Myriad prismatic crystals, refract the morning sun-streams - painting layers of spectral arches across the misted horizon.
Eyes turned to the western skies, we suspend our meteorological selves acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us - un-beckoned and scarcely earned, proffering thanks for the radiant epistle of healing, hope and promise, artfully encoded in transfigured light.
A luminary ballet takes center stage when synthetic refractors come to play: crystal pendants bathe our foyers with dazzling swaths of color. Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps discovered by headlights through the fog. A science class prism slices light rays into pre-ordered spectral strata.
If the sky denies us a rainbow, we can always fashion one of our own and we do!
Before there was music, bird songs brushed our souls and the murmur of woodland streams held us captive by their banks.
Soon we learned to sing and tint the air With prisms of wood and wire and metal and to color soundscapes in our spirits With songs of wonder, joy and longing.
Before there was music, bird songs brushed our souls.
Robert Charles Howard, 2019
This is a rewrite and expansion of a prior poem called Morning Rainbow. The poems are design to go with an original piece for solo flute also called Prisms.
The mirror is a farce, a myth, a crook Look. Really! Our reflection is always exposed to our imaginative creations, concoctions, and corrosions. There is power in a refraction. See whatever you want coz wer all blind anyway.
After denying myself for so long How can you accept me Staring into my eyes Seeing pieces of broken glass Mirroring shattered dreams Reflecting old lovers past Yet somehow You always come back With a new smile
He saw himself in her eyes suspended in two shining drops of bright water, everything was there as if her eyes were two miraculous bit of violet amber that might capture and hold him in tact. Her face, fragile milk crystal with a soft constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity, but the strangely comfortable and gently flattering light of a candle.
For how many people did you know who refracted you own light to you? People were often blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your innermost trembling thought?
a small piece I took of Violet Amber, which is composed of bits and pieces of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451