Sinister longings perish
in a hail of loneliness,
solitary specters of humanity
twisted, tainted, tormented and tattered.
Writhing in misty coils
vanquished blue-haired nobles
smoke their pipes
and drink their tea,
moral beneficence lost amid
the dithering squalor
of their own wanton needs.
Frosted-glass pillars
glow amber and vermillion,
intentions forever severed
by hazy razor-grim phantoms.
Cinder blocks elevate in an obsolete breeze
powder puffs of pink videotape the masses.
Lemon-lime apples tart & sweet,
my fever rages on, hot with need.
Tides permeate the lower grasslands,
neon spectacles of fright
and immense longing,
reeled in one antelope at a time.
Who is
What is
Where is
God?
Why and When?
Not to mention How…
Grit sustains me.
I hold on both soft and tight,
a self-embrace unlike no other.
Conspirators
seek to overlay
to coexist
amid my red-blue veins,
these emanating cords of my within.
My words belong to me.
Mine to invert as I please.
Mine to wrestle, to subjugate
to contemplate, to savor.
Mine to coalesce toward
my own redress.
Others’ steely wits resolve to upend
yet I remain true.
That lovely muscle
that beats for —and of — me,
moving toward
benign forbearing,
loyalty to self: rewarded.
These peaceful pebbles glisten just for me.
I care not if for no other.
Sitting in a cushion-comfy Adirondack
in the shade of two white oak trees and a beloved maple,
I peer into the thick green canopy overhead,
the gentle sway of leaves in the late-day breeze
mesmerizing in its own right.
Bisecting a slender stem of new growth,
a small, textbook-perfect acorn catches my eye.
I love the solitary position of this tiny specimen
tucked among the umbrella of spirally orchestrated leaves.
Are there more, I wonder?
I sit quietly, focusing on each quadrant of the crown.
Looking past the gestalt of this god of thunder,
I drill down to each branch, each twig, each leaf.
I am patient.
Then, I find it. Another acorn,
a branch or two higher,
just to the right of the first one.
Two of them. Might I detect a third?
I do. Then a fourth, and a fifth.
Clusters of acorns, too, become apparent.
My discerning eye begins to see.
The longer I sit here,
persistent and with intent,
the more I start to notice.
Birds also enter the range of this fresh, new vision.
They stop at the feeder, oblivious to my presence,
a nod to how motionless I’ve become in my revelry.
Sparrows striped in buff, black, brown.
Purple finches, red-winged blackbirds, a spectacular male cardinal.
At the base of the maple, a mourning dove returns my inquisitive stare.
I burrow deeper. I enjoy their song.
Bella greets each new day
B.O.A. — Bored On Arrival.
Cashmere closets no longer inspire.
Morning mimosas have become blasé.
Angkor Wat – what a snooze.
Yosemite, Yemen, Yellowstone?
Yawn.
DIY violent death?
Google search engine
In full throttle
Messy, macabre.
Might just be memorable.
Looking, looking…
Here’s one she finds particularly amusing: Pomegranate Razor Smoothies
Bella, I wouldn’t go there if I was you.
permission granted to float
buoyed spirits now soaring
wave upon wave
hectares of ocean
turquoise, wide sea
dreams corralled
nurtured
sustained
keel-hauled trappings
illustrious currents
moon shining across the water
coconut palms, indigo flight
calm, calm
obsidian woods
brambles, thorns, steely cold eyes
you will learn of fear
A wealth
A dearth
A what
A who
Where you go
The things you do
I strive to hope
To have
To be.
You stay you.
And I’ll play me.
Chit Chat