Feather weather

It flew out of my pocket-

                      the white under feathers

                                      floating everywhere

                      in tufts of downy orbs

               aloft and aloof

          making May

all dande-

lion.

The baby birds have begun to bloom,

                      the cats smell them out

                      and bring them home to me

                limp and plucked.

they seem proud,

if I May

speak for felines

looking to chat
                             about lambs and lions.  

Image credit By State Library of New South Wales collection (taken 1945) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Another recall

Re-collect

a day we had no need

for recall-

Forget that these conveniences can

kill us and attempt execution

indiscriminately making

man’s digital gift

a.k.a., Making lazy

better than ever before.

Back in the old days,

We got what we deserved.

No more or less.

I forget how that worked-

And now we just keep making more justice

and mistakes and give away reason charitably

re-member these feel good moments?

We knew this time, anyways,

Make America Great (Again)

Will kill the dreams

we forget when we wake.

We forgot how to sail. How to re-

Member…

I am too tired to recall

All the ropes and knots.

Image credit based on Detroit, Catalogue J (1901). "418" on negative. Detroit Publishing Co. no. 013177. Gift; State Historical Society of Colorado; 1949City Hall, Milwaukee, Wis.

Characters

One time

We liked stories, truth be told.

Stories about us, about our stories...

And there were so many stories still to be told

in every narrow nook and at the basin of every crevice

Lie motive inside metallic locks, under Persian rugs, in-

between sheetrock walls-

And above all

shapeshifting cumulous clouds-

faces.

There were too many to notice such

sweeping similarities so we let them be

Different, like wings.

One time these stories

entertained us with fancy, charmed us

in emulating everyday escapades.

We recognized someone’s doomed desires

before the ending, catching on, 

like memory and water,

taking its sweet time

reflecting.

One time

We told stories to each other

of the way it was, of the way it will be-

Presenting only the preferred possibilities,

such as happy endings for the good guy or our hero's.

One time we wrote stories

because we could make it up, 

narrating truths seamlessly

into lovely little lives, dressed ghosts under bleached pulp with black eye liner-

awaiting a familiar revival in mirrored eyes.

The stories one time

saved us from the villains, by showing us

what they look like 

as potential suspects-

This way,

we don't step in glass

or cast more curses upon 

one fairys' long, winding tail.

Painting By George Inness (Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Still

Still life was a blur

<the streets were still at 3 AM>

whist was little wind

caught calm

in a difference between light

and the eye-

still and coming steady,

yet unsettled between a particle or a point.

Line like a wave, bent along the way

solutions becalm the whitened caps,

allay this urgent need to re-

tranquilize together

and sync without dupes,

to parse with perfection

connections hang on,

to now, never was,

still.

Toward or away,

It fades

once death has taken shape

of a relative theory explaining

why you are 

still

here 

noticing the calm collected

as a safe place.


Painting by Vincent van Gogh, Still life with Quinces (1887-1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two Players

The game is keep away.

If we don’t keep some

For ourselves

We have nothing to lose.

A woman without secrets

Is a blind owl in a neck-brace.

A man without lies

Is a toothless tiger without a straw.

Shall we play

Hide and seek with truth

Which gives itself away

By its shadow?

We could jump rope

Or hop on scotch with one leg

Trying not to fall

First.

You threw the stone
pitched too high
we cannot hear ourselves
without breaking
something.



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

The difference between a Dream Catcher and a Net

Sabotage is a safety net holding trust,

roughly forgetting the holes.

If thrown a rope,

                          followed by the knotty words

wound upin twisted and twined you'd find,

                                                   Trust Me &

                                                   Brace yourself

against loss of wind.

                                 This body will keep

the soul inside,

Believe where needed, as patches 

so sweetly in red clay

sabotage calls itself Support

and says you may

                            lean comfortably-

this way, 

                            hear the bricks stack up

Briefly before

the windows were all caulked in.

Nobody could tell

if the lights were left on

or if there is anything to eat.

If only we could get through

starvation seems imminent.



Image credit By Nicholls Horace, taken 1914 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

    

(little lumens)

Brilliant (by that)

Bright (as in)

Light, like illumination

Or observation of Other

part and particulars

Also, astronomical atomic accumulations

where we may wonder 

what does the whole say?

Who’s to say-

Brilliance may be,

by relay, a reflection, the radiation

of you in the light,

letting colors concentrate

on more than themselves.

Bountiful or beautiful

from where i

stand

under-

awed and auroral.

Painting By Anna Boberg, Northern lights from North Norway in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.