More Lore

Her fingers finally feel longer to her.
The ears and nose never stop growing.
Her feet are done.
Her brother, here first, walked and drove
at his own pace and patience grew taller.
Sprouting new grey hairs that draw silver lines
over peach fuzz, made coarseness more reflective
and full and great amens.

There are no coincidences in story.
The ending we will never read.
Ends meet and repeat.
One of a kind assumes kind came first.
Always out of touch with clouds that contain
snowflakes, we thought we could melt together.
Instead we end up in grey
lines of silver and touching someone with story.


Artwork by Pietro da Cortona, c. 1632-1639, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Orange-inality

It could have been
the orange sky
I was admiring
-he asked me why
I noticed
if I felt good?

It may only be its likeness
to oval and objection to purple
-he thinks I am an artist
like that
the palette and what is not
tasted by others

It is likely the ellipse
I offered him
We could have been randomly
cast in the color before
-he agrees dutifully
and we could be genetically
unique only as far as we can see-
which threw him for a loop.

I only meant this hypothetically
potentially when the genome metes
its random end
it would depend on the (re)combination
and assembly by chromosomal connection
of organelle by origami, by atom.

Adam, says he.
It is a lovely Eve-
ning, said I as I happened to be
passing by.


Image By Sondrekv (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.