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.

Phantastic Piano Performance

It was during the intermission
we watched the best performance.
It was out in open the courtyard
during a Metromaniacs matinee,
on a sunny winter Saturday.

The public streamed through
the park with iphones out
snapping selfies and photo-
bombing against the facade of
replicated architecture, others lines,
inspired fed and resaid by other centuries
countries and similies reproduced.

When just then at the break-
a balding, middle-aged, frumpy man
with a black backpack, thick rectangle
glasses, wearing immaculate white tennis shoes
took a seat on the bench at a public piano
painted like our nearest galaxy
covered ephemeral stars.

And he began to play
and play feverishly,
and he plays himself away.
His head hung limp and
gently swayed, his shoulders
carried the notes.
Heavy wafts of ivory notes,
smoke and perfume danced.
And while he played
people paused
For it
was
Intermission-when
over, he knew, winding up
keying down, the piano man
stood quietly as he came,
and wordlessly shuffled himself away
taking his notes
with hymn.



Image of painting by Thomas Dewing, The Spinet c. 1929 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Composed 2/25/16.

Anchors I weigh

When I showed up

I learned from living on top of time

I was not welcome anywhere,

but hospitality persists

itself like religion

everywhere

there’s room.

My timing not convenient.

A detour is never the fastest path,

unless the destinations are the same.

It is safer submerged, underwater

where whims wont push you around

I found

After holding my breath so long.

She could have killed me.

I know she tried, more than once,

placing her baby bundle on the bow

rock-a-bye, like they do,

rolling for the wake to take me back

Her bare hands would be too brutal

and accidents are blameless

What doesn't kill you

lets you live exhausted

torch smothered.

Insisting on myself

I remain

S.O.S.

tethered to the life raft

that was never attached

to Her. 

Composed 10/24/15.

Image by By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Be careful what you ask for

“Was it really all for nothing?”

                                                “A beautiful tribute, nonetheless.”

“All the more reason to question why, or if I should.”

                                                “Always question what you should.”

“Why can’t you give me a straight answer.”

                                                “Perhaps there are none of those.”

“What I mean is, I mean, what I need to find out is...should I continue?”

                                                “Yes, we all need discovery. That is why we journey.”

“That leads me nowhere.”

                                                “Already?”





Image of painting by Nikolai Ge [Public domain, c. 1890 What is Truth? GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sundays with Mommy (Dearest)

Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
on my landline, she leaves the same message
if I don't pick-up, she doesn't call my cell
ever.

She calls to chat about her week
on speakerphone while my stepfather listens
occasionally making comments
frequently making faces
I'm sure.

It has been 10 years since they visited
my home, although we live in the same state
we are far enough apart
to blame inconvenience on transportation
and time

She speaks at me about the small town
I grew up in, the weather, the roads and wildlife;
Breaking News from Monday she shares and
sometimes she even sends me links, in the mail box
(newspaper clippings) that smell of cigarettes

She'll rave about the wine I can never drink,
she melts over the meal Mike made for her,
decadent and deathly to me,
insisting I am missing out
by being this way

She'll brag about her co-workers adult children,
everyone else's kids with a 9-5, who are
making a good living, while I am wasting my little life

My mother had only one child
and I was too much, she let her parents
do the parenting. She did this for me-
apparently this was better
for my future, sighting the hind

As my mothers' only child, the lineage is certain-
there is a 100% chance of never being good enough.

When my mother and stepfather became grandparents (twice)
I thought (once) they would become Grand Parents, instead
they adopted their neighbors' son, they go to his birthday
parties and soccer games, but couldn't make it for my sons
high school graduation.

When my grandparents died, I thought she'd be there for me,
but I knew, I was already too far away.
When my grandparents passed away, I knew she'd need me
and I went home right away.

After 520 Sundays, you'd think I'd find something better to do.

Every Sunday at 1 o'clock my mother calls me
a disappointment
Someday I should stop making
these appointments
and live a little (life)...
Although I know when I get home
her message will be waiting
past 1 o'clock
Next Sunday
for someone else
whose number she now has.




Image of painting by By Vladimir Makovsky, Mother and daughter c. 1886[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Theory of Speculative Direction

If you were lost in the woods,

                                     a compass would work

better than a philosopher

                                     even if you didn't know

how it all worked

                                     At least you would get

Somewhere.

If you wanted to map

                                     the Universe one

should listen to a shaman's mantra

                                     not plot it out with an astrophysicist

it would be easier to project

                                     realms by means of real numbers

shooting from the lip, a departure from

                                     the same astral plane

                                     bound by reasonable gravity

Altering the scenery doesn't change the view

                                    from the eye of the bespoken

Plato's cave was not a practice of spelunking

                                     to new depths

or sending our souls soaring to the stars

                                     upon plummeting death and worms.

If I remember correctly

                                     the act of recalling can feel like falling, sleeping or slipping

into the abyss of mind matter

                                     a memory palace, a sin chateau,

a cabana for one's mana

                                     and other obtrusive structures

machinations are machines

Like the disgruntled grandson

                                     who built a Reverse Infinity Instrument

(a.k.a. a Time Machine)

whose Free Will Manual Transmission led him to kill

                                     the wise man he so despised

an obviously inane and obtuse conundrum

                                     based on probablies and anti-definitives

that work every

                                     ninety-nine percent of the Time

but that too was just speculative theory

Composed 6/18/15.

Image By A. Ernyes at en.wikipedia (Own work Transferred from en.wikipedia) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons of Kootenay Lake BC.

                     

White noise words

I have sat and watched the ocean

for hours

and years

and while I don't quite know why

I still feel

justified

compelled

in waiting for a reply

for words I already know

will never wash ashore

for me to find

like unbroken sand dollars

glistening gold in the sand

reminds that chasing

never gets

wise by watching-

taking it all in by

each pebble upturned, every

gull and erne, the rhythmic

flap beat and crash, cymbalist

water splashing up word

dancing in wavy mockery

a song whose lyrics

are all pitch and roll

foaming at the lip

while I

still

sit quietly listening

to hear it again

and a-gain

in a grain

in all ways
voluminous, numerous

white words

that tidally summit
and blend back in
singing to sea 

and here, 

the choir. 

Composed 1/23/16.

Image by RicardoUrbinaM assumed (based on copyright claims). [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (edited).