Under pressure

That summer evening
the sky was pink and raw
and your eyes were streaked in red.

We could feel the cool air
rush between us,
in day and under night.

There were monsoons churning just miles away,
we could feel these winds too.

Sounds became amplified
in dusk and static cling.
You could hear quite clearly this ring,
some say halo
spreading above.

Colors holding onto some blended harmony,
a lilac or plum, some and none.

When we look up, you say away
our trajectory changes its synchronicity,
which was never the same as settling.

We knew the heat wave would break
as much as the cold spell would snap
the last straw, but we watched the change
wash over us.

We know, but forget constantly.

At times like these,
warm rain reminds us
endurance and presence
are more than enough.


Painting by Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1732-1836) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Poseidon's wild night

Pyramid fog under culdesac lamped dawn
dripping the muted color palette excessively
in purples-
white barely sprinkles-mists this early risen air.
The pacific ocean levitates and exudes its salt
over shoulders of waves-
to be gently folded back in
making stardust today.
Amphibious, us, yes, fib-i-ous, I am,
it hydrates the eyes
and settles the nerves.
A saline stench of lust lingers as gunsmoke
while dew sparkles in sweat,
the horizon still gripping the sheets
ablush in disappearing privacy
from the sky sleeping under the sea
buoyed up to blue skies nascency.



Photo By Sowls Art, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Bering Sea in fog [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Always greener

I have been watering the grass,
I have brushed my teeth-wait-yes,
with the water on too long
I have washed my car-
worse I have had it washed.
I have cut the two best roses
for myself by the coffeepot
to smell in the morning.
I have said too much,
I have said nothing at all.
I have flooded the attic-
and the walls may cave
in on me-
but that would be selfishly
about me.
I have sunk to new levels,
as water will often dew.



Image By Leon Brooks [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

@ the Piers Edge

I shudder to think of jumping in-
which toe first...
or how to swim?

Perhaps it was warmer then...

Now my icy blue veins are showing through-
But brazenness grows like a dragon in my chest

         and i see naked me, vulnerably, visibly,
trembling at the waters edge-
red tears pool about
                               -then this trepidation
                                lulls me in
But I stand firm. Rooted. Waiting for the tide to rise,
high enough
to reach me
                   before I begin
                   to sink any further.

I remember in there
it is warmer than the air...



Painting by Edvard Munch [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hide & Seek

Depending upon your (pre)position
you know something has been missing
never there before perhaps,
up to your pointed laser view.
Also, suspect,
a break was needed,
new as and empty as the day sky,
open to be filled again
with dark matter.
The wax melts still
and cools our jets yet
taking it all in
was never personal.
Decay, as they say, as decay
is only natural.
You see how the light dissipates thin and wide,
they called them rays,
and they were good
enough for day.
The dark side always creeps away,
conserving potential, greater than the sun
only to begin again
scratching and digging out of the grave
new world.




Photo By Yellowstone National Park from Yellowstone NP, USA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Swing, swing

If given enough strong rope to swing safely on
we should all say less and do more.
None of us think there is time enough for all,
some never start running until the finish line
is in sight.
Mountains and hills are of course the same things,
inclinations of opposition.
See,
Sin is simply super-stition, I pray for them too-
on the other side.
I fear it is all downhill, smooth sailing and paragliding-
how much a free fall feels like flying
-while suspended-
-with limbs tied-
-stretches the silence-
into reasonable soundness
(with words in between).

Catch & Release

You may have caught my gaze,
strangling my breath
by the gauge of your twisted line.
A casualty,
in a swoop of wind
disturbing the flow-
now you will let me go
for sport.
Remind me of the rules
once more,
since participation is voluntary
and mine has been cut short.
Spar and span, pick your sport,
there will always be one better.





Painting by Winslow Homer [Public domain], Fishin (1879) via Wikimedia Commons.