The grass flickers, as the
Wind pushes it down, in
A gentle but determined
Motion, sweeping upwards to
Swirl the blue-grey clouds
Around the radio tower, before
Dissipating into the milky
Sky, which at this moment
Is the lightest shade of
Blue, an open innocent shade
Of blue, like an angelic birthday
Cake, the pinker clouds, whose
Graceful tendrils embrace the
Air, and dancing twirl across the
Peaceful summer skyscape

Down below them, the
Emerald stalks of corn stand,
Silent sentinels, awaiting the
Coming of the dawn, they too
Feel the pushing of the wind, but
Brush it off, over their shoulders,
And continue their silent watching
On the sloping sides of the hill, the
Growling pines, resplendent in their
Glimmering needles, reflect the fading
Light, off the clouds, as the sun sinks,
Beneath the horizon, and I watch them
Silently on my bike, the only thing
I can hear, is the swish of the wind,
And the hum and whirring of the
Pedals, as my bike and I, we glide up
The hill, and down the hill, and
Around the posts that are meant
To keep the cars from disturbing, this
Peaceful walking path

A while later, we crest a hill, now
Having past the town, I see the work
Of the persistent wind, the clouds
Now whipped into a curling wave,
Of pink and blue-black, spilling
Over the horizon, behind the red-roofed
Country houses, which are strangely
Reminiscent of those old, red, barns
Which would sit abandoned in
Fields of perpetual wheat, and,
Through the turning of the seasons,
Would rot away into timbers, with
No one left to remember, what
They were, or why they remain

Now we have ridden in a loop, my
Bike clicks as I change gears, to
Crest a hill and coast down, at high
Speed, between the guard rails and
The road, with the wind kicking
Up behind me and whisking an
Upcoming tree in to a fluttery
Flurry of leaves and branches, while
Below a stream cuts a field, and,
Skirting a pen, passes by a pinto
Pony, I think it was, that was just
Standing there, as we rode past,
Onto the cobblestones and around
A bend, the group splits, some going
A different route, but I want to come
Back the way I came, and I ride
Beside the highway, listening to
The chirp of the crickets and the
Hum of the wheels against the
Cold, pavement, while up the hill
The verdant pines bob their bows,
Up and down, waving, waving,
The crashing blue-black wave has
Rolled, on past the tower now, it
Is crashing down over the silent
Sentinels, and I watch quietly as
The wind rolls down the hill, and
Whirls some leaves, making the
Grass flicker in the setting sun.

Waxing Eloquent: Life, Death, and Everything in Between

Sessions:
I: Birth of a Song
II: Experience of All
III: Loving and Longing
IV: Life
V: Adventures at the Edge
VI: Transition
VII: What Comes After
VIII: Another Brick in the Wall


Old age hath yet his honor and his toil,
Death closes all: But something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done.
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: The slow moon climbs: the Deep
Moans round with many voices, Come my Friend!

I:

I beat away several pounds of unneeded and unwanted flora. The brush was becoming increasingly thick. Sad, but I had no choice. The fruit that had sustained me had shriveled, disappeared! My choices were few. Either stay in the oasis where now only water remained, or take my chances with whatever lay beyond, outside of my paradise.
How loathe I was to leave the oasis!
I looked around, distraught with my efforts. It was getting hotter and hotter. It was sweltering outside, and it felt as if my entire body was being compressed and beaten down by the heat. The cool breeze and the rippling water were far behind me now. The jungle held no care. I pushed on.
The path narrowed. I tried several times to push my way forward, but something held me back. The jungle tried to stop me but I continued pushing the greenery away. I could feel it! There was a clearing up ahead. I can even see it now!
But it was so far away! I couldn’t go on… there was no relief, the jungle was relentless!
But with a sudden, final, desperate heave, I was through!
What is this? The entire land is white! I squint and peer a bit harder; The world comes into focus.

……

Dear God,
The Beauty!

II:

The top of the mountain is a lonely place. Overlooking the crystal peaks from my frozen sanctuary, it’s as if everything seems like nothing really matters. The problems of the earth are no longer my concern. I must be content with being the watcher. I have no true power however; no true reason for my haughty airs. It is simply an illusion granted by the monolith.
The cold is near unbearable. The skies don’t show it though. There is no sign of all the freezing rain, and all the snow that lies below. All that exists is a single moment of perfect clarity and reflection, untainted by anything.
The sun hangs at the lower edge of the eastern sky, partially obscured by the crystal peaks. Such power! Even the sun cannot move them, Its rays blocked by their forms. A lightshow emerges, terrific hues play over the scene, giving the entire skyscape a pastel aura; Orange near the horizon, and red, then purple, and finally a dark, dark blue as the sky reveals itself. A single bold star defies the sun, refusing to give up it’s light just yet. The moon is the stars consort, and they stand together in inevitable rebellion.
It is a time of compromise however; The sun and the moon can coexist. They agree for that a few moments, they can share the sky. The harmony remains unbroken for the moment.
Poetry? Prose? No. It is simply an experience. A discovery for the curious and bold; The ones of wit and cunning. The sun paints no picture, there is no armistice in the heavens. The sun and the moon hold no compacts, and I?

I start back down the mountain.


III.


A winter’s day came through with eyes for me,
And it gave to my person a lovely gift,
One of sweet charm and a passionate wit
Who would come with me to the Azure Sea.
True, unworthy I was of her, indeed-
But even her longing look was a lift!-
Given to me by one of perfect lips,
And a stout heart beside her perfumed breeze.
Her smile would give Queen Helen envy,
And her gaze could melt a man’s icy heart,
Her laugh would give pleasure never-ending,
And a frown could give a titan a start.
I simply cannot be without this light,
And I will fight forever for the right.

Will you join me for forever, and go to the Azure Sea together?

IV.

The man looked over the edge of the cliff, contemplating his fate. Thoughts raged through his mind; the doom at the bottom of the ravine, the loss of his Lady, the end of the world. Well, his world at least.
It was a terribly folly he had made the autumn day, as the leaves were burning. After everything he had done, seeing the Cascading Falls, watching the Pandorian Sunrise, climbing Mount Gaze, it was as if everything was a dream. Could his misfortune be real? Surely there was no such injustice in this world! No kind God would allow such things to occur. She didn’t deserve such a fate that befell her! The Azure Sea would have to wait, there was no reason for him to pursue it any longer.
He threw her ruby brooch off of the cliff.
“I am only a man! Do I deserve no sympathy?” The wind wailed, but not for him.
He stepped over the edge of the abyss.

........

“Wake up! You shouldn’t have drunk so much!” The man lifted his head slightly off the table to meet his wife’s gaze. Looking into her eyes, even through his alcohol-induced delirium he could see the loving look in her eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek.
“Love, you’ll never lose me. I may go away, but in the end….” He looked at her.
“Nothing but nothing could keep us apart. Let’s get ready, our ship leaves soon. The Azure Sea waits.” The man grinned, and he sat up. Together they exited the inn’s bar.

.........

The world will never wait for those who tread it’s path slowly, for those the Azure Sea is the end. The ones who travel the Sea have had their fill of the surface life and seek to forge a new path into the great unknown, unrestricted by the laws of the world. They seek something, something out there in its waves.
The story goes that people who travel the Azure Sea must relive every moment of their life, and at the end, they will realize the truth; The reason for their existence.
And so, Life continues, and the Azure Sea will reveal all. The ship awaits, and forever will not be left alone.



V.

Bronzed waves reconcile with my bow.
Liars, they rescind and form a new front.
Doldrums are occurring now,
Foretelling travel for at least another month.
The season? I cannot truly know,
However the sea holds no such compunction.
Unforgivingly my ship is lashed with rain and snow,
And I clear it, only to find another junction.
Where? Where am I headed?
You ask - Well I can honestly say:
My purpose is to go where even God hasn’t tread,
And find my unknown self along the way.
The destination, Good Lady! Is the end of the world-
The base of the endless falls.
To find the step where Cerebrus lays curled,
To hear the trumpet echo in the Great Hall.
Hark! Over the horizon is the end!
Haste! We’re almost finished with the Azure Sea!
Keep tight! We’re almost of the great bend,
The amber light has ended, now arrives the Eve!
A hall of divinity promises a hallowed tryst,
I.. I can finally see!
Friend, I am truly sorry for this,
But I cannot let forever be.


VI.

Blazing stars will give
Themselves to a heart’s lone aria
Shining with crystal.



VII.

Pastels flow and curve in all directions, rivers
filled
With….
Wondrous!
Creeping - slowly now, over the hill….
What is this! The converse of love-
Blasted landscape, cross the line-
Involved with an eternal struggle?
Absurd!
Beauty and the Beast, An obvious choice!
But why does the light feel so cold
And the dark just the same?
A disguise to hide the truth!
A trick for those uninformed!
A world for the ignorant,
I won’t stay here-
I won’t!
Love! --…
Back to the sand, Back to nowhere land I go…


Salvation was in a single grain of sand,
The end a mist-cover rift.
(I cannot live by omnipotent hand)
I will gladly return to no-where land,
If it means I won’t accept the gift.

Angels, do you hear me?


VII.


The woman sits on the boat, her husband in her arms. Waves beat against the side of the boat, and the night sky shrouds everything. Land is just ahead of her, at most a day away.
The other end of the Azure Sea.
She cradles her husbands head and holds him close. Tears stream out of her eyes and she thinks of all the things that they went through together. Sharp pain racks her, and she sobs even more.
She looks up into the sky, her eyes blurred by her tears. She sees something….something streaming through the sky. She rubs her face and gets a better look.
A series of stars arrange themselves into glowing arches, a single ray of light dividing them. They glow with the magnificence of the divine, a chorus for the ages. Then, suddenly, the image explodes into a series of shooting stars, sending a shower of brilliant luminescence everywhere, and revealing the new sunrise. The light illuminates her husband’s face, showing the smile that she couldn’t have seen in the darkness.
“Love, did you find what you were looking for?” She asks softly.
She already knew the answer and the world faded-

Just another brick in the wall.


-

‘Tis not to late to seek a newer world!
Push off, and being well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, Until I die.

Tennyson, Ulysses

MAJESTIC SKYSCAPE

If you lie on your back and look up at the sky you will see a huge vista of sky before you. Swirling, majestic skyscapes always changing, never the same twice.
So much water vapour is up there in the huge grey clouds, soon all that rain will be released to drench the land.
Now the sun shines down from a burning blue sky drying out the earth.
As night comes the sun sets lower and darkness starts to creep over the sky.
Every day shows the heavens in different moods and colours like so many different people.

The great Green Mountains,
up where the tallest evergreens grow,
stretching,
upward an outward,
toward the heavens,
a perimeter of boundaries,
where white iridescent angels,
can drift,

Touching the clouds,
in winds of change coming,
gathered together sheltering storms,
alongside barren maples
and birches,
with shriveled others aging,
gracefully,
bowing down to winter's bone,
and ready for Spring's solstice.

When,
in surging solar winds,
upward of,
a million miles an hour,
40 hours after leaving their sun,
raining in an big bright ariel shower,
emphasizing their greatness,
in an eerie tranquility,
behind a diffused hazy luster,
a distant soft moon light,
in a beautiful Glory Shining.

Silvery satin ribbons,
and celadon green bends,
as colors wait pensive to create
in messages it then sends,
a heavenly landscape,
for their part in the prism ballet,
these arial acrobats,
yearn to touch tips on sturdy cutouts,
of tall old aging trees,

Dancing into ever-changing,
multifaceted soft,
an inspiring hues,
an shifting in the breeze
they move above,
in a mystical rhythm,
a dark and mysterious,
black smoke rises
in between rays,
in the opaque darkest hour,
for the creation of,
a spiritual backdrop,
mysterious feeling power
in the magnificent,
Magnetic Midnight.

The darker the sky,
the brighter the light,
for an otherworldly setting,
as colors merge and ignite
while they mix the palate again,
I am lost in silent reverie,
for the forces that dance there in that blackness,

Awe-inspiring,
breathtakingly beautiful,
alien,
frightening,
imparting comforting wisdom,
it is everything an so exciting,
and healing to your soul,
like a hauntingly familiar sound,
of
music to your ears.

moving like in an immensely,
active native conga,
while flitting eiree,
ghosts of glaciers perform,
when fueled folklore beckon,
swirling magic colors
in a perfect moving storm
these beauties from frozen skies,
spraying snow & tossing sparks,
as their created stars,
saturate the deep,
as their tears are shed,
in big butterfly kisses,

playfully floating,
in lovely little fine wisps,
of cirrus smudges of pure refractions,
bending in rarified veils of light,
into a seamless,
shimmering skyscape.

A hiding crystal clear,
deep Alice blue sky,
now fading,
as colors are now blending,
from azure into darkest denim,
then turning periwinkle,
stretching out,
into auroral archways,
dusted in a tangerine glow
in transitioning brushstrokes,
gently cover impressionistic sketches,
evolving into luminism,
on an endless open canvas.

As I paint the words,
where I sit there quietly,
respectfully awaiting answers,
as clouds and moonlight smear,
into watercolor scenery,
using up each angel tear
an intimate engagement occurs,
the passion of nature,
is sublime,
just perfectly,
these synchronized sky swimmers ,
becoming one

As a stormy sun is forcing,
red light dancers,
holding torches,
colliding and becoming excited,
edging themselves,
these powerful ominous portents,
becoming the framework.

Around a fantastic fluorescent show,
the cast wearing blushing pink,
and wild viola purples,
tinged in chartreuse green,
basking in beauty,
where hope lies,
in these colors I've never ever seen, since,
transcending skies of tomorrow,
into an age old masterpiece,
waiting patiently for this,
spiritual journey,
to begin,
with an eager & beautiful,
dawn coming.

Where the North winds,
send a brilliant light show,
of atomic wonders,
in watery pirouettes,
of shaped effects,
& teardrops sacrificed,
swirl in spirits of harmony,
completely memorizing,
I am transfixed,
an astonishing feat,
of brilliant pigments,
smudged into,
the mysterious lightness,
my drifters heart wanders,
melded into atmospheric colors,
we can only wish to see in this lifetime.

Where life seeds now
glide,
on the giving winds,
and Eagles and hawks can,
applaud this much beauty way up there.

This place,
a heavenly firmament,
where all the sacred souls come to die,
  where all the very, very, wise end up,
where they all spend their eternal lives,
young and old alike,
eventually they all retire here,
bringing us hope or warnings,
a chance at redemption,
striking hot iron in a glow,
metallic bits,
stars form,
restless,

Sighing, awaiting,
  a gifted chance to share with us,
along with all the parished,
souls and spirits,
playfully transforming,
from native garb,
mocassin covered feet,
change into favorite animals,
stomping on the colorful floor,
a great bear,
a wolf,
a beluga whale,
a soaring raptor,
not wanting for anything,
walking in Native American circles,
to the sounds of long silent drums,
morphing & shape shifting,

Again,
and again,
and again,
where rain shadows dance,
in ancient skies,
celestial bodies are illuminated,
reflecting the fire circles,
from where distant oceans shore,
take me there...ancestors
take me there once more,

As night slowly declines,
as daylight seeps through cracks,
bleeding into tomorrow,
to fly again to share what they must,
they pray and worship their God,
and they trust..

And Aurora Borealis is her name.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

a crunchy-looking evergreen
glitters beyond the buttery sun
melting onto dense white halls,
an angel’s resting place

my breath melds with the clouds
together we drift silently
our shadows over the hills
punctuated by the early sunset

Angel!

This dark man,
He's wrapped in angel wings,
My feet collected, swept away,
Universal in escape from reality's nightmares,
As we float, traversing a million miles of skyscape,
In his safe protection,
I'm relaxing safe in angel arms,
Such glorious freedom to fly.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Nineteen forty four: A broad shoulder silhouette in the milkwhite skyscape.
Winged coy mortality whispers lovewords to his temple
touches fire to his inner thigh and he
pushes her aside and says Maybe tomorrow,
I'm working late tonight.

And he is cold and american but he tells himself
He is Cold! and American! And even in the
sandbag eyelid opal gray morning when his skylegs shake
he is cold and American and his copper girl's
thrilling reproach cannot warm him red
until he unzips his vest and invites her in.



but in forty nine he is twenty seven and American. in forty nine, to be American is to have no skylegs.
but baby death writes him letters while jean marie in her cap-sleeves looks pretty at his side.
and he likes jean marie, he tells himself he likes her better. she is pretty and she is sturdy.
she can make love without leaving burn marks.

but he wears slippers and housecoats and he has no skylegs.
and jean's cap-sleeves show no skin. fire hurt to touch but at least she let him.

and so twenty seven and scared, he reads baby death's neat tiny scrawl
and feels her breath on his earlobe
and winged
coy

he falls to forty four
and flying

Growth when perceiving reduction of this
Subjective reality

Proportionate somehow
This fraction of interest
doubled over, delighted expression,
This pain, It's strange, gaining more daily, gradually making it safely now seeing these states of gluttonous need faked I'm convinced at times, just enough to slake this need to rake my teeming heart that never falters in initiating every question posed to the legions of potential mates inevitably lost to leave for alternate reasons, and this I hate, when I held high my honest hope, mistaken, they take their leave, aggreiving the instant infatuation with promises honestly got me weak. I think these signs we keep seeing probably lead to an intimate need to ache and breathe, shake and feed, take and dream, play and she may relay the same objective, seeking each other, perhaps others, but now it's late, each thinking this meeting be fated and a moment is traded to thank whomever it was that took interest enough in training them up to stay up later still waiting to feel this hour of love.
And I hate it. Calmly. I take my bait, self-made inspired by naive aspirations that break apart the deluded frame containing the film of fabricated promises and convincing arguments continuing incessant untill I agre and stitch a phrase to fit the stage that I would raise the question. Time drags with flirtatious passes until a consice and clever cacaphony of my creation suits the situation. I glowed with vanity, shades of possibility danced round the vial that contained this daring question sleeping ragged, beating haggard at my breath screeching at the little caution briefly holding back this ******* secret. This one last moment I needed to just enjoy the sound we weaved together laughing, speaking, secrets. I have known, for hours now, since we chanced along the streets, a crashing cliche that callously created the juncture of our meeting. Since she her eyes agreed with mine to enjoy the others company. I fortold my hopeful nature would incite my thoughts to somehow agree tonight the longest streak of recieved rejections in history, believed to be held by Mr. Perry, ten years now and SHE might be the key to leaving this sea of seeking, I must be drinking, but no, I speak to her my saliscious line, visciously timed and know  the circumstances still provide the newest addition to the bottomless list.
I take heart I can still feel new wounds.
Hope has ran, and this plan ends like the rest,
With his children, Pain and Melancholy, to visit me in the drain, and laugh, and sing, and talk of many things. Pain insists she see's my heart is one which strains to bear this tyrants cruel command to supply him 'care' unending, unblemished, pure. Unheard of amounts comparable to the stars, sea particles, ****.
Carelessly caring too much without any reason, without explanation, expectation, or thinking is a pleasant reprieve to those who need help and those would be thieves.
You're careless in caring, which is a great way to practice exploring this life and developing habits. It will not help when you're faced with choices that require you know the depths of importance.

Melancholy hummed this quietly, a somber sweet melody that trickled down with  wisdom pain brings. Together we three sat aside the doubt that infects all the newly rejected courageous freaks with hopeful hearts discarded like heartfelt high school letters, or ghosts that haunt my messages. If they give their word to be assured they feel nothing by her answer, they will lie to numb themselves and save face and and race find the shelf that held the help of hell and helmed a night of excitement and debauchery, swept through the thoughtless black sea did he forget the answer she gave to he, and so his shoes took him three miles across to repeat the previous procession he planned and then forgot. She said yes that time, and kept the forgotten memory secret.

too quickly respect, or thank, or hear the drifting voice  

I will cling to my belief it will be worth it


For I will bleed for my love.
Tough mutts sputter and gates shut up discreetly along the pavement I travel.
Bending screaming dark and hollow seems unneeding to creeps who feed on that kind of thing.
You know the type.
You know I know how you like to play them. Create the clones to discard after rehearsal. probable reactive laughing mad at tragic accidents sadistic mastiffs attack and ravage and tear and
Sadness.
The fictitious movies play out onto the skyscape of this mind we share, and attempt accepting the last thing you truly fear.

there are so many of them
  and there is only less
  of me —

gondola in Venice,
  H-bomb
and the knife of Bach;
a steady collision in Q. Ave
as the fizz of the afternoon mirage
settles with the ides,
the torn elephants of
  Chiang Mai
the red blood of Golden Gates
   the froth of the repeated wave
at the lip of the ocean,
  city buoys lacerating
the skyscape

and your coming in here
  ransacking all;
appeasements and
  trivialities — there are so many
of your photographs here
  and only less of me,

looking at all of you
  and weeping it
later. sounds like these sounds
hanging by the edge of the bed
reducing woes to a hair-trigger.

i look outside and there
are women, cat-called by peddlers,
stopped by cabs, inside and outside
  of cars with sometimes lovers
hot legs and all that,
simmering in the highway
glancing at them now
   lamenting them later,
what's a dull boy to do in a dull town
  with clothes dull wielding the
     dull word?

meanwhile, there's so many of you
and there is only very scant of me left.
light voyeurs through the interstices
   of the huddled masses,
panic screeches through the maddened
  streets of Vito Cruz.

   the night is all black and stark
and the heavy behemoth of existence
  prods underneath where
rats, rodents and vermin run
  plodding the highway with sleek varmint
    demeanor. a lady passes by with a
string of fragrance dangling upon
  her shoulder-blades.

what's a dull boy got to do in a dull city
  with a dull heart?

there are so many of them for my
   territorial hands cannot name
and there's only one of me:

     unheroic
        impinged
small
        half-drunk and
half-believing

  that there's something
a dull boy ought to do
   in this dull city
with dull words but it comes
   with an exorbitant outlay.

dog-leashes are expensive,
    moonless hoots through opened
windows hefty with price.
   moon-blooms again and again,
missing all hurt trying to repair
   the ravaged — i look at young
girls, old women, fine and complete
  and this thing of being me
     on the market marked: sun-stifled.

there's so many of them
there's only a sum of me
that's often small and burgeoned
bringing the question
  
what's a dull boy to do in a dull city underneath a dull moon
       within a dull crowd?

one winter’s early eave
as I was leaving work
I sat in my old Carolla, facing east
a rainless sky was threatening
promising a cold, windy storm
contrasting light grays, dark grays and blacks
shapes shifting and swimming slowly
like fish in an aquarium

as I sat spying the skyscape
a conspicuous cloud caught my attention
a large, ashen football against a flat dark field
began to split horizontally across the center
slowly opening like eyelids
long, thick lashes connecting top to bottom
when the lashes finally parted
the aperture revealed an angry Asian face
with fiercely focused features
the interaction looked at me without meeting my eyes
I watched mesmerized for moments
then drove home...wondering

back at work, I described the incident
to curious and amazed acceptance
only one poor soul tried to discredit me
poking fun at my “hallucination”
“You don’t have to be afraid, baby”, I replied
“It’s just clouds”

Easy will I give blood to thee
My love of anger simmering.

Tough mutts and breezy gates shut up while I'm walking up the paved path to heaven.
My shadows carve depictions of their home across it's border, until the time that obliteration comes preceding daylight.
Presently, the senses tell stories of alleyways, bending, screaming, dark, and hollow niches where cells holding cretins feeding on easy cons, closely eyeing the greasy pawns that wobble across rotting paper, voodoo art a secret guarded closely hidden in the hole a beating heart long ago vacated. Robbing rich snobbish ****** their childrens life of ignorance concerning newfound addictions.
You know the type.
You know that I know you too, and how you prefer to shape the ghastly forms these predators take, turn them into your thralls discarded soon after rehearsing the parts of your play, writtin precisely to incite your own addiction to probability gamble gaming intuition. trashing skits naturally reactive to exhibited patterns laughing mad at the victms thrashing quiver, stashing films of the accidents in your pack to gift the sadistic mastiffs  attack and ravage and tear and
Sadness.
The fictitious movies play out onto the skyscape of this mind we share, and attempt to accept the last thing you truly fear.

the skyscape is flowing so naturally over our heads
the light brings alive shadowy sonatas over the hills
each hour the tone of its intensity is changing
such immensity for gentleness
I can't help but woder if a purpose of life is
the sense of beauty

A boyish grin in your branches
you climb into the sky
with fingertips on tree-bark
to its shoulders, through its eyes
on red-gum scribbles
wooden heights

Barefoot, scamper upward
earth in your lungs
breathe deeply, and feel
the roots in your chest
as web-woven shadows
teeter along

Oh build your castle there
and champion truth
with that sun-blonde hair
in the sky of sea, adrift in the light
on cotton-white tides

As fifty-two birds fly
like cards, dealt ever upward
on skyscape velveteen
in their paper-skins, like you
take flight, take flight
with your hearts and your diamonds,

red as the land

below

Awesome is storm.
^^^^^^^^^   ^^^^^^^^
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Thick and heavy this afternoon air
projects an
impending doom everywhere.
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^6
Frightening is lightning.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Leaving a film on withering green
it alters
opalesque dew pooled in each leaf.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Numbing is thunder.
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Wide but blueless the skyscape here
windlessly waits
as large pregnant clouds reappear.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
666666666666666666666666
Then... a
Fear awakes.
World is a-shake.
Mournful is birdcall.
Sudden thunder, decibel-loud
Rumbles, drowns
Voices of scurrying crowd.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
^^^^^^^^666
66666666666666666666666
Now I see
A large tree shaking prior to
The strike,
Speed-forked
999999999999999
99999966666669999999
Ice-hea­t
Lightning
Slashes at
Old spalted
Oak-core.
Strips its
Thick bark,
Groaning
Tree heaves,
Blasted side
Sighs and it
Splits as it
Rips, flying
Leaves slide
Into a heated
Inferno to live
No more, I hear
It in falling to die
Let out a desperate cry.
Awesome is white forked lightning.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

your fingertips are coated with stardust
from the other day when you dipped into
the midnight skyscape as though
it were paint and I could smell it on you,
the faerie-light, confectionary sugar scent
of hazy dreams the color of moon-bathed water

i clasped your hands gingerly because
everyone knows that starstuff is sticky and steadfast
and you told me that the oceans don’t
follow the moon for the fun of it

i don’t remember much of what came after
because you had aligned your fingers so
precisely against mine that I could feel the remnants
of a thousand dying universes caught
in the creases of my thumbs

i soon learned that handsoap only applies
to the earthly, just like water doesn’t even
touch stains on the soul

[BLAST BEAT]
I want to draw The Tower, instead I draw The Star: I want to crash, instead I keep sailing in the wind.
My wings keep moving even though I remain static under.
Sailing to the same points like the small ready-knots, (ready-knot, i.e., the invisible atom that doesn't move but look as if it is moving because of our eyesight; didn't you pay attention when the world was created?) though I am the 10th house, the macrocosm.
I cover my face with my hands: my wings keep moving: I cover because fear.
I bite the skin on my knuckles.
I wish I could fall apart: I wish I could tumble like a grain of sand down the dune into a pile of build up, yet someone won't let me collect.
Sreda throws me into His hurrcaning gales, I remain the same. The Monad rotates me over His fire, I remain the same.
I step over Your coal, Your knives, Your deluge; clumsily, yet I do.
My wings keep moving: everything I have could fall apart, my wings keep moving, and I cover my face out of fear.
You can call me the lamb, you can say I don't listen, you can call me weak and misunderstood, you can call me the small turtle dove, for I cover my face out of fear.
Though I don't want it to, my feathered sails glide through the skyscape; though I can't control it, I sail through white and blue; though I don't want to, I sail through nebulae tinged with unfinished fevers;
I peak through my fingers, eyes bright as a new-born cosmos, and I sometimes examine the pretty color of You, Father of Shine, and I sometimes study the tracks of You, Prince of Buoyancy. [BLAST BEAT]
I peak through my fingers, rain drops fall through these cracks, and I sometimes like the feel of your rays, Sun, and I sometimes like the feel of your winds, Mercury.
I stay far and cold and remaining: my wings keep moving, I keep sailing.

* [note]
I speak to you, the world, and to You, the avatar and the avatar:
feeling special again, please, someone put me in my place /
the monopolization / the vanity / the selfishness /
look how many I's are in my name:
feeling special again, please, someone put me in my place.

untethered
uprooted
the soles of my feet
tingle from nothingness

the dry scrape of the air conditioner in seattle and
hardwood floors that hold no softness
city skyscape gleaming silver
a beacon to the
unmodernized less fortunate
of hope to become
automatons like us, to become more-than-human like us

untethered

what is human
we must be, i suppose, and yet -
if we are not 'what it means to be human'
if my heart is content in its coldness
is that wrong

i have betrayed - but - who?

to be untethered is to be true, to drift
from the solid shores of meaning is to fly and
to be free means to let the beautiful parts of yourself die and

I have made my decision.

A summer night's skyscape
Such beauty, contrary breath-take
Heaven's make
Starlight's stake
God's gift
Nightscape

Stars


The stars align when I breathe in your light;
You allow me to become what I want to be, when you become mine.
There is just you and I on this planet of ours
And in your eyes the stars shine.


Everybody is a ghost, just a memory to us;
They can only be seen but never touched.
They can be brought back into existence, but only if we trust.
A higher being is said to have created the stars from dust.


There have been lights in the sky for what seems like a lifetime;
Forever they have been there and there they will stay.
One day we may see a change in the skyscape;
But nothing has changed in an age.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.