In monsoon moments, all falls still —
sounds of curb flow and gutter spill.
A restful ease from the patter
as raindrops fall, hit, and splatter.
Of lost minutes, I take my fill.
By the window, chin on the sill,
I watch water far below rill.
A car passes, no birds scatter.
-In monsoon moments…
In dim mid-day, I feel a chill,
though Tropics, says the Barbet’s trill.
I’m free — the Madness of the Hatter,
drowned out is the useless natter.
Though tempests may rage; all is still.
-In monsoon moments…
While walking down a verdant valley trail,
I saw the fog that gathered ’round the town.
And remembered an old, eerie folktale
about a village settled in a vale,
and felt my breath catch like I would now drown
while walking down that verdant valley trail.
In the tale, travelers heard a steady wail,
but found town ancient, empty, and run down.
Why remember that old, eerie folktale?
The sound I heard was like a flapping sail.
They must have set the flag and hunkered down,
while I was walking that green valley trail.
But snapping flags require some kind of gale.
This air was too still to rustle a nightgown
as I remembered that spooky folktale.
“Is that a boiling kettle or a wail?”
I ask as I have my nervous breakdown,
while walking down that verdant valley trail,
remembering that old, eerie folktale.
See that vine crawl toward the darkness?
It’s nyctophilic as a Rave-addled youth.
“Maybe some genes got crossed — roots to leaves?”
Maybe, but how is it alive?
What winds it up enough to chase shadows to boarded mineshafts?
It might love darkness, but it’s not fed by darkness.
Some strange man called it “a canary in our coal mine.”
And that gave me a vague sense of foreboding.
I have room to breath —
my ribs can’t catch the edge
of this expanding universe,
and, so, I suppose the cage is irrelevant.
I can reach an arm as far as my shoulder allows —
as long as my hand slips through the slats.
With eyes shut, and cage in sway,
I’ve no reason to feel I’m in any particular place.
Some shake in fear that all will disappear —
from bone to soul — that all will disappear.
They hug it close, squeezing it so tightly
as to thwart the time when all disappears.
But that binding pressure only heightens
the dire urge to struggle to disappear.
Though nothing ever really vanishes,
but fades to the moment it disappears.
The secret is to be with each moment
in that slow fade, ’til it all disappears.
A mirrored world sprawls out beyond the glass.
I sit in reflection — a reflection
of a totem topped with an angry face —
a face so fierce its eyes will fry your mind.
The feeling fades, and I find I’ve crossed back.
Socrates shook people with pointed questions.
How unloved one becomes trying to awaken
those snuggly ensconced in dreams of delusion.
Admitting one’s ignorance doesn’t soften the blow
of cluing others into their own.
Star-spiked silhouette of feathered palm
stamped against an orange evening sky.
It’s fireworks in reverse,
but with a little hang time —
but only a little.
Soon the sun will hide
behind the world —
leaving the tree to play
the role of a hole
in a patch of stars.
End of the wall —
End of the world?
Who can say what lies
beyond one’s line
If you tell me,
“Thar be Dragons!”
in that sad, gray mist —
I can’t well argue the point,
but it doesn’t mean I won’t keep an ear open for wing flaps, and my skin tuned to flashes of heat.
This morning, walking, I saw a new door.
I’ve walked that stretch a million times, or more,
and that door has never been there before.
You probably think they just cut the ivy,
or that my imagination ‘s lively.
But, this evening, that door was no more.