A time of not actually being able to post leads to a build-up of writing. Here’s three weeks, or so.
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My reflection in the window glanced back at me, eyes full of the storm that percolated outside. I knew that it was me, even if I didn’t recognize him. Common sense told me so. I turned my head this way and that, trying to find the angle of Me amid the lines and jaw of someone else.
My reflection complied with my movements readily enough, surely because it hoped not to be put to such lengths as the detached shadow of Peter Pan. But with every adjustment of the head and every stretch or relaxation of the cheek or eyebrow there came to mind a different boy that I had seen here or there in my life.
These crowds amongst the faces stood out from my reflection and waved me down to come and join them. But I have new promises to make and old friends to keep. So I shut those rainfall eyes and turn away to put down in black and white what I was thinking in shades without number.
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I felt the raw electricity and charged power of the wind and the hiss of the leaves on the trees. The air was ripe with feel of rain on my skin, although no actual water had touched me.
The glitter bugs danced among the trees to light my path during the intervals of darkness that came between flashes of lightning. The frogs in the forest made their own chirruping clashes from amongst the trunks although the thunder was missing from the mix.
Then, suddenly, the rain-pregnant air gave way to the wind of storm-herald and I felt the first drops begin to fall.
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Rain, child, like a summer day
Full of sunshine and drizzly pain
Sing, child, like a meadow lark
Wild in cherries as a smile can bring
Laugh, child, like an old coyote
Smile like the moon and it wants be half
Play, child, like a whippoorwill
Among the reeds after a long, hot day
Love, child, like a flea-bit dog
Never ask why the tears want flood
Live, child, among the stars
Come out at night full of hope to give
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Scribble scratch of pen, black and white of ink on page. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Make sure the words fit and then feel as they flow out. Twist that letter a bit more, smudge those words together, paint in lines of doctrinated pattern to show the face of things under the dark light. A palindrome to show how much it means and an oxymoron to suspend reality and add disbelief.
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Clouds
Everyone has seen the shapes in the clouds- faces, trains, air planes, and all sorts of animals. But there are more kinds of clouds that are less shapes and more emotion. Fires with faces filled with tears, reflections on water that isn’t really there, and canopies to hide a moon that refuses to be hid.
Glowering ceilings full of rumble and crash, pretty tufts of bright, summer day, swirls and twist in three dimensions that disappear again in an instant.
But none of them stay around forever. The light and time and winds push and shove and change and mould until one clouds turns into another. Then it’s gone around the horizon.
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Broadest of greetings, fair, lordly sun. A fair morning to be run along the ground. Freshest of breaths of wind across a lake of closest glass. Shards catch the light and glint a picture on a wall of cliff-face serious.
Closest of midnights, quiet, crescent moon. Teach songs to the meadow larks as they sleep. Guard we who find our solace in rest and watch us to keep away the night, and then show us how to find the light.
Brightest of glories, twinkling, little stars. Like eyes above the clouds that float in the sky.
Procrastinating Poet 