Thinking of you and your mini Hubble while spying.
A heron hunts
What low tide reveals around sandbars emerging
Like slick whale humps as the Gulf recedes
From the Mississippi shoreline,
Cat Island stretches out, purring on the horizon.
A pineapple cookie in both shape and taste
8000 feet below are souls I’ll never meet
The newly wedded groom has beer, his bride, vodka
Three hours has exhausted polite small talk with giddy strangers
Shades pulled. We are a fuselage of midnight
Crossing coordinates our bodies cannot understand
No matter how patiently the brain explains
Night swallows the East as the West basks in gold
We glide ahead of shadows on the shoulder of Apollo
Classes separated by diaphanous curtains
The sounds of crystal, silver, smiles
Drift back in a cloud of gourmet aromas
To the starving ears and noses of the budget proles
Hush! London is sleeping. New York yawns.
The stomach of earth churns and vomits
Molten sick into the shivering Pacific
Eons of uncomforted turmoil and viola, Paradise
Salted nuts and a cold martini, sudoku, a movie
Words yet unexperienced assemble to be written home
On the pale paper underbelly of a stunning view
I dream of white noise in sleep’s fitful lap
Stiff, restless, motionless at the speed of sound
Sipping black coffee in heaven’s blue parlor
I smell an exotic flower blooming in the travel guide
Her ancestors adorned waving, brown bodies
Welcoming His Majesty’s brave sailors
Ravenous with ribs showing, thirsty mouths agape
Months adrift in Neptune’s wilderness
Surviving on salt pork, beetle and grog rations
We dine on pasta primavera, white wine, salad
The nectars of dry land restored a sailor’s faith
Finding God waiting for them in a heathen paradise
I am an active volcano
Beneath my mantle is magma fommented
Sulphur roils into toxic venting clouds
Seams tear through my crust, opening
Furious pools of boiling crimson, spitting
White, scaly ash in the air, landing
All over everything like oily snow
Capricious Pele is offered sacrificial ointments, salves and creams
Pacified, the inflamed goddess sleeps
Dormant for days, erupting again with no warning
And yet I am not Paradise rising
A gift to Heaven from the Sea
Covered in flowers, fruit, and trees
I have nothing against the duck
They are very well and good
The emerald sheen on the mallard head
In the flesh or a decoy of wood
Yet sometimes they hint of discarded old shoes
On the banks filthy and wet
Then in glides the swan and all that is foul
We are obliged to forget
Trying to live a creative life
Rock & Metal Reviews That Hit Hard
Epic fantasy & military sci-fi author.
A blog full of humorous and poignant observations.
the literary asylum
Now without semikhah!
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
…where words and drawings breathe
Life Through A Lens
Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry
I dream so I write ..
Dedicated to everything recreation!
Pen to paper
The goal is to help make people’s lives easier
Poetry, haiku, tanka, and micropoetry
Floating thoughts, A place where my beautifully weird thoughts floating around in my mind are posted.
