Short Arced Poems

Lightning arced the sky
Illuminating my mind
Nature's poetry...

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when one's mind can wrap 
itself around anything.
edge of reason arced....

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fishing with a fallen star
angling using wishing bait 
do dark thoughts on arced nights
unravel fate or gavel bang

flights sit temptingly on the surface disguised as joy, distorted lies...

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I'm a feathered ocean,
stained with inspiring hearts of lost souls, weaving light,
life's potion

A wisdom's pray,
let rivulets sing in mauve might,
arced sway

And stars,
carve sagas, bright,
scars

I'm a feathered ocean, 
let rivulets sing in mauve might, 
scars....

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Spiraled fingerprints
spinning placidly forward
fingers round and round 
moving inward and outward
backward like a beet bulb 
from the earth and falling
in circles furrowing
arced lines and curved strength
of muscle memory holding
me mindful of long time you 
then and now pressing further
through freckles and primordial fuzz...

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Brilliant rainbow arced into the sky
Big house in center of the  village
A soft light bathed the large room
wedding feast  rice strewn about
Greeted  with loud handclapping
Fogged gold-rimmed spectacles
Garlands  on statues of  Buddha
Dancing  and singing for Krisna 
Bobbins and  a  spinning wheel
Majestic elephants trunks curled
raising  mushrooms of dry  dust...

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Sixteen antique serpentine arced gingerbread corners 
delighting the antique seeker who had dreamed of them for years
before they were eventually yet heartily found.
Her heart leaps with happiness as she purchases 
the inspiration to finally build her Victorian dream porch.
She watches the clerk wrap these sigmoid-shaped beauties,
knowing they will be the inspiration for the rest of her house....

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Tut, tut, we’ve got ourselves a rain!
The ram pump’s singing songs again.
Up and down it pumps along
The foot valve clanging like a gong.
And it will run until rain slows,
The pond is full and overflows.
I gotta say I love the way
The pump ejects its two arced sprays.
The tanks, high upon the hill,
Have ample room within them still.
And though the rain is near complete,
To play this way is pretty sweet....

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Fifty-seven years I'd trusted my pins*                          *legs
to bend to flex, to twist, to spring
  my body to soar
  to the basket on wings

Then one day as I gathered myself
to take my first shot
  I felt my knees go 'creak'
  my heart went cold, I felt old and weak

Sure enough, I had barely lifted up off the ground
as for my shot, it arced mostly down
  I told my friends I felt a bit out of sorts
  And wept for the end of my romance with sports...

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My parents gave me answers
that arced and formed a dome.
Outside seemed beyond my grasp,
inside I would roam.
So even while I freely played
-in some ways I was wild,
my parents watered down the facts
to facts you’d tell a child.
A rebel would-be lawyer,
I’d try to build a case
against the facts they fed me,
to keep me in my place.
I screamed, I cried, I argued hard
to prove that I was right.
My parents shook their heads in vain,
til I would sleep at night.
...

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