flow on, Dark River; slip through the night. midnight's thick clouds block the moonlight. your voice drowned out by insect chirr. a Huck Finn raft drifts by at a blur: the rafters unseen; their secret stays hush... but for those red eyes in the underbrush.
I'm swimming in the lake -
miles from one and all,
feeling peace and calm - when
the monster comes to call.
What could drag me under?
I'll never, ever know.
Some will always wonder
what caused the undertow.
The lake is surface calm,
and should be at its depths,
but in its muck lie bones
of those pulled under breath.
Some will swim tomorrow,
and in the days to come.
Most will come and go,
and just feel blissful numb.
The dogs of war are slipping. The ropes they are a ripping. The palms they are a bleeding, as citizens are reading of risks that led to slippage: of quips and of equipage, and how it wasn't expected, and courses were corrected, but still it all goes wrong.
We were classed: Consumer.
And that became our task.
The stores grew like tumors,
and in stuff piles we basked.
I know nothing
of the sea-bottom,
or of the darkest void.
I know nothing
of the ancients' lives
or how most are employed.
I know nothing
of an atom's look,
or how works, gravity.
I know nothing
inside my organs
or nasal cavity.
I can but know
these simple truths
that live within my mind.
That it's better
being together, and
to err toward being kind.
I stand upon the cobbled walk as scooters whiz on by, and think this world 's too fast for me, and tilt my face to sky. But there's a contrail gash up there made by a hurtling sky-tube that jets its way to who knows where - while I'm the slack-jawed rube. To match the world to my breath's pace, and watch the blur lines form, and hear each note of music played... We'd sync to my waveform.
I pause in woods one winter day when leaves stick to the ground, and twigs and trunks stand stiff & straight - a breeze the only sound. It's a world without walls or bounds, but one can't see a mile. One's sightline is obscured by trees -- their trunks not single file. A world, at once, open & shut to eyes and ears and mind. But I've never felt so at home, for i'm no lonesome pine.
The forest looks painted with dabs of bright color, a pointillist mural of the leaves' last hurrah. Soon, it'll turn twiggy, and sing desolation, and invite the fog in to soften sharp lines. Then one day you'll notice leaves glowing in sunlight. Their green will be golden from warm yellow rays. The maturing forest will darken its greenness, turning to sober tones that blot out the light.
The fallen leaves
of a sheltered tree
form a shadow
made of yellow,
a pointillist shadow
painted yellow,
‘til the wind blows
angled and low
to send that shadow
on its way -
or ‘til the leaves
turn brown and crisp…
whichever comes first.
The sun is out after
days of gray,
and no fog or cloud stands
in my way
of seeing skies of blue.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 