I’m envious of the clouds
That float happily in the sun -
Changing into colorful shrouds -
Lumping from many into one.
Their most compatible friend -
The wind, admits
They beautify the high heaven -
As nebulosity permits -
Travel without a passport -
Slipping away on a whim
For a day’s length or more -
Then return a denizen.
midsummer midnightand sweet dreams
orchestra of crickets
a steady snore
blades spinning overhead
moon tapping the blinds
midsummer midnight
eyes darting back & forth
between fantasias
and goosebumps, nebulosity
between reality
and surrealism
midsummer midnight
the court of inside & out
each one, unknown
to the other - a cup of joe
extracts the residuals
fog lifts with cream and a pour
Shimmering over a glassy sea, a moonlight carpet beams.
My walkway high to a starlit sky of memories from my dreams.
There mighty Taurus, rip-snortin’ bull, lowers his horns for battle.
Naked on his shoulders Seven Sisters ride side-saddle.
Dazzling diamonds, blue-white ice,
blazing through nebulosity.
Merope mocked and mooned me twice,
twerking with faux ferocity.
“Begone now, mortal, from my sight,
who dares defile the very night.
Look down upon the moonlit glade,
bear witness to the mayhem made.”
Agape, the Pleiad sisters wailed while yonder Cetus spouted.
“The culprit must be caught and jailed,” the rueful Virgo shouted.
The heavens heaved, so much offended,
torn fabric of time could not be mended.
Then darkness fell like a clap of thunder,
were it not for Einstein’s Biggest Blunder,
the Universe was blown asunder.
Who once wrote “God plays not with dice,”
had not known anything of such vice,
said: “Reading erotic poetry can’t compete with cosmic knowitry.”
Submitted: 6/2/2019
It lurks there, fitfully
around the corner of my mind
and will not show its face
like an April thunderfront, and
scarce aware that winter slipped away
a week ago behind a cloud of consciousness,
reluctantly occludes the air with nebulosity,
a shy Olympus in denial.
It moves within my chest, a void
creating sleep, denying it
as some sardonic phantom torture
just outside the room...
the stillness its ally...
the calm a faithless sanctuary,
death delayed as if my very breath were there
to test a faith that I no longer own.
What kind of ghost reality
will mock its own existence...
claim its victim with an objectivity
in doubt...a phantom court
without a charge to read,
a plaintiff unidentified?
Indeed, what kind of God
could graciously endow
his Adam in a garden home
so redolent with unseen sin
diffused before his unborn eyes?
I do not know. For though millenia
have passed, I'm only of hominidae,
my blueprint is not finished and
my paradisal masterwork
amorphous, cold beneath my touch,
and still.
~
There is a sliver of the dawn
upon the earth and sky,
as escort to the sun that speeds the day
and will not let it die....that rushes forth
aggressively upon the penitence of night.
So is the love that travels on that constancy,
in haste to flood the nether earth
with light arriving as a grace,
that perquisite inborn in all humanity,
and dusty with neglect.
It falls upon us, sweepers of
this cosmic bridal path, to celebrate
a permanent retreat of shadow,
consecrate the razored liberation
of surrender to the dark.
It falls to morning as the benison of day.
Its racing touch upon the sluggish earth
is the pursuer, not the fugitive.
It is the fabled hound of heaven,
its brilliance a progenitor,
an aid to understand
the raging nebulosity of man.
~
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