Thursday, June 11, 2015

Sunny days with Purple haze


It must be that Jimmy knows all
we rely on his revised rigging

we can clearly see through tiny glasses
which are crumbled all around
as you said that which is built
must tumble to the ground

Eventually, 
on these long dogged days
stretching Pacifically 
horizontally both ways

You start by digging ditches
building by removal
connecting the channelled groove
each speck to spec, welding by will

And for the portcullis
a molding of macrocystis
do reserve some kelp for the keep
confounding those criss-cross-walls

one strand at a time
one per postern
a grain delay
water wise

These masonry molds of ornate turrets tell
a chivalric tale, a creation of deterioration

With a gypsy white washed beechwood to etch
windows, bars, doorways-all notably notched 

deleterious dimensions
of modern medieval convention

Wet cement won't hold
unless the tide turns down
the daily grind, of rise and fall
testing the outer castle wall

The sun casts long poles
from the towers to the South
the flood plain fills spreading
its frothy water line

Evermore, 
in this phase
of sandy daze
and purple UV rays



 




Sunday, June 7, 2015

Seeing the forest for the fantasy

I have watched like an arrested witness,
                                                   I have observed, from inside the bubble,
silenced from interruptions,
                                                   the echoes of my thoughts reverberating,
muffled and bouncing, hollow all around me.

A slip, a fall, down a tumultuous trail that unwinds,
                                                  sucked through a straw of destiny's tube.
If you can conceive it-
                                                  you should believe in burst bubbles,
suspended amid weightless fantasy
                                                  land, ushered by passing spires,
reality-threatening a poke
                                                 around the rocky fables.
Wishes evaporate into splashes,
                                                  hope heavy plummets,
hydrogen bound heavy,
                                                 drowning in carbonic dead wait-
Oh, if you could see the view-
                                                  if you only knew...
Up the boughed birch the searcher barks,
                                                 mocking today while dangled legs,
pins pricking shins begins,

                                                 Dreams fall as rain in bulging bursts
drop-
lets,
where mystic wishes, with thin traces leave wisps and wishes,
                                                  elements evaporating before my eyes,
rolling on and back.
                                                  Walking on wine,
Turning truths into tales,

                                                 Deep, in the fabled forests of immaculate youth.


Composed 6/7/15.
Image By Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (From: 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Waterfall Fairy, from 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921. 

Friday, June 5, 2015

The weight of the world


My pockets are empty, no rocks for my swim today
I am armed still with each of these quartered limbs

The rope swing resembles a gnoose, or a snake
the mongoose was always me, miss identified

Eucalyptus tendrils squeeze out mentholated breezes
calling the monarchs, two come to court, tagging up in streamers

Perched in the sappy pines a murderous row becomes a mob,
volume and black plagues grow from the chain mail gang

Humming while hovering over a well, the nectar inebriates
bird and bee still in recovery, stalling in their stupor mid-air

The drum roll of wind, corralling the dead, noting the tenor of leaves
swirling in symphonic disharmony, sloughing and buffing scales

Laser beams between tall pillars scorching the dirt, releasing the
essence, crushing the spice revives, in particulates burnt alive

The serenity of the lakeside: The tranquility of Tantalus
eternally reaching, mute preaching, still teaching all of us.



Image credit:By Extemporalist (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.


Going along with Grandpa


I liked it when we walked around the block,
talked shop, nothin' doin', smelling grass in the sunshine.

You told me silly rhymes, fishing for my giggles,
which grew like weeds, like me, you said, a daisy.

That song you sang about the starving old lady, now seems sad,
she had 49 kids...Instead, it made my mouth melt for gingerbread.

And I still sing that stinkin' Navy song, that is even more racially wrong
about a girl from Yokohama then along came a Joe asking 'bout Tokyo.

(I rolled my eyes, I despised it,
but I memorized it, just a bit)

Your tassle-toed loafer swagger, in your plaid pants pleated a la putting pose.
The flagstick handle for a fuschia shirt on fire, your tongue pinned to cheek.

Dewy Sunday mornings were the best you said, when people pray
I caught you looking up too. It wasn't for the ball, after all.

Sometimes I can still hear your pocket change jangling and muffled
against your copper chain bracelet, I hear the handcuffs of ghosts.

After all this time I thought you were just entertaining me,
showing me to build fractals, but you were really gardening, planting seeds
                                                                      growing the chance of epiphany.






Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Prismatic Proliferation (Haiku)



                                                   Perfect
                  Refraction of  Incandesence

                Shining   ∞   Multiplicty




Image credit: Dispersive Prism, By Kelvinsong (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Times are a changin'


It's high time
climate change be seen NOT
as a problem of neglected ecology,
but of maligned chronology-NO-
that's the result,
the problem is this;
We equate ice cubes melting in water,
which creates displacement, a delusion,
with polar ice caps melting in the ocean,
which destabilizes our centripetal inertia.
The top no longer spins the same.
The bottom not quite pinned in place.
Reliable gravity keeps it all nailed down,
sucked in our atmospheric skin.
Astronauts must drink with straws.
I'm no rocket scientist, but I KNOW
plastic bags are not melting the ice caps.
That's just hot air, toxic agitprop gas.
Some Scientists and Astrophysicists,
have hypothesized;
a gravitational shift of gears
to centrifugal velocity,
changing the years.
Do you know what that means?
It's heavy.
When science finally solves the riddle,
they'll find that Time has slipped away-
while the plates pushed ahead,
volcanoes plumed and spewed,
major quakes are cued,
and the floods pour in,
then the aftermath...
Adding up the data (to date), the evidence shows
a climate change, (yet evidently no one knows)
whether the change in weather
is a climactic conundrum
for environmentalists and green thumbs,
for horticulture or a culture of horology...
What we would do if today's date is no longer true?
It's now May 48th, in the year 2032.
I thought you knew, Time was never True.


Composed 6/2/15.

Image by NASA taken 4/20/2013, Saunders Island, Greenland, Baffin Bay.






Sunday, May 31, 2015

Wanna Rochambeau?


Like a street performer, like a trouper, (street: trouper)
I do my act if no one is watching,
                                       juggling my choices.
Mainly for free, or some pennies
                                       the Change not wanted.
With sleight of hand and plenty of practice, (hands: practice)
                                       it doesn't look like I try
Making Magic.
I am ambidextrous.
I am a woman.
                                      (they are one and the same)
                                      (Mother: Medusa)
Not every woman knows what's in her bag or how to use her
                                      Tricks
or treats themselves good.
                                     
It's dangerous to perform for others,
                                       without total trust in your skill.
In one hand I hold
                                       a folded blanket
to wrap around like hugs, a shield of
                                       warm love.
In the other hand
                                      I conceal a knife-
an appropriate protection,
for self-defense and public assault.
It scares people when I show the sharp blade(s)
                                      so I often keep it sheathed
its appointed place, razored edges inside.

I pulled it out of my heart one day,
                                      as only I could do,
wedged though it were,
                                      still dripping with gilt.
I am not a bull fighter.
I am a peaceful cow.
                                      (matador:grazer)
I do not run with scissors.
My blanket is a cape.
I am always begging for Change
                                        (performance : art)
From the stone that was my heart;
                                        I pivot,
                                        I spin,
                                        I begin,
again, two out of three.
                                       (the best of me)
The blanket as thin as a sheet.
The sword as sharp as scissors.
The rock that is my heart,
I ro-sham-bo,
(rock: paper: scissors)
(ching: chang: walla)
(ick: ack: ock)
leaving nothing to chance.
A woman will always win.



Image of living statue Kate Mior, performing as Angel of Good Fortune, Ontario Canada. 


Definitive

Confidence is the fear of failure overcome by intention and action. Deja vu- a memory of the future. Something indistinct. Yet distinct in a...