Have you been seeled?

Have you been seeled again with angel thread
closed against your dreaming brown feathers?

Pity, the needle must have hurt,
but at least your eyes are shut.

Now you have to sense the blue prey hunkered
in murky reeds whispered out of sightless mud.

Mud is cool sometimes, at times merely wet ground.

Out of the egg the azure climb and soar predicted
could never really or could have really happened
but the white dog is always walked in a beige coat
over high water teal pants flooded in black shoes.

It's all just the same and

it's only bad if your bells are bad or your fetters bad,
but if your bells aren't bad then fetters make you free.

Never sure if climb is the word

Your fear is justified at the top of the stairs
when you slowly open the weathered door
and find a yellow chick and purple boa froth
of frightened feathers that make no sense.

The red book promise partly lured you up
treads and risers you crept and crept by one
until your wet palm grazing the bronze knob
released leathery rain on a gold sweat day.

A vocal chorus cried as the roast browned,
forgetting the rich dance of sauce and slurry
celebrating a pale union of broth and white
that twists unto silver tongues a plated joy.

Into this sweet miracle your children are born.

What the kaleidoscope said

All of glass shards in a rainbow spun to one
turned weepy chartreuse in burgundy spring
launched a desire for twisty cardboard flings
on bald white checkmate fields of winter sun

with celebrants in an orangery of yellow pollen
back bringing bliss, lifting the leafy skirt of then
into autumns when the sweaty milk pods fallen
call out pale memories of what might have been.

To fly and trail your legs the great blue heron way,
avoiding the twirly winds that rotate in silver haze,
follow the straight cord into the green leafy play
or never understood deep blue orbits out of phase.

This is only the life of seasons spinning tubular fast
in now a kaleidoscopic flash. Death? Oh yeah, that.