A vile
Odor repels
something sinister
kept safe by scent
Just so
A vial
of perfume
Lingers long after
the liquid disappears
as pen on paper
fade
In residue resides
A verse
Contains a moment or more
than matter, intangible yet
Solidified somewhere
such as Here
Averse
to keeping a poem
Imprisoned eternally
Ascent is always
Released.
Painting by Francis Philip Barraud (1824-1901), 'Prisoners of War' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
True to form
February astounds
How the stars and planets
align
For the sky
moods
Atmosphere as in
Invisible rules.
Where one pauses
suddenly and
Often to notice
The unseeables and
unmentionables
Or as quiet and mystical
as the snow
topping the distant
Ranges
And dissolving
Time
Marches on.
Painting by Albert Bierstadt (1830-1902), 'A Storm in the Rockies' c. 1866 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Creation is the opposite of
Destruction.
I wave my hand
in a certain direction
and create
Havoc or Hope
it makes
sense further away...
As far as I could see,
All that can be
Destroyed
was never meant to remain
the same
Goes
for Us
Undoing
what is Done.
Painting by Edvard Munch (1863-1944), 'Woman in White Sitting on a Bench' c. 1906-1907, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
The way a stone is tossed into a dark well
to find water, a level, to hear it hit
bottom.
There was no other way
than by placing our whole body weight
upon the suspension bridge-
between slats, between selves
could we feel it have hold
We could stare into the infinite
and never know the safest way
to move atop such vast darkness
By one step,
one stone,
one question, one more word
about trust, what lies
below
reveals it self
in sound but out of sight,
Finally
landing is only the end
of falling.
Painting by Gerhard Munthe, 'At the Well' c. 1886 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
...perception is us
not manifest
destiny or dream
boards and images
attached.
Artwork by Anonymous Unknown author, 18th century, in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Nor did I chase
the storms, even as
they came for me, that way
Did not run
for shelter stops
Nothing
we wed in between
such pouring days
as if a window
Opened
to a raw and fresh world
Where death and birth
dwell in unison
A reddened dawn
bled deep
into horizon lines, gashes,
words of warning defined
Old
wives tales,
words of prophecy
fairies and fantasies,
Or metaphor
like We could be
Happy, sirens.
Thoughts as thick as
Mammatus
dissipate for clearer
skies shall
Pass
Blinding truths
anyway...
For now
I stay shuddered
while wet and wiser
atmospherically.
Painting by Hart, James McDougal, 1828-1901 (artist); 'The Storm is Coming' L. Prang & Co. (publisher), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
