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.

Blame it on the inkling

When I threw myself from the balconey
it was not overtly in jest
but I laughed about it later
over foie gras with my neighbor.

Just outside the door

An echo of loud blossoms blasts white insistent chimes
and lost Westminster resounds in a pink memory of time
ticked down grey granite walks where clocks neatly wound
call back rainy centered smells of a paradise moistly found.

Tented under the peppermint boil one can easily fear the cure
that some say scalds but those voices raised in steam cry rain
and the time I almost found you missing came but near assured
over a mist of Avalon condensed that neatly kissed the drain.

Not so many gods

The rocky shore of blue cloud sunrise
lifts salty breath to other orange shores
where purple breaks stroke faces wet
and the gull's white cry whirls pure.

I found things he used in a weathered shed
and rusted used in cold rain hard beside
the wet earth and sweat and handle's bled
that married slick life to a harrowed bride.

Inland brown and headland teal and green
might not be as orthogonal as they seem
unless a scripture writ on the color of birds
is comically altered in a headstrong world.

Six ways to cop a feeling

i. Never let go regardless of time


The clasp is fast, the clasp is slow
the clasp is colored mostly bone.


ii. I saw an opening that lasted for a second


Happy, happy before the clock strikes 
and the minute ebb recedes your joy.


iii. Place and time can fool you with uncanny vibrations


The spidery marble table top restricts position
and distracts with veins of black and orange.


iv. Sorry for the pie face, I thought you'd be amused


How gauche to speak of motors when your swept hair
is streaked with omelets voiced in silver and black.


v. Then I looked in the mirror and saw the code


Two dashes disturbed a periwinkle flitter
that almost rose in a memory of dots.


vi. I hear every word you say


I watched your wet lips speak a subtle truth
and, despite the chimes, had to pay attention.