A as in Atlantis

With these eyes,

i thee read, these lines, repeating after me,

Love thyself first mover-

Touching is not happy after ever.

All we wanted was with in us, All ready

an honor about Time.

Cherishing those kaleidoscope views 

as the clouds grew and threw shadows for depth,

making perfect patterns that reflect you 

and eye am more voluminous than any body of work

with more baritone than you can 

Here,

horizontally.

Deeper than i can sea.

Image By Scan by NYPL [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I am mortality

            You-

Are afraid of death.

We can all see, it remains 

obvious to the living.

Your trembling keeps you aware

of your limits by

          borrowed body and baited breath.

Those weak limbs only lent in posterity

          become bent

out of sorts and in specimens 

You know, you have no ownership

Accept

the choices all there 

your self unaware

the voices no where ensemble

the sirens that blare

some semblance to soothe by

Temptation

          and taunt steadily

amplified at the base 

of all heart beats

and eardrums.

You

conductor, 

are listening for a pattern, 

          a way of knowing

the curse was weak

the cures were waiting

before Eternity for

You

in terrified harmony

aghast and kept petrified

shivering me to timbers. 

Painting By Thomas Degeorge, Death of Archimedes (1815) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Worry some, or winsome?

I feel no (blood) pressure.

No, I am

not dead (yet).

I wait for the machine to be triple checked,

and checked again

and asked

if I feel okay today?

(like always)

I do.

I feel my tail but don't tell 

and my blood is warm to touch.

Good veins, they notice,

they roll over hearing this,

I feel those too as they go back to blue.

Despite the vitals-

I am (still) not lethargic or pelagic,

worrisome or winsome, anemic, 

or academic.

I am like this-

          land locked atop shiny surfaces

even keel

in calm waters

mirror(s) but blind me.

I look across the reflection

and see deeply through

under the surface, currents collecting 

all trace(s) leaden in me

pumping ferrous Iron  

or capitulate by capillaries.

I remain 

calm under the pressure.

Painting by Vasily Polenov, c. 1886 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Name extraction

On the tip of my tongue

I close my eyes to differentiate

sensuality and recall

only to get a glimpse

of another thing

I had tried to re-member

by conceptualizing

behind closed eyes

aimed upward toward the starlight,

the expansion of the universe 

is demonstrated before me.

There, dark matter doesn't care

about bonding and periodicals

or a sense of stability.

The first thought dissolves

into the next

continuum of generations.

The name I need jumps out

shattering the dim bliss.

It has been used before,

it is thinner now

in this event

not solid enough to hold more space

for future

consideration.

Painting by Isidre Nonell, Thinking (1906) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Titilating Entitlement

       All we have are letters.
We have made many names with these,

not to confuse utility with title.

When I say

This chosen wisely,

You have started to build-

What is in a Name?

Impressionism in colors.

Blend and bleed by disagreement.

I do not regret leading you on

down the stream, naming and pointing

at amphibious synonyms, 

like crayfish holding their feathered gills.

As only bends and boulders can dictate 

in a white water fury, insurgency in translation,

an explanation of how all minerals find their way

to greater meaning than assembly 

or Magic. Deception has its angle.

Words like water most transparent

when calmly collected. 

Dropping names sink

Ideas float
Titles tell This. 

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

I Pink up the phone and say Yellow

God called me on a rotary dial phone with the piggy tail cord.

That is how we met, unofficially, when I was just five

my grandparents took me to a church

and the man in the middle, his name was Revren was happy

to be the center of our attention, he beamed and bowed

although I remember details like pulling out the tiny threads 

from a cotton lemon dress. 

The bald man, Revren, wearing the dark dress, 

a stage costume, I guessed having been to the theater 

much more, before-

he handed me the receiver of the phone, and shouted 

{He 

wants to talk to YOU!}

Grabbing the phone, 

I held it up to my ear like a shell,

no ocean, hell, just a loud sound called a dial tone.

When I handed it back after Revren asked me what He said,

I simply shrugged and muttered, { I don't think he was there-

anymore.}

Revren bald man shouted to the audience-That

i {did NOT BELIEVE}

{Pray} for little me, but I did see

i saw the light 

through the stained glass panes throwing yellow strokes 

liberally down the aisle

and understood others don't see this

from over there, it may be blue. 

My grandmother who had been a teacher,
slapped my hand
for unraveling her homespun delicate
pinafore
No reason. 

Image credit By Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums, titled 'The camera was great but her new phone wasn't working (1964), [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

deScribe

   

       

   You write mystery

I heard-     Poetry-     that is

          the same difference.

Painting by Philippe de Champaigne (1602-1674) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.