Shaking out olde rags

Tattered paths erase steps trod to crooked gait
Frayed regality clenched its hard youth worn spite,
And yonder in gilded hours the sun burns its envy
Gathers all ye spent colours; flames out to embers
Aloft nothing matches your plundering stride
stars nor nightingales flash iridescent tails to follow-
feet planted firm,calm thy nerves -O weary traveler!
Linger here, Inns and Outs have long now closed
While history makes repast to fill the o'er sated
with seconds. Ere-the noblest pastures lie
Certain and sure of you!
             Will you not take thy eager soul strides?
              To meet my waiting expanse half-way?











Image By Rocky Mountain National Park (C.C.C. trail construction Red Mountain Trail) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I can chillax, can you?

There is only one thing
you likely don't know about me-
And that is-
I make the most interesting
ice cubes-
Of course, others make these too-
and I know I do not do the freezing
alone-
But-you cannot deny-it is I
who puts the water right there-
where now there-is occupied in ice-
Nice-right?
I mean-
I made the molecules-merely
molded them there, made it "New"
like an Artist-Scientist-
BWAH-HA-HA-HA!
My lips must be numb...
And that facet too, micro-magic,
like Prozac-
s-s-l-o-o-o-o-w-w-i-n-n-n-g down those
neural leaps-or lips-I must be numb-or dumb?
And yet regardless, the swelling still subsides.
Cryo-linguistically speaking, I guess
I have adept-ed and tuned this chill-
And yes, I can perform this skill
upon request-particulate-ly
for any swollen or hot head guest
who may have hit their head
like me-
and like to eat their water too.



Image By CopyrightFreePhotos CopyrightFreePhotos.HQ101.com (Own work by uploader [1]) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

As far as echoes go

I suspect I write for the same reason
a whale sings a song
(more than mating call)

I wish we had sonar or echo-location.

I guess few to none understand
me either-a bit of a riddle

I sense something more
than words can trap temporarily
always around, like sound.

I comprehend not wanting to know-
ergo-filling space with empty waste.

I wonder where others
put their excess words?

I feel we all have them,
a medium waiting to be heard
largely by you
alone
without a pod
in the abyss.

All of our words salt the sea
with trace minerals
of meaning and glimmers to glean.


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

Spring Rite (Haiku)

May gray clears away

at sunset: seasonal tones

may be come clearer.

Photo By Mike Stephan, user:Mikosch (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Poet (Haiku)

Why do you poem?

An attempt to word wisely

while I understand.

Image by James Sant [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (Enigma).

Grape and Plum: A Raisin to Prune

Something says
Mature
about a grape
or a plum
per se
symbolically
a tinge of empyrean
or is it in the color?

Have you
perchance
tasted a sour one?

You know you cannot tell
by the purple shell-
when even the peachiest flesh
bites back, bitterly.

Grape and plum wind
up to a higher air, elevated
and astutely erudite.

Ever-enduring and life-sustaining
fruits and stones, vines and arbors
plucked and dried to dehydration
where sugar is preserved
inside the lines.

Out from the water
which now makes our skin
resemble these: raisins or prunes,
making wine or meijiu
with the aide of lemons.

A tangled path,
the wrath of a wife
whose plum mad
one of her perfect speci-
mens-
was cooly
stolen from the fridge.

Maturely,
with sticky June juice
on her chin, she wins-
she smiles at the sweet one
she got,
knowing these
are life lessons
in taste.



Image of painting by Anne Vallayer-Coster, c. 1778 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Me, me, me, me

Is it fair to wonder
when I can be the me
I see,
when I think of who
I want to be-
come from where I stand
now-
it looks far as never
and if I am ever as close
as I am now,
I wonder if I will notice
the fair resemblance
to my former self-
or will I wish
to go on
wondering who
the next me will be?



Image of painting by Léon Perrault, c. 1868 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.