I’ll wear new wings as a lift
to the heights I’d like to fly
a rainbow spread I can’t deny
when my soul takes glad flight

these realms diverge from the norm
when compared to other souls
if the measure is reserved
to the binary most people know

feathers fall to mark the earth
shed now against new growth
arc of color with shades of gray
the wage of age does not dismay

an explorer with intent
to open doors that are denied
if the structures are allowed
to restrict alternatives

a box exploded to include
expansive heights high above
become enough to explore
spectrums spread across the sky

exploring realms as I seek
a definition that finally fits
like the wings I’ll spread wide
finding self in polychrome.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181229.

To travel beyond the edge of space
view the cosmos in all its grace
would be easier in comparison
to viewing within the self

countless stars in galaxies
some too dim to easily see
can be known before the mind
reveals its secrets in the light

the deep shadows multiply
one on another as we pry
away from comfort’s habitat
pursuing tunnels without end

those depths of darkness echo laughs
not of our own as fear replies
some speck of ego amplified
in response to queried probes

seeking secrets best concealed
if sanity will be retained
when the phantoms gather round
becoming solid in the mind

totality is ignored
the wise struck down to fools
heavens shrunk to one hell
in the maelstrom of the mind.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181230.

The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

Keystrokes in dim light
The moon is a winter’s cold
And I feel frozen