Wont you let the wind in

No poetry-

Silence it said.

It was raining and how could we live without

The yellow porch light, that lit the drops aflame midair

sent falling matches while we inhaled its sultry cologne,

It smelled like kerosene.

Nothing should be said,

but sound jumps and throttles anyway,

hits its edges

and snaps.

Let it fly,

was another way to lay claim on wind and smoke rings.

Seasonings and salt made new flowers, steeping in the dark

deeds have been doled to uncharted territories, stay-

what else is there to see?

The words will escape me just

this day without poetry… 

Painting by Paul Cornoyer [Public domain], 'Madison Square after the rain' c. 1900 via Wikimedia Commons.

Time wasted weeding facts

I smelt the rain first
before I heard it
rolling closer;
miles before I felt it
hanging in the air,
hours before I saw the first
drops staining ground
under the built up
barometric pressure.

It shows
my doppler doesn't need
a downward gaze at holographic
projections or need to perform
a critical up-date.


By Ebenezer Kinnersley-Electric Air thermometer c. 1763; J. Mynde (sc.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Abundance

We mind rarified
elementary considerations such as
helium and hope that just
stream out the o-zone.

While we worry about coal gluttons
and electric vampires,
the signal still comes
in crystal glints,
colors are just
extraneous.

The most resourceful
were generous
making love-
concurrently, we are
interfering.

Simultaneously
sucked in
shiny silicon i's.
Unwound and seriously
needing respooling.





Image credit Hugo Gerhard Ströhl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday Dinner

Lasagna.
Wreck-tangle in layers of cheese,

I add a pound of spinach for extra iron.

It is a production, 

each layer has a plan, to become part of

an edible architexture, an assemblage,
full fromage, flagon, flag off

in red, whine and green.

Read and cook, turning the page,
the fungi’s sizzle

and The Hidden Reality outlines details

of jitters, making energy and arrays.

I stir, it pops, I read, it steams and

condenses sugars.

Put together, my job is done,
I wait
it melts
all together. 

I close my eyes for the first bite,

forgetting all I threw in.

I think I taste nutmeg, but then remember

this often tastes like M-theory.

I must have forgotten the salt. 


Painting by Jacopo Tintoretto, The Supper at Emmaus (1542-43) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elevation in feet

From those dark mountain valleys etching destiny

like palm lines

We conjure up rain and ropes,

tethering our dreams to vibrant green acres of horizon

radiating our perspectives of

voluminous bubbling energies under

entropic skies

over there.

If only

we had more energy,

if only

more time...

We would make it up

and over and climb higher to see

what is

over the top,

finally.

The other side

is sleep.

Painting by Winslow Homer, In the mountains, 1877, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What is Black & White and Not Read

Dear Poet,
Thank you for your diligent inquiries.
While we appreciate your work, it is not right for us.
In addition, we encourage you to continue to try to fit in-
stead fast, stand under a lone wolf moon at the howling,
or some-such-thing.
Please note-our open minded period is very, well, narrow.
Also, know that you will not be known,
yourself unfit for traditional shapes, bodies of work
form @s.
I almost forgot, Notoriety. Silly me.
You must agree, you will be not known to anybody,
you are generic,
in the white flimsy boxes with the black sans serif
font-ain't it close enough
to alternative nutritional facts?
Anyway, we hope that you are more than satisfied with this
onerous offer.
Please do not let us know later than possible.
(there can be no changes or credit).
Respectful to others,
Them.


Image credit by Marjory Collins, described as-'loading sugar in a grocery department' July 1942) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Piece of quiet

Recluse, recover

Head on pillow, tucked in, begin to think peace and quiet-

Meanwhile

A riot swings a racquet the tighter my eyes try not to see

so many sounds blanket as epiphanies.

Snuggly, cotton covers partially, crinkling fibrous shifts-

sounded, a trumpet climbs up the scales, ring in speakeasy tones

two doors down from this bed, this horizontal head.

A boxer dog boofs over the fence, again and again,

the microwave chimes in.

My son strategizes and vocalizes his next cyber move with friends in virtual vociferousness.

In the next room, my daughter squeals, secrets I guess, tamping down her girlie giggles.

The man on the couch coughs, catches his breath then chuckles at the idiot box,
in muffled notes the next door neighbors converse in tension talking circles all tied up in Nots.

A muscle car motors by, fuel floats in the window crack, the bass is left behind

on the pavement, the other side, by the five, waves of autos roll by as white noise, 

white caps, following white perforated lines, swooshing along over catseye caps.

The neighbors' small child cries in huge bursting idles this bedtime,

the grey cat on my left side sighs, letting down his heavy head, insisting

nothing is that interesting.

A dove coos to his lover, and purr

the phone vibrates atop the oaken tiny rec-table, my stomach churns bile,

Blood swirls around my wetware, grey matter, then hits the fingertips hard,
my heart sinking a steady beat,

a door creaks down the dark hall, a glass in the sink, the faucet flows, pipes hiss, 

door whines,

and falls shut.


Painting by Augustus Egg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.