Vapors and Vice

The hole in the ozone is still there.

Scientists are scratching their heads,

growing again.

It never changed our view anyway.

We caught no breeze, the barometer hovered

as it had, the particulars were all accounted for.

This is us, inside

a paneless window that doesn’t divide

out and in and even

if we were told an escape hatch had been made

none would climb up and peak,

resisting gravity

for a chance at Vertigo.

We have proven with balloons and bubbles

so much depends upon a human to wield his barrow,

display his collections,

vend his hot wares and drop his cool coins

in finite jest.

Planes and boats, both heavier than conscience

will float, but we must hold our breath.

Balls drop the same, roughly we round up

all the probabilities

and project our tiny lights towards metaphors of

eternally, outside of the time.

Separating by degree

and elevation, those that climb the walls

and those that sink their souls

in the sand, focused on forever

slipping away,

while worried about the whole.


This image or media file contains material based on a work of a National Park Service employee, created as part of that person's official duties. As a work of the U.S. federal government, such work is in the public domain.

Finely printed news

The woman with the thin narrow hands
trimmed and nude nails,
received the good news
And here she was
spent
and broke.
She was tired and should have slept,
instead, she nearly died
with the pen in between her fingers
and raw knuckles.
Even this was half expected,
she thought the words were enough
but they did not touch her in a good way.



Drawing credit by Ernest Blaikley (1916) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.