Hour 11- the swallowtail jig
writing a poem
to the background
of dawn chorus
the rush of a train
through lush fields
A Life of Rainbow
When he sings a lovely song the green notes float like some balloons
And sparkle in the air with hues of gold
His modulated voice is blue to my ears
Like some royal blood men of the envied throne
His voice turns red in moments of romance
That cannot be resisted velvety and kind
His laughter is a lot of silhouettes
Varies in every tone every tune every baritone
My life is a mixture of shades of different hues
A rainbow of bliss and patches of colors
Medicine
9:00… 9:01… 9:02…
It’s been 32 minutes.
32 minutes past the time I should have stopped.
Should have laid down my book and glasses,
Stood and gone to the medicine cabinet.
32 minutes past when I take my pills.
Nothing so far has happened,
or so the Pages read
“I do believe I’m cured!” I CRY
but the doctors shake their heads.
“you’re not a pretzel-makkkk er ,”
sAys the one wiTh turQuoiSe skIN.
Idisagree,butcannotspeaK
The sHark haS GOt mYY to n g ue.
i’m feeeeeeling or~ange, and qUiTe BBBrand,
l,i,k,e a kitten in a cup
i looke~ bac~k at the cloCccck and see
the REAPER’s back to r e a p^^
MY tImE is done, thE enD is here,
but staAArts baCK uPp at pearE
The WATER’s””” getTTTting hiGHer now
and aMMMMManDaDa wont stopp clogging!
The SEAs are pUUshINg at my s c/a/l/p
a swAn!!!! diV..es ((dowN my)thrOat)
I cough. Look up…
The book is on the floor.
I am standing by the chair.
All my friends are gone.
“Did you forget your medicine?”
asks Tom.
He’s right, that clever plant!
Sorting the Mail
Take 3 quick breaths and then start with gathering all of the mail and quickly sort by addressee. Then separate junk from real mail/bills and magazines to be read later. No reading now! No lingering on each item. Be decisive and then move on. Recycle tossed mail and create a pile for shredding. No dawdling. It is not time for shredding. Now separate real mail from bills. This is not the time to pay the bills, which without delay you should put in a known place for payment later. Without hesitation, place all the magazines to be read later in a pile to be gone through at another time. If you finish first, you may work the shredder or help your partner who may be swamped and is possibly not following the rules. Again no dillydallying! When done, circle each other 3 times clockwise and then 3 times counterclockwise and then take 3 long breaths and promise you will do a better job keeping up with the mail and will consider cancelling subscriptions.
I’m hitting a wordblock. -11
Fire blazes brightly in the night
What ho! Here is the fight
Genuine and sharp
Blades clang and sweat glistens
Chasing our foe through the forest
We’re all set in our courses.
#10 If love was a colour
If love was a colour
What hue would it be
How would we colorise
What the eye cannot see
Would it be red, as commerce has us believe
I think not, for red offers no reprieve
Would be it green, an uncomplicated hue
No, not green, for green is untrue
I am sure, some days, it would be shades of black
Love is a bitch, a callous cold hack
Some days it would be deceptively white as snow
The wearer of love, wrapped in a blinding glow
Perhaps it’s not one colour, but a church window, stained
Mayhap it’s the colour of dusk’s sky after it’s rained
Mayhap a surreal Dali deep blue
Ah, I know… the colour of love is… you
Swallowtails’ Dancing
Gentle Swallowtail bows and skips, whirls and dives, sunlight glistening August’s golden sun.
Flittering on the ground’s twigs, shadows, and fallen petals
Suddenly up, up, upward this reeler soars toward the flowers above, catch wind’s breath.
Catching the wind’s breath, this tiny being fleetly moves on.
Such is the moment captured in the mind’s eye,
Yet Swallowtail survives in thunderstorms, too, its tiniest velvet wings
Taking on water then flicking drops onto waiting grass below.
Stronger than the winds yet sailing on them, Swallowtail skitters a light jig.
No migration comes for this little one:
What the world brings is what Swallowtail accepts.
Opposing spring’s showers and summer’s beams,
Winter’s chill sparks a new turn of metamorphosis.
The fleeting dance slows, halts, and comes to slumber,
A death comes for one in the darkness of winter while
New wings build within a chrysalis, a rhythm for dance
Already building to a music nature will provide.
11.
I hear it.
In the distance. Over the cliffs. The arctic breeze carries the tune.
It flies over the waves that crash against ancient granite.
A stirring. In my blood. Something ancient like the sea against the stones.
The tune rolls on sea air brushing grass fields where wolves hunt.
It echoes still through the waves providing its chorus.
Gliding over villages singing about Molly Malone
And through a wooden door held on cast iron hinges
Forged by the blacksmith. Who is still the blacksmith after generations.
“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff” and my bartender smiles.
My accent is wrong. But my face says that somewhere down the line,
The drunk English girl who kept yelling ‘Tipperary’ at me at my bar back home,
Might’ve been on to something. For posterities sake, he asks where I’m from.
I sigh, and that’s all the answer he needs. He laughs. A massive laugh.
Then he asks my name. I tell him and he says “Boyo, coulda fooled meh oot the gaet”
The strings start again. This time, something new. Something that reminds me of
voluptuous, red curls, on an even wilder girl. the highland air whips clouds of mist
from her icy blue eyes. She’s the one who tells me to stay.
And to experience the end of life as I know it. I say I might, though I know I will.
It’s the air. Not filled with the smog and shards of fragile promises or the glittering
Of shattered dreams. No ‘know-a-guy-who-knows-a-guy’ or ‘pay-to-play.’
Only life, fresh greens and bright blues.
Ferries to the market and pints when the day is out.
Brought together by four strings.
Could have
The master extended an offer that his student could not refuse:
To be the master’s partner, his colleague, his muse.
An Oscar in the students’ field, this offer should have proved
He was a bonafide professional–his skills had successfully improved.
But the student protected his dreams with self-deprecating humor,
Poking fun at his work in case failure wasn’t just his rumor.
He did not take his dreams seriously,
So they evaporated mysteriously,
And now he just imagines what he could have been, deliriously.