The mana of the fauna

Gaia is my locale,
Terra is my terrain
Inside this
aqueous bubble
flora flourishes
thick and suspended amid
the primordial brew.
This is my realm-
while I am at the helm
I am in my house,
an island broken free.
The sky is not too far away,
a ceiling just out of reach.
On the tip of my fingers,
on the tip of my tongue
I taste the expression
Home sweet Home
and am parched
waiting by the door.




Image By en:Gerard van Schagen [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. World map c. 1689.

Smoke break

Smoldering smoke stacks from the monsters house
lie dormant and unmoved 

by the coastal swells
salt-water-air-swirls and slaps hand-to-hand
standing stoic and ionic.

Meanwhile July seethes
and pores drink up

like lungs,
exchanging into why
wait-Take in a deep drag
of volcanic Venus vapor,
letting off summer steam
the kettle screams black sky.




Image by Alfred T. Palmer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ripples of rhyme

There were poems in there...
A whole slew.

Now all I hear is a faint
whisper of you.

The pond is still
from over-fishing.

I have no more pennies
for poetic wishing.

The water waits
without reflection...






Photo By NPS Photo [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Muffled cries in the marine layer

Everything comes in waves.
Everything that matters
will remain but moved.
Droplets as dew travel
covertly along these liquid lines
where air and water are harmonized
and expressed as external forces
weaving winds.

Victims of our voices;
cliffs conduct the falls,
reefs set the pitch,
reflections in the glass face(s)
blink back sharp silver lights
tossing frothy stinging beads
and foaming at the rabid lips.

The water was left wild.
The sand shows where steps,
the lines, the lyrics, the chorus
soothe all savages, beckons all beasts,
who seek definitive ends
in horizons.

The sirens wail while
time takes its toll in salt
and lets the rest settle.
Absorbed and absolved
in a sea of selflessness.


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

Paltry pantry

Opinions are like canned goods;
I have found
none mind donating
some of their supply-
sealed potential in
security stackable stock
piled and lined up but inedible
without the proper cutting tool.

My grandfather ran
American Canning Company
across the great pacific railways
back in the good ol' days;

which goes to show
not everything keeps
nor is good to preserve
for all ages.

Do not forget, they suggest

dents and dings
are deadly defects, flaws
in this manufactured
metallic mix,
with an added bias of botulism.

Yum.
When you swallow,
you will know
its poison
by the after taste.

As for opinions,
fresh is always better.





Image By Daniels, Gene, photographer, Photographer (NARA record: 8463941) (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Positively pessimistic

Is it easier to accept all good things
must reach their end
than the bad times
that meet this same demise
because we repel
what its worth,
reject positives,
deflect compliments,
to maintain our polarity
or sense of balance
diametrically positioned
in the middle of the mundane
generally relative
to the negative subjective
circles we spin,
where we begin
pessimism is always possible.



Photo By OSU Special Collections & Archives : 1949  (first day of school),[No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two-hundred proof

In distilled-the man
she loved drank their life away
this was Truth-in part.





Image by Hill & Adamson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.