Seeled Nightjars

The more I grow
the smaller I feel

alluding to the numbers,
volume made us feel safer
en masses
more than a speck or sparrow

excommunication
was what was said
by those who asked
the owl

in stead of the tree
Who
watched us scatter
the wait in seeds
while he preyed.


Photo credit By Benjamint444 (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Muse-ack

The music spoke its secret ways
that day
the note
in the glass bottle was found
and magnified you-

Up high,
a troupe of black birds stream
through the pink zephyr in blushes
-it becomes clear
they know the song by
wingbeat
the chorus
in choreography-

Silvers of this
lay strewn
all about you-
once seen, became
blinded faith
setting eyes
on bald faces
the cloud mist-

Soul survival,
the score was more
than we can consume
in a low life
mock swallows
in moments made
intoned by bliss.


Painting by Pedro Américo (1884) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Summersway

So the sun insists its way in
and over,
taking priority back
of kissing the skin
and drawing the ocean
on dreamy maps
that glisten.

The ripe sea air consumes
a whole head,
and it is contagious
with this trivial sense
of summer breezes, appetites of air
and lusty whims
that swing wildly between
again and memory, either or
reminiscent.

Time stretches it's long legs out,
roads unfurl possibilities in arcs, by bends
keeping mysteries, mountains echo
words overlapping in the distance,
and it can be heard playing for fun,
like us we were just
on the mend
and blending in,
taking our Time
back.

Maybe migration meant more to us
since we got locked in-side
our own ornate cages, (in) security,
as if this accessorizing, plating, and heat
signaled we chose this, as if these
swift summers were worth this
All (in),
for one great trip
away.
Sunsets only
a whisper a sway.



Painting by Robert Lewis Reid (c. 1910-1920) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Smoking Rope Burns

Rope rather than guns

I said to the man

-in America anyway-

As if he asked for some alibi,

as if anyone Wanted me: Dead or Alive.

Not that

I suggested murder or hinted at a

lynch mob-no soldier trained for Tug of wars.

I have no skin in that game.

Here is the Reader

with their eyes on the trigger

pulling out meaning,

hanging there, in town squares,

the tangled mass pulls at twisted truths

by yarns and feet, knots and nots.

Suicide is never the last act.

Remember?

A rope also saves lives, he said

depending upon the need,

in his all-

American way.

Painting By Albert Baerston, Belgian painter, Ghent 1866 - Gent, 1922 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Gaseous bubbles

It has become customary

to throw up ones' arms

and say ‘CRAZY’ as though

that could be

the end of

the ‘DILEMMA’, not much more than

ennui & effortless cooling

occurring naturally,

after the initial explosion.

The human being,

irregardless of the (in)humanity,

hovers with the curiosity of before’s and after’s,

and our re-action was our only second chance.

Predictions are prepositional

‘PLANS’.

Any body could conclude

All bubbles burst.

Image credit By NASA, Voyager, a child in bubble 2011 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

liminal

Fine. Pretend, thinly.
Smile. Pull the cord. Middle C.
Pluck the inside strings. Up.
Ply your arms, for others.
Cut. Hung. Behave. Trim and Prop her.
Hear yourself first, thought, same.
Note turned to tone?
Silence is preferred by the self
Above all else.

Despite, to spite the intolerably cruel,
Endure. Niceties, stand still. 
Erect, not flinch. Faces. Places.
As though-
As though,
You remember You
From somewhere,  around here….

Painting by Vincent van Gogh, The peasant churchyard (1885) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Abracadabra and ABC's

The plan itself-long forgotten-
was working, as every prediction
foretold
by the last of the learned.

It had been lifetimes-
long gone,
when it was learned by the rest(ing),
the dangers of knowing
too much
for thin soles to carry
comfortably.

Human touch was not the trick,
the magician preferred to work with
shiny wheels, hats, cards, cups and wands
Invoking smiles as he deftly slices
attention, willing volunteers and words.

The spell lost in translation, a dead
language
slang-shot not toward penetration, but
babbled by barbarians-again.
This entertains, now this-now and
never remembered-

None heard the chorus
of the sheeple's song before
nor sang along anymore-

Now it sounded silly
and coincidental,
entertaining and easy
to follow along.

Now, all hands-free.
What has been taken away
by sleight of hand, was never missed
soon enough-
none will understand
a word, meaning-wise.


Painting by Thomas Gainsborough (c. 1773-1777) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.