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beautiful morning
    amber filtered . . .
                      with the forest fire smog
it's fine   don't worry
    it's been carried a great distance
                 to reach our city
a slight itchiness to the eyes
a slight betrayal      with breathing being
                                    a little harsh for some
beautiful morning
        teased branches
                       their tinsel shadows
               and a warm rustle
01/08/25version above
NOTES FROM 22/07/25 :
beautiful morning shadows/of teased branches/tinsel shadows/and warm rustle

Haiku version :
an amber morning
teased branches  tinsel shadows
                           a warm rustling
quiet opposition
silent reaping

a force umoveable
growing stronger

words to scatter
to the four winds
Like rainfall
On a windowpane,
So crystalline, so clear,
Sliding down
As teardrops
To slowly reappear,
As puddles
In my misery,
To seep away
With time.
But emotively,
Your cloudburst,
Paints these
Fresh teardrops....
As mine.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
10 August 2025
To be read, please, at the next "Poets Zoom Meet" in my absence.
Many thanks M.
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
I often wonder —

What is more painful:

to lose someone you once had,

                      or

to never have anyone to lose?
the day has flared
and fallen

into fire
clouds climb

in silence
the trees whisper

something green
in their mystery

in places
wait the oranges

and reds of autumn
in places

wait the whites
and blues of winter

sometimes we must
look upon the things

we have no name for
Silence and noise
destroys my poise
up and down again
the madness within
shadow in noon light
it is my final flight
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