Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
for
she, an unending gift of inspiration,
a thank you for learning me a new word
Hungry for the sharing

<>

Cloud-busting: Mare's tails -
"Horse tail clouds," also known as "mare's tails," are a type of cirrus cloud characterized by their thin, wispy, and streaky appearance, resembling the tail of a horse. These clouds are composed of ice crystals and form at high altitudes, typically between 5 and 10 miles above the ground. They are often associated with approaching weather changes,
particularly warm fronts, and  may signal
the possibility of rain or increased winds."

<>
With newly acquired knowledge,
Comes new responsibilities
No longer is a fleece flecked blue aureola sky
Just a harbinger of good tidings,
Its inner working require further investigation,
And a new concern must now,  by instigation
to be attended, by instantation

So it is.
With every column, differing opinion, advice, new knowing,
comes
Those **** burrs, that irritate but don't break the skin,
Concerning, demanding discerning, and unthinkable.
Now
Attention must be paid.
Ah,
Paid.

Perhaps trivial, perhaps not, but
The less the ignorance, the more the bliss?

We turn to each other,
And only to each other,
Whisper great fears of what yet to be,
Things so commonplace now,
As to be unthinkable!

Will our descendants ever know
A dry faucet?
Days when electricity is only available but for a few hours,
Toilets that are illegal to flush?
When when,

those
systems that with witch we pay so little heed,
we do not concern us now,
Routine, unseen, and someone else's responsibility,
Be luxuries in the future?

Can I with conscience clear see a most excellent daylight,
And not seek out, worry about, the wispy warnings of
Horse tail clouds?
Somehow, unbefuddled, it all ties together,
The happy endings get tied, knots well made,
Sleep comes easy, the light dims slowly, finely,
Clarity, everywhere, not for taking, just for asking,
Wanting is off limits, even inconceivable, and the poem.
Why, even the poem finishes itself, and to all a very, Good Night

a grownup lullaby
It will get dark soon.
The white, yellow, and pink
houses will turn grey,
then black. The cacophony
of car horns will turn into
the chorus of locusts.
Summer's night will lay
a sheet of tranquility over
a city harassed by exigent
matters that matter not.
Soporific silhouettes will
soften the cityscape,
allowing us to escape
the frazzle of the hot day,
exchanging the frenetic
for the peaceful, the welter
for a sense of the well-being.
The susurrus of the evening
breeze blows the exhaust
of our polluted lives into
a distant day. Children play
in yards back and front as
laughter wafts through
neighborhoods like the sweet
scent of brotherliness, not the
fetid odor of finance and
foreclosures. There is a
sense of closure to this day.
As the sun sets, our eyelids
close, and we pray for the
soft rain for forgiveness,

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
“Epistle at Noon”


Steam curls from the chipped mug—
a psalm rising in arabesques
against the sunlit kitchen tile.

My spoon taps a rhythm
like distant temple bells,
calling memory from its slumber.

Between the coffee’s warmth
and the hush of half–read pages,
I find an unexpected covenant:
mercy in ordinary motion.






.
 Jul 21 Anais Vionet
BEEZEE
I have retired from temptations of attention.
I’ve retired from the need to judge.
I’ve retired from feeling like I need that moment,
And I’ve retired from feeling too sad.

I have retired into a place of contemplation —
A place nearby, and where I sit.

I have retired from feeling guilty,
And I’ve retired from needing your yes.

I am retired.
 Jul 21 Anais Vionet
Nosy
I read it twice, I still didn’t get it
I did not receive the message
I couldn’t understand the meaning

You poured in your heart
And I left it, torn apart
Because some things don’t resonate
Until it’s once again too late

And you made up your mind
While I stayed behind

Always too slow to make up my mind
Staring at the lines once more,
They look back like a locked door,
I tried knocking, but not sure what for.

Poems are like puzzles in crypts
You write in metaphors
And I respond too literally

And interstellar that didn’t align
A story written that wasn’t mine

And now there’s just silence,
Where insight should have been.
I held something breakable And didn’t feel it within.
Next page