changes
its mind-
even if,
the movements
were always the same

-the differences became too small
to notice
the rate of spin
unravels
in astronomical units.


Painting by George Hemming Mason, 'Harvest Moon' , c.1872.

A new day (refurbished)

Meeting with the sunrise again,
alone,
time strikes me as the lone
witness to this.

The mirrors are everywhere,
blinding.

I wrote it all down
to get it out of my head,
to silence the voice,
to make it go away,
and then it was there
in front of me,
like the horizon
line,
too terrifying to retell
today.

Better to watch
the light change.



Photo credited by Fancibaer [CC0], Morning Sunrise, 1/2013, in Public Domain. 

Belighted i Be

It may be a silly rule,
none-the-less,
the law against
picking poppies
makes me want one
all the more.

We should have been taught
as with butterfly wings
the word Love
should not be handled
without recognizing
the salt of our fingertips
inhibits flight.

And where the suns rays
first find a full beam,
a red tailed hawk
screams
in delight
for the day
is coming
and he will feast.

Seeming forever
fields of wildflowers
Spring in every nook,
gently coloring to the corners
and reminding us
that pollen, like Love
exudes itself
as every living thing
under the sun
became belighted

to break free
from the salt of the earth

despite the inevitable
returning,

Our seeds are always being
sewn.

Two sol's

There is an ordinary old man,
I'm certain you must have seen him,
he walks the coastline casually
every morning
just before sunrise.
He wears a safari hat
which hangs on his back
in case he runs late
and the sun beats him home.
He seems retired.

There is a scruffy old man,
you must have noticed him
walking along the coast highway
every evening,
just before the sun sets down
the light for the night.
He wears different clothes
but has not groomed himself
in decades. I wonder
if he sleeps
or is grateful for rest.


Painting by Ester Almqvist, 'The Sawmill, December sun' c. 1914 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunrise

And then it sprinkled

not enough to wake any

momentary bliss

Bacchus Backyard

The vineyards blanketing the shadowed slopes

span across the near horizon

Solemn in mourning lilac

Steam rose from out of the spires
and out of wooden crosses,

The sun masked itself 

in a shy white haze

that climbed through all 

betweens and up over 

the narrow rows, hurdles crosses

an angel in the cemetery
lands
the feet feel home

The wine is red, the blood is fresh

and tears dew

nourish the vine. 


Painting by Caravaggio [Public domain], Young sick Bacchus (1593) via Wikimedia Commons.

ante meridiem

The first crows of day take flight,

Gliding across the cool metal morning sheet

Confidence rises cool and aloof,

Early raw and pink dissipates like sunrise,

awakening forges

Here to face another view of this again,

All anew and alloyed with quill. 

Photo By Hillebrand Steve, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (Public domain images website) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In which way

The iron clouds pillar up-

appearing as smoke stacks

of weathered industry.

A white hot moon

dims in the distance,

cooling its crusty heel-

by degree-one feels

cool and aloof, like May.

The flowers will soon turn

their heavy heads toward the sky,

and the palm fronds will sail

and sway, catching wind waves-

still, for now, rising lightly...

When it warms up to-day

it May use more than greys

tinged with purple promises

that Summer burns

just over the horizon.

Yet, May bees, I've learned
aren't always knows.

Photo By kallerna (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

This way to today

The sun burst forth its light of day

from the desert floor and climbed white-knuckled over 

the frosty rooftops

                                                   beaming a widening smile,

exhaling puffs or clouds 

                      released in a distinct triangular way.

It dawned upon me, 

                                      low lit in golden rays, a sea of 

silver hairs and etched face lines, wisps of cirrus water 

                                       afloat, I am Just

                                       in Time.

Mercurial matters as these at sunrise

the ambience of obvious juncture

                                       enlightenment-the way-

the light leads the I -

Back to the horizon.

Yet again...

This must be the first

genesis

                                                                      Trinity taking the shape of day

like this one, our only Sun.

Morning brew

The curtains tickle cool and
I get the impression crisply,
while I can, spots all separate,
the symphony tunes each section,
from deep purple set on dusty rose
to ashen greys settled on lazy lilac
unfolding the old periwinkle sheet
low-lit and pink pill speckled
as though white was never needed
in dawn's steeping sky
tweaking the tune of day
in the background.




Painting By Unknown artist – Artist [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Eclipsing circles

The sky cracked

its crusty eye of

blue bags, purple circles

in a sign of deprived time.

The sun yawns,

peaks over the treetops,

energized and light.

The stars resign

their flares drown

to day.

The shining sea

crumples its satin sheet,

white-cap crumbs strewn

atop the surface.

The earth smokes

after a torrid night

promiscuous and still

perspiring.

The human hurries

for his mask.

Mistaken for a dream

the pale moon takes it all in. 

Composed 9/26/15.

Image By Donald Davis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1970's, NASA ID AC75-1920.

An Affair with the Start

I try not to deny

there are others

who like me

who relish

the intimacy

of sunrise.

But every dark morning to myself

makes me think, over time,

for a few stolen moments

I exist in the world.

That dusky dawning sky sees me there

ruminating as I revel

in its wee hours

most others (dis)miss.

Sleep does not compare

to the sun's awakening;

peeling back the purple sheet,

lightening up

and stirring the ashy cirrus

lit only by our clandestine routine.

It is between us

that watch the sunset, 

contentedly,

winking when the green flash

sparks oohs and ahhhs,

sometimes

called inspiration 

in others.

Yet it tells me, with envy,

our tryst will continue

tomorrow

as soon as 

I rise

for our sub rosa occasion,
the best part of mourning
the day.

Image of painting By T.C. Steele, Sunrise (1847 - 1926) (American) (Artist, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

4:14 (am James)

The darkness amplifies
any tiny tears in the thick screen
It is only i
that stirs the silence,
shuffle and peck.

A chime moves to hear itself,
setting a key
for Saint Ana to use today.

Behind the black, wind which is not,
the freeway tunnel blows and gasps,
cats eyes and downshifts, wind it is not
drops in the back, picks up strings.

The cats purr follows the rhythm
of his breath, reviving vigor on exhale.

The fountain trickles for effect
gurgling fools gold in the desert garden.

The birds all still abed in boughs,
have yet to set the tone.

The stars sparkle and wink wearily
in bursts that were sent
long away and far ago,

For this day-
whose silence
sounds
promising.

“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while then vanishes away.” -James 4:14

1st Image of painting By Wilmer Dewing, Before Sunrise c. 1895 (http://elle-belle10.livejournal.com/1795371.html) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cat Sunrise Image By edited by Mary Mapes Dodge [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1884.

Lamp of love

My Sun: Embrace me light of day,

Your golden hallowed rays

kiss my skin with freckles

Your eternal optimism

is what we need, every day.

Steelier than others

the nights frost still stabs

You relieve the stars

from their grand spectacle.

I can feel your pulse

when I am held under you

It is reassuring, like a baby's

breath, in a mirror.

Leave me a smile

before you set

your sights

on another day

for healing a shot in the dark.

Image By Menke Dave, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Snow geese at sunrise.

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.

Sol Amour

Image By Svendsgaard Kurt, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Sol Amour

To see the sun rise

is to be whispered a vast secret

To feel the radiant heat

prickle your skin

To witness a dawn

is to know what love feels like

The light and energy building

being in love

walking on air

on a vibrant sunny day

Long afternoons

that stretch beyond the horizon

last like lingering kisses

sweet savory notes of birds singing

inaudible but buoyant butterflies dance

in shadows cast for two

in that commodious vacant space

dynamic dark of self

progressively moving away

unstoppable orbit

steals the day

and fades

in a lovely way

leaving just traces the glow

embers which keep and know

of that now rusty glow

golden moments of time

fleeting past

turning to cold and blue

shoulders chill

waning like our solemn moon

in a magically unfamiliar

lingering evening way

eventually accepting

the simple phase

of love

and position of the sun.