Lines under tension
The wind pulls on my harness
Spray shines in the sun
cloaked in a cover of kindness, my kindred conceals
conniving, colluding: their kiting of attacks
armored afar, yet still arduous against the arbiter
artful at-large he is, with his argumentative farce
mounting malice upon the mournfully mild or mundane,
masquerading as the meek and the moral
trust in the avenging nimbus, avowing its subsistence
my turn will come
Coming around the bend to find the atmosphere so clear
Seeing that off in the distance fields of diamonds growing near
No one holds onto this string; It flies oblivious to all forms of fear
Kiting through heavens gate falling a million lightning tears
Time holds no grip on them and will never be able to in a millenia years
Clouds are unique in that way; that no one controls or steers
The human soul on fire allows propulsion deep into the nights' sky
But succumb they will not to the same oppressor as you or I;
If all yielded to which we wield within our time, we too shall fly
in the surreal solemnity of nature
a solemn ant colony
passes in a funeral-like
procession
carrying bits of crumbs
and one of their own…
a lone ballooning spider
ceases his kiting
and hovers in mid-air…
hanging from its button
a chrysalis evicts
its metamorphosed tenant…
across the way
waddling mallards
halt oncoming traffic…
in a distant field
goats satisfy bulging cuds
with sweet chewed grasses…
one-by-one the solemn ants
descend a volcanic-like hole
of a huge temple-like mound…
as if descending a grave
the setting sun slowly sinks
below the horizon:
bidding a golden hued adieu….
Whatever Floats Your Boat
By: Tom Wright
3-7-2008
Some might think it to be silly
To sit and spend time writing
But is it so much different
Than fishing, driving, or kiting
All have proven to shorten my life
By the amount of time I’ve spent
And toward life’s end I’ll surely
Question where all this time went
The things that I have written
Will endure for all to see
But who will know of my big fish
That wasn’t meant to be
Or the things that perhaps I saw
On a Sunday afternoon drive
As I age it becomes much harder
To keep those memories alive
And the kite that I once flew
That seemed many layers high
I now wonder was it really,
Or just low clouds in the sky
I guess that what I’m saying,
We must each do our own thing
If you don’t fish, kite, or sight see
Perhaps you’ll write or sing.
Monuments of tired eyes
wall up before my face.
collapsing ranks of sane and civil thought
leave violence in their place.
Drying wells of bitter peace
keep crying for my gaze
and clamor round my clanking cell
demanding rest from days.
My visions red and gray and
seven shades of stricken screaming black.
my thoughts are kiting high and taut
stretched useless on the rack.
Why have you forsaken
and whats left for me to say
apart from turning short and faceless purpose
towards the silent withered day.
Sunny kiting
With a memory
Backdrop breeze.
UFO sighting...
evening power kiting
sunset’s dim lighting
Our conversation were like children feet
Running up the village lane
Our friendship kiting our words, no discrete
Babble, nothing thought as vain
The suddenly our meanings turn this corner
A little groan, another complaint
The sudden sense the body has gotten older
A stiff joint, a discomfort faint
Someplace in a leg, stomach or the shoulder
The sudden closing of the blinds
And a shivering sense the wind is colder
Despite the summer of our minds
Then the yelling went out from us, the voice
Soft, almost regretful, became
In memories and wishes our hearts rejoice
Our flesh is too old for the game.
Rip stop nylon wings
Like Icarus on the ground
Harnessing the wind
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
When the boats washed up surfless from wars
We dived from the United Fruit Company wharves
Like gulls naked in the light of their eyes
Marking where the shining metals fell
Below the howling hoots, and kiting scarves
We plucked our lunches from the sands
Then finless rose to wind again
They were entertained by our necessity
And all we worth peripheral to the hilarity
That refused us a place of dignity then
Opportunity to display ourselves as men
And sometimes my being had no presence there
I was a shadow in the jungle, an image of fear
Harboring animistic beliefs that could transform
Margins of civilize safety and shatter norms.
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