The Wonder of Thunder

On the last day of June
we welcomed a summer monsoon
tourist season, they say
The warnings were out all week
but on this Tuesday
the sky was in disarray, you could say
The conflict escalated
to new heights.
How quickly
moods can change.
How dark and eerie it became
for afternoon
we heard its dreary ominous tune.

It began from afar
amassing volume like confidence
and girth like tumbleweed
resounding and thick
marching on men
Then-
something heavy dropping
we look for what
or where, as though the air
up there was a source we
have sought successfully,
like a rope swing
with a loosening knot.

Looking up as though we speak sky
we get the angry message anyway
Its speech is joined by errant spit
large droplets fly
reading the notes
playing the part
of bass through bones.

My child said she felt minor
under the orchestrated stratosphere
not in those words
more like small;
trivial and timid.
The cats have all hidden
as car alarms cry wolf.
Homey windows rattle in their jamb
echoing for
a pyrotechnical encore
Instigating more friction
rolling slowly by the speed of sound
shouts rumble, muffled rebound.

Venting steam by shouts
just hollow threats
and yet we still feel a tremble
in carnal fear
like the scaredy cats
cowering because they
under-stand-what
we cannot hear.
Followed by flashes
of ignored intuition
stuck, grounded, in opposition,
weighted with worry.

The higher we climb
on leaded ladders limbs
the heavier and
louder the clatter
as it peals back
winding up
to take a crack
and shatter the fear
in what you do hear
and not a decible more
from traveling Thor
who was just rolling by,
warning of traffic in the sky.



Image By Prashanthns (Own work) [GFDL 1.2 (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html), CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturn in Retrograde

Wait!
Hold off!
Hold on-
What is going on?
This doesn't feel right...
Why are those stars so bright?
It must be a neon sign the way they align,
Vacancy 
I'm jumpy,
on edge.
If your friends jumped off a cliff
would you too
act-re-act?
But what is this cause
effectively, a cause for pause
of thought,
or not.
I lie
in wait,
sorting numerical fate.
I don't know why, I never lie
down
looking up, brightly
filtering lightly
through Truth's sieve
I believe
what falls between
may be indecision,
or just pieces of pessimism...
Seeing the signs, reading the route,
maps of the sky don't try
to make sense
of something so immense.
I'm going to need that sky crane
to see the hole
light at the end
of tunnel vision
that predicts,
narrowly,
Saturn's negative position,
set on a backwards mission
revolving by karmic volition.

Theta + Haiku

Spontaneous

chaos is simplicity’s Truth

change is not complex

The balancing act

of super-symmetry

through two-way mirrors

As the cradle rocks

lullabies of gravity

carrying a moon

Fusion of Forces

electromagnetism

binded by tension

A microcosm

of you, a macrocosm

of We, divided

Image By Zdnrp (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Headspun

“If someone says that he can think about quantum physics without becoming dizzy, that shows only that he(she) has not understood anything whatever about it.”-Niels Bohr

Make your point

Cradled in the smooth groove
stretchy slope, perched between
your pointer
and omniscient thumb
the hexagonal pole poised in position
and lightly pinch
its slender girth
slide midway down its length
or further,
depending on your comfort level
or prowess,
practice with pointed objects

It's metal headband
watches from behind, coaching
looking for mistakes.
Taking aim with the tip
the bulls eye opening is your mark
the electric desktop bladed machine,
a miniature tree shredder of sorts.

It will resist and rock, grind
and gnash,
vibrating and stimulating
to the touch
Five seconds will do,
enough to make your point
sharp and new
although you've lost some length likely
you've left some carbon footprints where
it whittled itself away
right before erasure led to its faded decay
ashes to coal, black dust in the wind
archaically, today the pencil is passe.

I still use one today
and I could continue on rhyming this way,
until my coal dark pencil turns light grey.
Then again-
I think I'll grab a pen.



Image By Juliancolton (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Clouded

“It is better to have your head in the clouds, and know where you are... than to breathe the clearer atmosphere below them, and think that you are in paradise.” 

–Henry David Thoreau

Wise eyes

Blink the drapes

promise me just a peek

into the whole you

Some light filters through

nocturnal pupils wink

in growing view

The horizon waits

posing at a distance

closer than infinity

Muted dimensions bleed over

open endlessly, unraveling 

before me, after you

Swallowing the hole

lingering note, an after taste

foreshadowing hues cast

between you and I

a line is strung

will you

touch it

with your

wise eyes?

Composed 6/20/15.

Image of painting by Paul Émile Chabas [Public domain], Nymph, (1869-1937) via Wikimedia Commons.