the night has a thousand voices and though their languages may all be different their meaning is the same. nothing is truly alone for all is connected, bonded for life and even after, for nothing ever really disappears. our molecules, our atoms combine, break apart, and combine again as something new, something different, shifting phases of existence. it is most literally a circle of life, continually turning, and ever changing.
The remote clatters Back into The carefully carved Artisan bowl, Headless Of any damage Such brash treatment Might abide. The massive supernova Of a screen up on the stand Goes black, Devoid of power To distract her anymore. She picks up a book instead, Reading art Upon a page As if it were A canvas Upon A gallery wall. The infusion Of creative beauty So complete It moves the muse To begin To whisper Again.
“Seduction was the natural progression of curiosity.” – In the Skin of a Lion by Michael Ondaatje
the harsh exhalation of conditioned air roared over everything, deafening her to bird song and rainfall and tires on gravel in the drive. the night always came as a shock. sudden darkness where once there was light, if only she had looked up sooner.
chirps and chips frantic hops darting left then right swooping up and over to the sudden eager chorus of baby beaks stretched wide in demanding supplication nestled, bent-kneed among a fern pew in the holy chapel of nature’s spirit.
I hoard them. Stacked high, Pushed deep, Tilted And adjusted As puzzle pieces In a bookcase. Overflowing, Till they cascade, A waterfall of words, To pool at my feet In a comfort Of warm paper And hard covers, That smell of Knowledge Power Imagination And connection. Their allure, Their devastation, Flows against my soul In gentle undulations And violent tsunamis To move me both minutely And throw me upon rocky shores. Always Always Do they…
There is a beauty Of words That evades me. Leaves me longing, Grasping ineffectually For The Right One. I feel their potential, Scrabbling In the back Of my mind. Yet the harder I reach The further they recede. I know They are bright stars In a night of gloom, But they refuse To share Their light With me.
I never chose The color of my skin But I am ashamed Of what It has come to mean. This whiteness Of mine Is no privilege When I burn In the light of the sun. In art White is the absence Of color, Bland Dull Lifeless. And when it is bright It blinds you To the beauty Of other things. In art Black is the combination Of all colors, The mixture That makes Midnight. Such…
Lightning bugs flicker Like drops of stardust Floating on a summer breeze. A nightingale calls From its perch Among the trees. A weather-warped board Creaks under the weight Of a rocking chair. The citronella candles Gutter and spark briefly As a moth gives itself to the flame. The buzz of cicadas Pitches ever higher Until it is a deafening roar, Then stops dead Only to slowly build again. Coyotes call And are answered In the…
A concrete desolation. The air shimmers And ripples with heat. A hard, gray monotone Radiates outward, Paving the land over With the rubble of progress. But here And there Are saving graces. Dandelions growing Up through the cracks. Dragonflies swooping Through clouds of gnats. Hawks perched Atop high street lights. Raccoons tipping over Collections of garbage cans Before scurrying off Into the night. Nature waits, Silent and patient, For us to be gone. Ever ready…
