I hear the susurrus of wind
combing through sycamore
leaves,
a liquid, percussive hush
that trembles against the
windowpane.
Distant traffic hums- a
low, guttural undertone to
sparrows
arguing in bright, staccato
syllables above the
telephone wires.
I touch the luminous grain
of the wooden table,
cool and pitted, worn
smooth by years of palms
and coffee rings.
Sunlight lays itself across
my skin in incandescent
ribbons,
while the air carries the
faint, powdery silk of dust in
motion.
I smell petrichor rising
from the rain- washed
pavement outside,
mingled with rosemary from
the kitchen and the
resinous breath of pine.
There's cinnamon, too-
warm, nostalgic, curling like
amber smoke-
and the metallic tang of
ozone after thunder has
passed.
I tasted morning on my
tongue: coppery water,
the buttery unctuousness
of toast, honeyed and dark,
and the faint, crystalline
effervescence of cold air
when I step outside and the
world fills my mouth.
This is the world- tactile,
sonorous, fragrant,
palpable.
Not abstract. Not Distant.
A benediction of sensation,
pressing itself, generous
and vivid, into me.
I hear it whisper through the night.
Dry leaves crunch where moon-pale shadows grow.
I lean toward what it keeps beyond my sight.
The moon lies caught in tarnished, shifting light;
A thin wind threads the rusted leaves below.
I hear it whisper through the night.
A moth worries the glass with dusted flight;
Its powdery wings disturb a muted glow.
I lean toward what it keeps beyond my sight.
Behind the glass, a narrow path burns bright;
Though no path runs beneath the branches’ glow,
I hear it whisper through the night.
The face within looks back—not quite aright;
Its hand lifts slower than it ought to go.
I lean toward what it keeps beyond my sight.
Dry leaves crunch beneath my feet at night;
The garden holds one secret from long ago.
I hear it whisper through the night;
I lean toward what it keeps beyond my sight.
¦¦¦ breath of wind,
¦¦¦ gleam of sun –
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ white snow
Whirls ¦¦¦¦¦¦ down
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
All ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
Quiet, forlorn.
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ rustling,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ the air
¦¦¦ still and ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ - everywhere,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ its powdery
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ flakes,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
Stoops ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ wint’ry ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ feathered ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ghosts ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
A robin shrills
His ¦¦¦¦¦¦ tune.
(Blackout of Snow by John Davidson)
Oh, how I love staring up at the ethereal radiance of the moon,
resting against the endless onyx-black sky.
Her magical and mystical pearlescent glow is cast upon me,
I am delivered from my darkness—
I am shielded from my shadows.
The moon‘s celestial veil captivates me,
enticing me with her enchanting aura;
Her enigmatic beauty and powerful magnetism mesmerizes me.
When she is in her full-phase, so large and luminous, she appears nearby,
as if there is only a short distance keeping her and I apart.
Oh, how I wish it was possible to journey to the moon,
and walk lingeringly among the cratered rocky debris and gray powdery dust.
I would cherish the utter silence and serenity of space around me,
while forgetting all the desolation and ruination of the world I had left behind.
A
teardrop
slips down
from my eyes
and breaks into
powdery
shards
o
o
o
it falls
quite unseen
a mute language
too deep for words
that my heart is
reluctant
to say
o
o
o
a
tiny
drop saline,
a single bead
falling down
without
sound
o
o
It's Friday, yay! The final weekday of my academic immurement.
On Friday nights we go out - we’re up late - so late that it’s early,
but it’s ok, we’re young and dumb.
But if you think you’ll find me sleeping in on a Saturday morning - you’d be wrong.
On the weekends, the richest part of Paris mornings involve neighborhood street-life - which are invitations to sensory abundance - and it all happens before lunchtime.
The sensorial joys of the “sun-south” flower market stalls, overflowing with fresh lavender, peonies and powdery-sweet Violet blooms - tulips from Holland and roses from Kenya - that cool the air with fresh fragrances compete and mingle with savory baking aromas from local boulangeries (bakeries).
The dueling scents define mornings in the Marais (ivy-clad streets) or along the Seine.
Hit the snooze button and you can miss it (and trust me, napping later can be fun).
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
under the milky way by the church
here comes a poem that is a snowfall with each flake a different color
here comes a poem that will wrinkle your nose and smooth out your tongue
here comes a poem with a chip on its shoulder but if you knock it off it will cry
here comes a poem that will hop around your front lawn looking for worms
here comes a tough, hard-bitten poem with a cigarette dangling from its lip
here comes a poem looking for its Mommy
here comes a poem as powdery as saffron sherbet and rosewater tea at dawn
here comes a poem with its wife kids grandma and Uncle Jake they will eat all your food break your computer and stay with you forever
here comes a poem written by the little man on the walk light it says Go
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
grounds powdery snow
came in with the gusty wind~
garden snowed under
"Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours- waiting for rebirth."
Quote by - Constance La France
As autumn came down whistling loud,
summer withdrew its sunny fling.
October burns in tints of ochre red.
The wood thrush no more sings.
Leaves in bright yellow and orange
drop down in deepening despair.
But the barbarous mower doesn't bother.
Sad, they yield to their fate.
As leaves touch the ground, colours fade.
They turn into brown and tawny,
merging with granules of powdery dust,
submitting to decay.
Soon sky turns grey, sun sneaks away.
Winter strikes in deadly vengeance.
Earth gets covered in sheets of sleet and snow,
and nature goes to sleep.
But all will be back to newness
and fresh buds will grow in bare trees.
When seasons shift once more in cyclic round,
we will watch a rebirth.
At three, the garden writes itself in slime—
silver calligraphy across the flagstones
where I pace in my wool habit, sweating.
The moths are frantic priests
hurling their small bodies at the lamp’s false sun,
again, again, a liturgy of burning.
I used to call this Devil’s hour.
Now I know there is no Devil,
only the slug’s blind pull toward rot,
the cartography of appetite
mapped in mucus on the path
where saints once walked to Matins.
The hostas are being eaten.
Something is always eating.
I watch a moth singe its wing-dust on the bulb—
that powdery baptism, useless—
and drop stunned to the stones
where a slug begins its pilgrimage across the corpse.
This is the only honest prayer:
mandibles working in darkness,
the chemical shimmer of a slug’s foot
seeking the soft meat of decay.
No one is listening. No one was ever listening.
The garden teaches me its single lesson—
matter consuming matter,
the world folding into itself
like hands at vespers, purposeless,
perfect. The moths know
what I am only learning:
light is not love. Light is just light,
and we are who burn for.
It is the desire of the moth
for the star…..
- Edgar Allan Poe
I awoke this morning
to find the powdery imprint
of wings on a window
that must have been left
by a moth trying
to get in when it
careered full flight
into glass, blinded
and driven lovesick
by the glow from a light
I had kept turned on
when reading
Edgar Allan Poe
late last night.
The Moomagatta is very heavy.
And being the strongest astronaut around,
I knew, for Earth's sake, I had to be ready.
Not a month later on the powdery surface I touched down.
The Moomagatta and me bounded downward in a spring-like pace
Memories of moving a piano downstairs back on Earth flashed across my mind.
Contrarily the Moomagatta had mass but no weight out here in space.
Like a massive cardboard box it was cumbersome, nix the physical grind.
Now to stake the Moomagatta in at the target location...
Peeking at my lunar map showed me 50 feet away from the designated spot.
Once there I raised the Moomagatta above my head with zero deliberation.
It was then the Moomagatta turned to me and said, "this is not the Mariot!"
This was inspired by Silent One's poem,
"Prisoner Of Poetry"
Let me loose the trellis that holds on to my roses
weave every thorn I own around your open space
I do not twine nor do I have a tendril to boast of
but I do own beauty and the scent of Rose Khalid
Let me penetrate your senses with my wildish ways
cleaving shadows of your night, I will bring you day
I am not a flower to be cast aside just like the rest
take good care of me and I will surely bloom in May
Let me be your muse's musk, powdery sweet like earth
leaving trails of inspiration on your velvet book of love
I am not a garden trinket nor your favorite rose my dear
talk to me as if I were a prayer, written just for thee.
For I am no longer a prisoner of your poetry Dear One
just a simple musk-filled muse, reaching for the Sun...
I watch the harbor through the falling snow
the sky and sea form one vast, gray tableau
the sun is nothing but a weak, background glow
the scene draws me, as if hypnotically.
Five mile’s lighthouse warnings go unvoiced
its strobes not lashing out, so what’s its point
it stands majestically but disappoints
replaced electronically
A tiny lobster boat makes its landward way
towards the inlet from the wider channel bay
a powdery blizzard is underway
which melts into the mirror sea.
Ospreys still hunt round the lobsterman's pride
snowflakes stain them as they soar and glide
other seabirds huddle side by side
shivering and crowing lividly.
Through the narrows the lonely boat steams
past icy Luddington Rock and East Breakwater's breech
its berths and moorings, within minutes reach
and sadly, it’s time for me to leave.
.
.
Songs for this:
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Hypnosis Theme (feat. Marina Quaisse) by Wax Tailor
Blustering snowballs, Batman,
it's cold enough to blubber
blast the titanic iceberg
from its frozen handshake.
But snowballs that ain’t
formed; fine powdery dust
billowing ‘neath the core, of not hell,
but the moat of the ice queen’s castle.
Frozen icicles, Batman,
drip from nostrils and lips,
welcoming a brew of nog to noggin,
or toddy for the torrential reality
of fastball bugs for tethered sleeves -
the season’s green sleeves.
A yuck of a holiday for some.
A hiccup and cheers to a New Year.
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