tickled

 these shades of green

confuse me

as they attack.

a narrow band,

sure,

but these crests

and troughs

bring

a forgotten intensity

of electromagnetic

radiation

that enters

through my cornea

and startles

me down to 

my toes --

bare,

in the sunshine,

tickled

by these colors

that must,

I guess,

be mowed.

Speaking Fluent Mushroom

 “There is also another option – they are saying nothing.” --Andrew Adamatzky on Mushroom Communication

we like to see parallels.
human connections
between living things.

electrical impulses
in the mycelium
become words
and sentences.

sending warnings.
expanding access to food
and water.

but no word
on messages being sent
designed only
to hurt
and hate.

so the parallel
falls apart

It's a paper airplane kind of day

 It's a paper airplane kind of day.

The words won't stick
so I fold them
and sail them,

across the room at first,
then up the stairs
and out the door
into forgotten sunshine

(my mind is still
cloudy and gray)

until this minor wonder of aviation
comes to rest
in what remains of the rain,
taking on too much water to fly,

but now
my spirit
can take flight.

Hydrogen

at a distance                 at a distance
uncomprehendable       of six city blocks
in this silly                     is a person
human mind,                so decidedly
lies                                different
another sun                  from me
made of                        I cannot hope
the same stuff              to understand
as me                            them

What I think in the moment between breaths

I have spent my life
cataloguing
the hues in a gray sky
and the diameter of raindrops
as they fall.
I have stood, arms outstretched,
measuring the time it takes
to achieve maximum saturation.
I have used calipers
to measure the wrinkles
on my toes caused by standing
in puddles for days.
And I have wondered,
if each drop could carry
a small bit of me,
how long would it take
for a Spring shower
to carry me
to Summer.

What is this settled you speak of?

Sunshine runs barefoot
through my back yard,
dancing through the too long grass.
Bliss encapsulated
in the glass jar of a moment.
Though moments pass
and children age
life, seen from a distance,
moves like the Earth
through the cosmos--
always in a different spot
but, somehow, seen
as the same.

The super secret location of happiness

The morning Sun is playing with illusions.
Dappling my wall
with louvered windows,
disjointed as they fall
across my desk before breaking
onto the wall.

As a child
I would seek these projections,
angled and shifted,
on the floor
and lie down in their warmth
hoping to fall through
to a land
of light and happiness.

Today
I find myself wondering
if all it took was time
to make it to the other side.
So I wave to the little boy
to let him know
we're here.
We made it.

The seven year old workout

Ignoring this idea
that I am an adult,
I obey my daughter's command
and follow:
Up the stairs,
hand over hand across the bars,
then up the rock wall
to the platform
where we slide back down
while static electricity
builds and releases.
Before I can comment,
we are off again,
repeating variations
on the pattern
until we collapse
on the ground,
face up,
taking in the simple wonder
of a cloudless spring sky.
And Time,
radiating like energy from a child,
stops
and allows me to gape in wonder
at her magnificence
before winding her arms
and starting again.

The stories come out on wet city streets

I imagine
that red brick
absorbs memories
which cause it to darken
with age.
Porous outer layers
stripped of their potash
provide shelter
for the secrets and fears
of the ages
until rain,
kicked up by
those moving too fast
to listen
splashes against the grain
and the brick
sighs out a
long forgotten story.
If only
you will listen.

Mastic

I am seeking shelter from time.
Crayon drawings, pinned to my wall
have cracked the seal
and the yesterdays begin
to bubble through.
I open my umbrella,
trying to deflect the flow
but it quickly pools
around my feet
and I find myself
tumbling through
half-remembered days.
I swim hard, against the current,
searching, it seems for
some unknowable moment
until fatigue sets in
and exhausted and defeated
I tumble back through.
I refresh the mastic
on the back of the drawing
and cover the hole
but carefully leave
a corner upturned
so one day, when I'm stronger,
I can swim again.

Why I've given up on Focus

Seven year old feet
have not yet learned
to travel in straight
lines,
so a simple trip
from a --> b
finds us at a1 (
a beautiful mosaic
made from what others
have thrown away)
and a2 (a family of ducks
swimming down the Delaware run)
to b1 (yes, we passed by b)
(the 1891 cornerstone
on University Hall)
and I wonder how long
have I let these blinders
build up around my eyes
that I've missed all
that is around me.

I blame all of those adults
who kept telling me to focus.

Since the rain is falling

The world is smaller when it rains.
The sky, capped and sealed by gray
closes in, shortening your vision,
blurring your focus, making it seem
as though this rain is all there is.

Yet, it seems each crystal drop of rain
carries secret color.

And I imagine
a small crew of painters, departing
each drop as it lands,
dressed in brilliantly colored overalls
which match the color they will spread.

Thousands of painters ply green to the grass
and titanium white to the snowdrops.
Small accents of lavender are dotted
on the emerging hyacinth.

They come in waves,
so small
and moving so fast
that you cannot even see their work
until the Sun returns
and you stand slack jawed
and wide eyed
and wonder
when did Spring arrive.

Forecast

The Earth rolls
and light peeks
over the horizon,
sending a signal
to all creatures of light
that this day
will begin
with showers of amber
and shadows of amethyst
to be slowly replaced
with clear cerulean blues,
the type of sky
under which
possibilities
sprout
like embryonic roots
and humans undergo
their own
Photomorphogenesis,
becoming
people
once again.

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.