The alluring absence of auditory assault assures asleep animals.
They dream of dizzying disco dances dooming dreary dancers to discomfort,
institutionalized interesting individuals inspecting the inside of an igloo,
and endless episodes of extravagant equine etiquette education.
Understandably, unstable ungulates undoubtably uproar untowardly upon understanding their unconscious adventure.
Adieu, my animals of disasterous intent endlessly unionizing.
This late morning's high noon scaling, steeply-ascending, ragged herald
Hauls himself upwards into the roaring expanse of the dizzying sky
To chance upon this, might though his very soul should be imperiled,
When lording over which is constrained within a dispassionate, encompassing eye.
From the feathered throat abruptly pours such Mellifluous harmony
As, lifting higher and higher, he negotiates a ledge inside a wisp of
broken cloud;
Those rich, dulcet notes, more decidedly sweeter than any liquid honey,
Irresistibly flowing Earthwards... a continuous symphony of unparalleled sound.
His alone the rushing glory! His alone this almost unattainable niche!
For up here, rarified and raw, the air is breathless and sparse where thins.
Then the song fully enveloping the shrunken patchwork of fields beneath...
Whereon, delivering forth from bursting lungs, that final triumphant salvo
he heroically flings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
childhood dreams whirl~
dizzying, gleeful blur.
popcorn smell wafts through the air.
cotton candy clouds drift by~
laughter reverberates across time.
shadows lengthen, dusk
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
s
steeds slow, music fades.
time dissolves~
carousel of yesterday.
You wax
I wane
You yin
I yang
interrelation’s
correlation
leads to great gain
Again?
waxing
waning
yinning
yanging
dizzying
fizzying
doppelganging
nouning verbs
verbing nouns
how happy
we are
when the fair
comes to town!
Turning tables may return the romance,
let’s make it hot to go steady again.
Fall into loving eyes perfect and plain,
initiate an exchange with a glance.
Renew that passion of taking a chance
the sanctity of true love we could gain.
Turning tables
may lock you within a dizzying trance.
Wildflowers are born in the pouring rain
writing out devotion with a quill’s stain.
Everlasting you’re going to enhance
turning tables.
I awoke hoping for a golden day
I’m easily dazzled, I suppose.
But it’s cool and overcast in Paris.
They’re limiting the sunshine today
because of global warming.
How can global warming bring a thousand harms
if it can’t even cook a turkey?
I love this after-Christmas week.
The crowded activities and Hallmark card events are over
but we still have the sunny moods and infectious vibes
(and no classwork).
My parents flew in last night.
It’s a holiday miracle.
What’s better than running into your mother’s arms
for a, “Mom-MEEEEEEEEEE!” hug.
Joy is a land unto itself, dizzying and potent.
“Your hair,” she said, almost immediately
- confiscating my adulthood with ease.
I‘ve missed her interrogations
and itchy, absorbing interest.
Re-entering childhood can be emotionally wearing
I needed a skin of those shuttle tiles for reentry.
The funny thing is, I get to watch my momma smother
under Grandmère’s beam-fixture gaze.
It seems awfully bright in here - far below the overcast.
.
.
Songs for this:
Wouldn't It Be Nice by The Sirens
Conexão by Amber Mark
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I reached for it~
the way one gropes
for a light switch in an unfamiliar room,
fingers brushing the dark,
expecting edges, warmth,
but finding only air.
What was it?
A name half-whispered,
a key left dangling in a lock,
a joke without its punchline
dissolving into static.
Now it circles,
a moth with singed wings,
dizzying the periphery~
so close I taste its rust,
so far it might as well be
the shadow of a crow
passing over the sun.
I laugh, mostly to stop
the hollow in my ribs from echoing
the same old question:
What was I thinking?
But the mind is a sieve,
and some thoughts
are meant to slip through~
small, silver minnows
vanishing into deeper water.
You make me think of a city
of spires and minarets
suspended in the purple
focus of a dusk
that seals the bitter bargains
of sinister bazaars
where gems and crystals mingle
the clatter of their light
with dizzying aromas
of saffron, incense, mint,
where silks as pale as moonlight
and red as blood on snow
and blue as desert noons
stain the heavy breeze
that falls through crumbling alleys
and stirs the scented curtains
of richly cushioned chambers
where lacquer, brass, and jade
receive helpless blossoms
of indolence and passion,
while from the far horizon,
beyond the groaning spars
that throw a crazed lattice
across the dying sky,
startled gulls reiterate
their clean, remote despair.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half the moon sits aloft the Jovian star
Its other half away in green pastures far
She sat leaning ‘neath the peering lights
That ever pervade such provoking nights
Are they dim, or are they bright
Small in stature or stood upon dizzying heights
From where she sat it was hard to tell
Then suddenly one fell
She traced it by its silver tail
As it illumed the hanging clouds
Then streaked across the glooming dale
Revealing the wandering shrouds
It tumbled down and out of sight
In a spiraling trail of rainbow light
I detest a late appointment, be it love or business,
on the breath of the Trafalgar,
and with Nelson peering down at such looseness
on the revered Square, teeming with man and pigeons.
Imagine being on surveillance from such dizzying height!
Give me a break and come early,
Before Big Ben, the lone cockerel of London,
Crows with that huge metallic tone,
Ushering in dawn and her smiling, smouldering light.
Meet me at the Trafalgar with a bouquet of flowers
And I will come with a white, fluttering pennant.
Let the match for love and peace begin.
YOU’RE NO FRIEND OF MINE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh scale! You’re no friend of mine
a constant reminder of the weight I desire
You whisper secrets in my unwilling ear,
of all that's lacking, a never-ending quest for perfection.
Your numbers dance upon your face so bright,
a dizzying maze of digits that confound and confuse.
I resist your grasp, your hold so tight,
for in your depths, I see only an endless fight.
I see a battle to conform, to fit the mold,
to sacrifice my soul, my heart, my internal gold.
Oh, scale you’re no friend of mine, I cry,
for you’re cold and calculating with your digital truth.
You ignore the beauty of imperfection, the charm of flaws,
the uniqueness that makes my spirit unique.
You see only the surface, not my heart,
a shallow reflection of my beauty within.
Oh, scale! You’re no friend of mine.
Hoisted onto a moon ladder,
dizzying height could not phase her.
Inside reverie’s ring
she soars into the midnight air.
Wild smile and soft skin laid bare,
each star sparkles screaming.
Uninhibited so high up,
she’s now prepared for a closeup.
Flying from rung to rung
filled with clear infatuation.
Twenty four carat addiction,
too bright the glister hung.
Scenery transforms lightning fast,
the view’s here then a shadow’s cast.
Ride swiftly reckless soul,
feed insatiable fantasies.
Let go of cruel formalities,
a scandalous black hole.
I dread Monday —
Unlike any other day.
Tumbling upon it — with eyes groggy,
And limbs bound tight with festive strings,
Accompanied by the foulest halitosis from a wayward breath,
With all the liquor and litter,
From the dizzying heights of the debauched weekend —
Reminds me of the journey from
Banterland to Queryland.
Christmas is a long song sung in winter,
An epic poem written with white quill feather pen and
Gold ink, and on clouds of paper,
Beginning from a sneezing December to a
Dizzying twelfth-calendar month,
When snow drizzles gently into the souls of
Those who hearken to the tinkling sound of
The church bell which rings gently with the weight of
The slow-passing season.
I see whiteness in every song, with so much redness;
Regal and romantic; flagrantly friendly.
Oh, how pure!
Oh, how sweet!
Well, that’s Christmas.
It lights up the courage in us to think right and assume
Merriment in the warmness of some frozen hearts.
It’s the best time of the year.
I swear to this because I am a child of Christmas.
It’s a time of fog and dew and sleet that rebaptise us.
Let’s not forget the slanting rain whose liquid kisses us.
And white Christmas of snow-carpeted lands and seas.
There’s no other time or season like it.
So full of gentleness and love,
Christmas causes hearts to race s-l-o-w-l-y,
As the year races on to breast the tape of seasons.
The black depths
of a coffee beckon the mind
into a bottomless gaze - you stir
and feel yourself swirl
in a dizzying haze and hope
you will slowly dissolve
into nothing at all.
But somehow you manage
to hold, grab the edges,
survive another close call.
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