Dragonflies

After the red goulash with pork and sauerkraut
came floaters tiger striped with a show of wing
sour in the grapefruit sky but with uplifting flits

that demanded palms lifted too in supplication
to a funny green moment joyous and wordless
when the dragonflies dip and mystify at sunset.

What do children think of when it rains?

It's only water falling from a grey sky
which purple striped umbrellas make
funny in a summer warmth when thin
shirts call awake that slumbering sigh.

Going for a smoke in the wet grass when
lights tend to flicker & deny a needy feed
of the monkey, a graying annoy that now
crashes in a minute by a then pouring sky.

In the blink of an eye a rainbow appears,
split by the pale jagged flash of lightning,
when moments earlier in the black crush
excitements seemed a more pressing joy.

Brushing a ringlet one, two clasping a goldfish,
what do children think of when it suddenly rains?

Nothing Was Explained

Nothing was explained about the overture
or anything about carpentry, else melodies
would have been rabbited into harmonies
and a proper house have risen rafter pure.

Tophats garnered in a graying church yard
spoke little about the sand that chucked him
into another silver place where cycles shim
cry into galaxies grown past reddish beards.

The black fluttering arises out of a long mirage
of ice that shimmers in the heated desert land,
reeks of diesel that, seeped from ancient sands,
brings dry vibrations that, deft, deflate his visage.

Chiming zills are struck until from nubs a riches blood
flows into a dry wadi where his ooze alone once stood.