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. 

Tepid

June thunderstorm

barrels thru

Humid-but isn't that wet

Anyway-All the little

People say "Climate Change"

But isn't the climate always

Changing-

People in a room,

Stars that collide and

Rainbows that break the mirror of 

Sky, 

as night and day

do not feel the

Same.

Never before is not impossible

or infinity imploding

As in a 

Cause to worry,

never fear

the constant Change

passes thru. 

Painting by Samuel Palmer, 'Summer Storm near Pulborough, Sussex ' c. 1851 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Weather (or not)

There are no problems, I have been told,
simply-events, an occurrence.

It is no coincidence, it suddenly occurred
to me, occur can be like low tide, recurring.

If there are no problems, are we living
in a comfort(able) zone, which becomes
uncomfortable,

like growing out of shoes,
or them growing apart
from you.

Returning our attention
to the steps we take, looking down,
we notice the children all looking up.

The sky is never the same.


Painting by Eugene de Blaas [Public domain].

Sere

Sere
see here,
it was hot.

Hotter than sin,
at November daybreak
and the swept sky revealed
traces, as wind,
Saint Ana blew through,
while the inferno loitered along
the way gathering a static, cult-ish
hung as tense air, sacrificing
the people clung to silence.

And as the details,
our stars bartered
over-night
over our dead bodies,
see here
some slept all the while
some wept themselves barren
and some became swept up by isms,
enrapt in labels, and role playing,
naming and claiming knowing,
the game goes on.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.

Sere and silent,
dumbfounded,
surrounding the crackling air-
This is where we
do not care
about whom you cannot touch
person-ally.
Such as the trim horizon
off in the distance,
taut sharply to keep apart
certain matters, reactions
into lumps of coal, carbon-copied
canaries as luminaries
See
we sing while we may
hear, cause for flight.

Somewhere over there
the water danced with a veil of flames,
the ice smoked with dramatic intention,
the clouds caused accidents low and high,
the land split open its molten chasm, hungry
to matter more.

See here
the red in the sky
is just a reflection...
Starting over.
This is how
Saints from below
wave their victory flames to Autumn.

Anew, we feed Prometheus who fumes immortality
burning his precious people
in the name of Pandora, igniting
fauna and flora to flee
anywhere less sere,
less here
threadbare and awestruck
like lightening.


Painting by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

About Clouds and Me to Your Ology

As the pressure builds

                         high and low confront,

trapping in between them a compression and

                          depression, folded in thick layers.

A cumulus of collective thoughts

                          gather gem-like crystalline

shards that slice through thin air.

                         In a Doppler of cirrus

the stratus changes, morphing into

                         unstable mutatus Mother clouds,

hovering, heavy and thick with milk,

                          curdling and separating their wheys and way

lost, aloft out of focus like mist and blur

ragged ropes, pull and bind, fraying edges as taut by

                          knuckles under the pull of Virga.

Then-

letting it all go,

unnoticed into oblivion, minute like tears

                          reigning in sheets

down Fallstreak holes

                          through the ceiling

that bears an air of Nacreous ether up there, apart and

                          weighted by the moody swing fronts

of days and nights.

                           The phases fade, leaving

traces of birefringent dreams, seems like

                           floating behind the Fisher King and moon man,

who overcast

his holy net, his wind we felt

mingled with water

we breathe.

1st composed 8/5/15-edited multiple times.
Image By Sensenmann (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Clouds over Yucatan, Mexico.

Weakday Wether

On a cool lilac late afternoon
high stratus pass over
aloof and sparse.
The sea shimmers silver
reflecting rosy cloud belly's,
bodies move slow and deliberate,
leaden legs with distant gazes
heavy under hanging haze
our orbit blurs the way
of Monday into grey Tuesday.
The way the moody matter may
flux and such and such a way.
January jumped on fragile February,
leaping on faith,
landing on elsewhere.
Doing days in oscillation
wether
weakly such as;
Mundayne,
Chooseway,
Mostnessday,
Hersday,
and fridaylie,
Why(not)play.
Alternately,
try,
calling each day
new instead of namely
what you always knew.




Image By Pseudopanax at en.wikipedia (Own work) [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.

Parades in March

The sun rises

as the rain 

falls

harder

breaking the dawn

with angry gray

For-

To:

day

Image By Jon Sullivan [Public domain] "Palm trees in the morning", via Wikimedia Commons. 

Incubus

Resembling the unwakeness of a Dream

blurred outlines

crisp sounds that echo hollow

sleep standing, meandering adaze

muffling the view

obscured by heavy air

pushing on pores

licking your eyelashes

in salty sentiments

sealed and enveloping

brilliant opaque light

shadows perceptions of depth

an oceans deep breath

fractals that float

bonded in obstinate anti-gravity

careless of time

synchronized now

grey matter of mass

drapes close on the sky

sinking in silky soliloquy 

rolling softer than thunder

momentary miasma

of soggy bliss

soup was ordered as a starter

to wet ones appetite

for a serving full of

mist

delayed

by fog.

Image  from Wikimedia Commons "Fog" (Public Domain)