Cryptic

The higher you rise
up where
the air thins out-
this is where the words find shape,
and demonstrate a sense of self
in clouds, collectively
condensed.
As stars do-to become
the letters eloped without utensils-
or implements, lightly
from thin air, trace
this thinking feeling is rain...
Astrologically out of touch
with dark matters, in suspense
hanging on the line-
elliptic.
I will wait and watch warrily,
until next time.
See you
around.



Painting By Henry John Stock (1853 – 1930) (Blouin Art Sales Index) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pro-Me-The-Us

Smoldering is the only thing I can do for me.
The pungent sulphur of hurt flesh
waits to be sucked in.
The mind wanders as the only means of escape.
Don't bother counting loses like sheep.
All that matters
rebuilds itself in scar and calcium.
Atomically interested in erector sets,
likeness, hinged on proteins
means this attraction
is greater than one.
The smoke signal I sent
lays low, lingers spinning rings faintly
into heat haze.
I have become consumed in the carbon blaze.
Energy spent as a violent commodity, Life.
Yet by now the fire is finally dying
and yet sparks may remain if latent,
nameless and noxious,
potentially smothered by this body.
None will re-ember
the dank smell
of arson
on your soul.
Although
just about
anyone will warm their hands
over hot coals.


Painting by Hubert Maurer, c. 18th century [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Queen of Sheeba (legend)

Nee of the redwood(ed) hollow
birds of paradise weep,
by the little red nikita
swings on the leeway
across the lagoon,
so soon for a Februist
insisting
all water is life
look, brackish was where
the recombination of atomic diffraction
chromeatopea and spore
makes love in plumes
and lays (be)low, muffled (be)lies
that whole time
she never saw the aviators soar
up,
    up,
         up,
               and waste our days.


Painting By Arkhip Kuindzhi (1842-1910), Forest Swamp (http://kuinje.ru/peizag.php) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

A lightyear travels this way

A mere
two and a half hours before
I made it through a full twenty-four,
and it feels as though my head were spun a full three sixty
around again.
Why I felt like a wild witch of the weepy west,
crazed and amazed at my wicked self
under the full moon light, combusted on fumes,
blazing smoke laden trails on quiet sleepy streets,
by forests alone, I inhale and blindly wind the way
by feel, it is left,
I have the moon.
Bright tomorrows where days are too long
and night crept by all too discreetly
to remember
how fast-when did we get here...
In the dark speed seems greater.


Image By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.Looking across Tower Bridge, c. 1940.

all that cannot blend

trying to show green flash-
hear a heart flame burst
along with the after effect of shock
and awe
with rolling whispers when arisen
out from shadowed souls-
As it would be seen-from where you are,
already white demonstrates for us,
space occupied for air and water,
yes oil and blood are better
for what has been said.



Image By ISS Expedition 23 crew (NASA Earth Observatory) Sunset from the Space station [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Awakening

When one is woken
by the filling up of Moon
it is not the light...














By Illustrator: M. L. Kirk [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "FROM THE FULL MOON FELL NOKOMIS - from The Story of Hiawatha, Adapted from Longfellow by Winston Stokes and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Illustrator M. L. Kirk - 1910"

Under pressure

That summer evening
the sky was pink and raw
and your eyes were streaked in red.

We could feel the cool air
rush between us,
in day and under night.

There were monsoons churning just miles away,
we could feel these winds too.

Sounds became amplified
in dusk and static cling.
You could hear quite clearly this ring,
some say halo
spreading above.

Colors holding onto some blended harmony,
a lilac or plum, some and none.

When we look up, you say away
our trajectory changes its synchronicity,
which was never the same as settling.

We knew the heat wave would break
as much as the cold spell would snap
the last straw, but we watched the change
wash over us.

We know, but forget constantly.

At times like these,
warm rain reminds us
endurance and presence
are more than enough.


Painting by Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1732-1836) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.