Firecracker

Firecracker—soda pop—routine quenching of the mortal verb, Blissful bullet-points banter about the pre-pre-lingual pause—submerging aftertaste in the grandeur of the plunge

Addictive trinkets of euphoric punch—punctuating the blistered awakenings found atop the ridges of the bridge—where with it’s carbonated siege, all pleasures are revealed—as possible and real

(UN)format(ABLE)

In some circles, hope is a four-letter word,

Whereas in others, doubt is a shade beyond forgiveness

Rough edges hewn and shorn, evened out and paved in

Line, tarred tomorrow’s unconcerned with yesterday’s dream

Love, can be that square peg that actually can, fit into the

Roundest of holes

Foliage, wrinkled and worn

Time-tested yet ignored

For it is this type of person

Who fully understands and appreciates

The meaning of a kiss—slow and

Moist,

echoic is the sound of the most silencing of voices

If Then, How?

Nervously shifting position—right knee atop left thigh, both feet pressed to the hardwoods ever lineated alibi, left sole in clear view to anyone entering from stage right

Towering clouds of charcoal tinted doubt strain in search of breathable space, dusting the passing terrain with an acceptable case for the brutality of an asthmatic too earnestly dismissed as having been too eagerly indulgent upon those panting displays of breath

Tangerine florets linger the walls above

Heavy feet scamper in now apparent direction

Leaving scuffmarks those below can feel, no matter

The sensitivity of that particularly unwashed face

Amass and hoard, we consume sparingly

Yet hold onto every shred, when it would have been too easily

Permissive to share, even an ounce of overage—One would have to wonder, if such generosity could exist, and if so, than what undiscovered aspects of the home might show.

If then, how?

A Guided Stroll

listen to ‘A Guided Stroll’ on Audioboo

You watch and determine day from night

You linger past the moonlight’s afterglow, well into the promenade looming behind a crested pounce of wave

Evenings are but intermediaries to you

And your centurion’s cage is, at most times, evenly divided into quadrangular partitions of sky

You watch A hour half past six or a

Five months from now—wherein, affixed the

Light stays as strikingly as ever remembered

Or if noncommittal, than your alternations harp accordingly—

To where a number of factors alit the present face, to which, of course, your eye catches each fractured toil and fragmented stint,

You are born

You are beneath

You are besides

And you’ve always been between

Yet it is here where you allow your form to follow form and not in that “some other time of year,” where flesh glistens by moonlight, dances it’s hypnotic tides across the serenity of it’s mystic shores

It isn’t always always fair, just, deserved, proper, adequate, moral, ethical or right. Yet you evaluate all things as if they are all cut from identical tapestries

It may not even be considered plausible to the well-magnified test of eye. You not only understand this, but appreciate it as well.    

You always seem to deliver us the current’s time of day

You notice and then proceed to oversee the fourteen lights and you remember that twelve of these originate a lake; one from a river and the other is a long and winding stream.  

You hear a swift sound.  It scurries quickly across the rocks

You hear the rasping quicken but do not inquire upon its source. 

You are not curious, for you are fully aware. 

You know it is but a sound.  You know rats abound this place, as they nest their families near the grates of drains.  You fear them not and understand them completely.

You declare that they’ve been unjustly defined. Your posture alleviates apprehension.  Your loving tone quells the fears that may have otherwise stirred within.  You indicate that while they are truly a rambunctious lot, it is only that they are consumed by restlessness and are but solely happy to be, invigorated by a life that does not ignite until only after darkness has fully blanketed the light of day.

You bend over slightly.

As you do, your robe sways softly in the salty air.

You reach down and return aligned.

You are smiling as you hold the smallest of them.

It fits within the palm of your hand.  It is malnourished.  You provide it the sustenance it needs.

You take hold of me.  Your grip is firm and strong.  It is comforting to hold.  You lead us down the break-wall, taking us to its very point. You see my reluctance and whisper to my soul, “follow me and you will not fall, for I love you as I love each and all.” 

You disappear, yet I still feel your hand in mine. As the surf tickles heel to toe, you’ve filled me with all I’ll ever need to know.

Later today, stop on over to D’Verse where the exploration into point of view continues with this week’s Meeting The Bar.

Seashells on Sabbatical

listen to ‘Seashells on Sabbatical’ on Audioboo

Rose scented memories linger

each strand of prose dangling

in balance

Daggers of unripe nectarine

permeate the pungency of

rhyme

Elemental miscues discovered on the eve

of validation

Abandoned moments materialize from the

thinnest of tinny air

The fragrance lives all about us everywhere

Time stalled the paralytic sentinel

from claiming the blissful cornet

Respites appear in slues of kindling’s blaze

ever forthcoming is Niacin’s flush to pasted skin

Blossoming it’s spreading tentacles, inching

from molecular balance to zygotic repeal

Always offering that which it never had to give

promising a loveliness not it’s own

Albeit ruse, decidedly fantasies of gullible deceit

are the temporality of such proportions, that

The incoming bursts of cyanide, were welcomed

and invited in, through windows cracked, allotting for floral appeal

Additional Lines:

Plausible dialectics wriggle amongst the unfit boards

pragmatically devising the instruments aromatization

Lessening the distance between forgettable paradigms

and hoaxes built in the guising of mass conceal

If not for the parabolas of suffocation, the seashells on sabbatical, would never have separated, from its inherent tide and squall 

The Stars, Sky and Moon

In twists

the sides

come down

In bends

the walls

collapse

Unceasing wakes

we now know,

most perilously

lie below

The cabin

so far up the sky,

from here, its walls

appear to have been designed,

developed, directly from the divinity of clouds

While the night surely didn’t need,

another mouth to feed,

the stars obliged tradition

and thus greeted

their new neighbor well,

providing baskets

of well-wishing upon

the downiest of blanketing love

Sprawled about, atop

world wood freshly stained,

the neighbor shook

each their pointed palms,

Smiling in appreciation

impressed by each

their sincere glow

Yet deep within,

the neighbor softly spoke,

in that most cynical of tones;

the kind reserved for

those frustrated times alone,

And in that moment,

amidst the stars,

he wondered,

why

the sun

and moon

chose

to remain

at home