In Spectrum

It is only a trick of light,
this moment at dawn
as the Earth rolls in
the light of the Sun,
but this shadow play
connects
this time
with time before
and allows my mind to see
what in full daylight
might cause concern
showered
in tangerine and alabaster
and allows me
to strip away
excess
and see
bare truth
but
it is only
a trick of light.

My Morning Tea

I imagine the flavor
to be jasmine
as I shuffle through
the leaves,
pale yellow yesterday,
the morning rain
has darkened them a shade.
The next block
smells of cranberry,
if only in my mind,
the deep reds of the oak
temp me with a spectrum
running amaranth near the trunk
to amber further out.
I carefully select a pile,
scooping them into a puddle
where I stand
until the water
permeates my shoes.
I squish away.
Happy.

Amethyst Shadows

The gray November skies
are easier
to take
when first viewed
as the Sun
burns
on the horizon,
announcing the day
with brilliance
and honor
and amethyst shadows,
rather than
first noticing
fields of gray
through unfocused eyes
and wondering
if the day
even chose
to start.

Light Sheet

Imagine morning light
as a sheet,
coating all it touches,
offering a brief spotlight
to the magic of the ordinary,
causing one to pause
and wonder,
did the one who
imagined this building
stand here and see
a tin roof
playing with maple leaves
under a rose-orange
November
light?

Approaching Aubergine

This morning
the crescent moon
battles
the approaching sunlight
for brilliance,
standing out
even more
against the steadily blueing sky.
Knowing he fights with only
reflected glory,
he soon will settle back,
brilliant still,
but this time
on his own terms.

Pumpkin Sized

The first three cuts are equal,
each an inch in length,
forming a small triangle
against an expanse of orange.
She asks for help then,
adding a circle
on top of her triangle.
I carve while she announces
that we are carving her,
then she hops down
on a quest for paint.
Brown first, for hair
followed by red and purple,
for a bow.
A bigger triangle is next
as her cousin is two years her senior.
(Green and yellow bow)
Then a square because this cousin
is a boy.
(more paint)
The geometric parade
continues
as Grandma,
then me,
then Mom are added.
(We all have blue shoes)
Aunts and uncles
complete the circle
until one touches hands
with her.
She sits back
then tells us
the title
is "Family Love Circle."
And
this moment
swells
to fill
All of the available space
and time
before collapsing back.
Pumpkin sized.

They are All Fish Tales, Really

"They are all fish tales, really"

-- When my mother’s memory began to fade, she asked me,
What will become of me when I don’t have a story?
Not knowing what else to say, I told her, Lie.
                                       --Jane Shlensky


The river that is memory
twists and turns as it winds its way,
picking up silt
and carrying it along
until another force
slows the current
and the silt falls,
sometimes forming a loess,
blocking the flow,
forming pools
on which we fish
for that which was easily
within reach, only yesterday.
So drop in a line
and if it comes up empty
tell the world you caught
a clownfish
and
go on
about the color
and the feel of it
as it wriggled in your hands,
just before
it splashed
away.

It's Hard to Keep Them All Happy

Facing the daunting challenge
of coloring the crayons,
I grab fistfuls of maple leaves,
separating the Burnt Orange
from the Burnt Sienna
I find just enough Outrageous Orange
to intensify the Neon Carrot.
Fastidious Fuchsia
refuses my offer of Chestnut
which she needs for her to become Copper,
so I offer it to Magenta
who accepts it along with my offer of Mahogany
but he also demands the  Goldenrod
I'm saving for Inchworm.
Disheartened,
I grab Cadet Blue
from the morning drizzle
and head out for coffee.



* Thanks to Wikipedia for this amazing list of colors.

already fallen

And again
I found myself hanging stars
in the sky,
asking passers-by
for help
with the ropes and pulleys
(it's all ropes and pulleys).
Hastily running from
rope to rope,
trying to sustain the illusion,
that these stars
are worth reaching for,
avoiding
(for the moment)
the dreadful feeling
forming in the pit of my stomach
that
we've already fallen.

Not so Complex

&c.

Note: this partly a found poem, pulled from the pages of the

Kentucky Gazette and general advertiser, July 29, 1806, found

at the digital public library of America (www.dp.la)

My head aches

from changes in pressure

and my vision swims,

replacing what I know is here

with a vision

I’ve only seen in history collections.

I stand

in front of

T H E B U F F A L O E

whose table

is plentifully supplied

with the best viands

the season can afford,

next door to

Trotter & Tilford,

newly stocked with

M E R C H A N D I Z E

received from Philadelphia:

fancy callicoes and chintzes

Longhorn and Dunstable bonnets

&c.

&c.

&c.

for cash in hand,

but my hands are empty

and my pockets

only hold plastic

so I turn back,

saddened

by what is lost

along the road

and burned

from our collective

memory.

Stale Poetry, Fast

Against a backdrop

of this everything now world

I find myself slowing down,

wishing

this ordinary minute,

this action of pen in hand

transferring thoughts to paper,

creased from its time in my back pocket,

could be sliced,

and placed under a microscope

to be examined

before it is converted

to ones and zeros

and broadcast

to the Earth.

Yet,

here it is.

Why droplets of water cling to the underside of bare spring branches

-- for Domino

Gray skies

and wet winds

carry the hidden magic

of color

which they gift

to dormant grasses

and early spring risers

coloring them

in rich greens

and vibrant yellows.

Standing beneath

a bare maple

I focus through

a droplet of water

and see

a world of color

bent

and magnified

against an expanse

of glorious

wonderful

gray.

In Case of Gray

This first hard spring rain

has washed away my blue sky,

leaving mottled gray skies

where tendrils of melancholy

reach down

trying to touch my smile.

I fight back

with a yellow daffodil

clutched in my hand like a sword

and a running start across a field of

verdant green

sliding in

to cover my knees in sorrows mortal enemy-

grass stains.

I smile.

Victorious.

Teaching the Sun to Shine

She paints her sunrise amethyst

then smiles a young girl’s smile,

innocent

with just a trace

of devilishness

for she knows that all the world

is here

before her

for her,

so she shines.

Hold that Thought

-- in response to De Jackson’s Boxing Shadows from day 2 of the April PAD

This box full of darkness

has a small hole

in one of the corners

where it bangs up against hope.

And hope,

(that little devil never gives up)

carrying thirty times her weight in despair,

turns the box

from this dank corner

so light

can enter

and hope

(the little narcissist)

can again be seen.

Morning Song

This morning traffic has rhythm,

a horn blast from outside

echos

a trumpet blast from within,

a short stop outside

is followed by

a crash (cymbal) in,

I shake my head

to clear this illusion,

for I know

the world

and I

are never

that

in tune.

This bit of Brightness is Brought to you by . . .

Red bell peppers

over blue flame

hiss

as they release

their water

and their waxy

supermarket skin

cracks and blackens

dulling

the brilliant red,

but adding

a smoky hint

of mystery

to this otherwise

dull

cold

spring

day.