If I told you to visit this moment
To look around just an instant,
Would you refuse, would you consent?
Would you see what no-else can?

If you did, how could you share?
In penumbra, light up the flair?
What if you did, what if you dared?
What if you did yet no-one cared?

Everything sees through its essence,
Anything else it may comprehend.
Here lies the Fog, a forest so dense,
Spreading across, throughout the land.

Right up in front, close to your faces,
Written in crust are a thousands promises.
And along its growth at increasing pace,
At each of your blinks a few words erase.

Now you look back, but now it's too late.
Now's what you'd purchase at any given rate.
When there's no time and where there's no fate
Nothing no longer ever has to wait.

Plunged in darkness, see that you're blind;
Even there lurks something that shines.
Here is the Way, that path you must find,
Hidden within and without any sign.

When life stretches much too far to see,
To look way further is never to be free.
When gazing below, deep down the dark sea,
Know that beyond always floats this clarity.

So here I've been asking, but I'll ask one more time:
Having been through, is there two of a kind?
When raised in this manner, no question's ever clear;
Thus poems and rhymes are allowed to end here.

in the predawn fog
a faint outline of fences
could be observed

once again the fog draws me in,
speaking fog soft,
“of me, of me, you must,”
so write-birthing,
I am mustered out,
permissioned,
commissioned,
so ordered.

This fog is personal, in your face, changing by
masking/unmasking street and bay, slow burning,
this one, revealing a tableau, like a theater curtain
rising to audience applause for the set before them,
so unexpected, eye-delighting, pleasuring perspective.

why should you care? what matters this to you?

your fog likely little different, in the Cascades,
Everest, the California coastline morning burning off,
not costing anyone’s life, the Blue Ridges smoking meats,
the Quatse River saying, follow me to the Alaska glaciers,
(in the Midwest, some states, use rivers as boundaries,
so they like the fog to keep the ‘neighbors’ on the other side),
the twin Ghats, or mourning steam rising from the Ganges,
or the Zambales Mountains, guarding Manila Bay entrance,

all mine, here too, so slow retreating, gifting a quiet, wider
bay vista tween two islands, one Long, one sheltered.

so wrong, it matters so, none beyond compare!

these mountain or river comparison, white or gray,
listen friend, look closer, see my face, my words
fogging your soul’s view, full of carryover affection,
so deep, they borrow West Virginia coal miner~heroes
to dig it out, a different kind of mining,
but,
nonetheless,
mine.

so it is here, I see your multi-colored faces like
light flickers shedding clarity to these troubled times,
troubled waters, saying here we are, we are!

we here, outside your window, on waters calming,
see us dancing, but it’s so hard for me spot you in
the mists, for mine eyes are clouded, misted over too,
glasses fogged now, **** these **** tears.

that fog horn blows,
worries my mind, lord knows, we don’t need,
more obstacles in this tired world, so the horn
trying, to be blowing fog away, without success

the sound’s remainder air-lingers like foam bubbles
ridden down to coffee cup bottom, resisting, protesting,
refusing to expire, useless/nonetheless, says no dying

sole boat outlined, bout mile out, must be anchored, it’s
unmoved by fog danger or noise, fishing is my informed
best guess, but fish ain’t stoopid, swimming another way

the fog horn wakes the woman who looks askance
cause there is neither coffee or a newly christened
poem upon her nightstand, an explanation is sought

“stand by me,” I sing, “be unafraid my darling, stand now,
stand by me,” poet said “been guarding our bed, this long
foggy night, agin interlopers, bad dreams and sea troubles”

shied ‘em away, knowing that when a man loves a woman,
she can lean on him, cause he’s load bearing, her safety is
always first, poem second, coffee coming, with sun rising

she bemused, funny you’re, kooky like the poems you’ve up-
written all night, up all life long, all stored up in my nightstand,
you’re sweet, like  Tennessee whiskey, ignore my scowling my own
poet-mr. coffeeman-sea guardian, you’re alright with me

Here on the roof of the world

Fog curls

Obscuring the land below

No glow of lights to drain the sky

The air is thin and sharp

Broken glass with every breath

Damp and clear

Crisp as night falls

We watch the stars

Lost in silent wonder

Your first steps
In gray fog
Quiet forest echoes
Eerily still
Life reflecting
Scared to death

© sd greene  6/21/17