Wickedly blooming in my mind
Only thoughts
That go askew
Turning shadows into blooms
Carefully hidden from the moon
Jouncing down the unlit road
Feathery night blooms lead the way
Night
Blooms
Mine are here to stay
Soft, grey, floating tugged by breeze, a light cloud
Almost alive, a plume from source, spreading out
Rounded edges like a cotton ball, smudged against the sky
It twists and turns, folds and curls
I imagine the birth of it, small, hot, as it joins the air
Each tiny particle playing, jouncing with another
Like a swarm of swallows, ever changing form, direction, shape
Seeming to have no firm gain in mind
Enjoying the freedom, billowing forth, so happy to be loose
I ignore the cause, I don’t want to consider
Yet it is there, this ground for the smoke, reason, rhyme
And so I watch this ever evolving cloud
As it paints the sky in front of my eyes
Unable to look elsewhere, drawn to it, glued
Then I find another focus, as life has needs also
I turn to them and so this become a memory
Amongst all the others, this is filed, stored, just another moment
Adding to my own personal plume of smoke
As a kid, he climbed the highest trees
walked to the end of thin, jouncing branches
grinning, while those below him shook with fear
His teen years were taken up with his 'machine'
whose engine he souped up to play 'chicken'
racing to the edge of cliffs, rebel without a cause
In his 20's and 30's, he hit the casinos nightly
beating the house just often enough
to stay ahead of the payments on all four of his cars
At 50, he took up bungee jumping
entering tournaments, spending six months
in the hospital that year, two months in rehab
Turning 60, he refused to wear a mask
A matter of principle, he told me
His principles landed him in the hospital again
He went from ventilator to grave in four days
My love
jouncing blood through me
like fireworks
and my stolid hands
caressing forth murals
painted over
these colors, yours to bear
in the darkest habitations
of cavern and canopy
This earth, a mother once
blindfolded, now mirthfully
shoulders our instigations
This earth, a child with no
dreams of aversion,
covets to understand you
and I as one story.
THE WINDS OF CHANGE
You can see the Wind only in what it moves.
Tumbleweeds come alive, skipping across desert highways
They break apart and little ones take off for lives of their own.
The breeze whispers to them..of safe hollows in which to hide.
Tumbleweeds, like Tribbles, jouncing over veils of coral sand
Repositioning Mother Earth's Blanket
Covering what is...now, uncovering what...came before,
The sand snuggles in curves of skeletons past
Mute images of animal lives as they join the Parade of Seasons,
Past and Present, Ever Circling.
Change is always....something we can count on.
The Sun will rise again...
Bringing with it...The Winds of Change.
April 2009 Lydia Brescia
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