Wednesday, April 22, 2020

A day in Isabella



ISABELLA
This city, renowned for its hospitality, sits on a mud bank flanked by two streams, the Roiling and the Turgid. Consequently its inhabitants, known affectionately by the appellation, Swimmers, have so instilled in their get this necessary affability to water, that their predominant distinguishing characteristic has become webbed feet. At the gates to the city, Helmeted Hornbills rest atop Grecian columns, hurriedly constructed during the three day dry period between the rainy months which extend through the Roman Calendar, compensating for leap years and time spent for celebrating the return of wrestling as a professional sport.

As we turned off the highway to enter Isabella, my aunt remarked on the cleanliness of the sidewalks. (We arrived in early spring so the dearth of floating sediment or lack of turbidity in the Roiling allowed for a clear view of the submerged stone walks.) We were delighted to see, first hand, the handy work of graffiti artists, who have utilized mosaic techniques to tell the history of the city.

Saturday, April 04, 2020

The Immigrant



 


The Immigrant

Fortunate am I to stand
at the bottom of Moorland
where granite melts to water,
where nothing constricts my view.

To hear cobbles chuckle in ebbing tides,
and soar on thoughts of distant lands, 
fare forward beyond the savages,
exult in the prospect of eternity.

Sail with Amundsen on Hudson’s Bay
searching for the Northwest Passage.
squinting to glimpse Melville hunting oil.
Icebergs and shipwrecks appear.

Souls and skeletons litter beaches.
Blackburn’s lost fingers,
the nets of the living dead release,
I wallow and wonder in new worlds.

Once your voice filled my sails
and I sailed the universe
setting my course on dreams,
asleep in a shoe of wood.

As you who sailed to an unknown land,
speaking without being heard,
hearing without understanding
standing alone in crowds.

Horizons restricted bedizened dreams
future buried in your gardens.
You worked as others soared, as
now do I on gossamer wings.

Days of endless joy from your labors
paint horizons without limit.
Nets fill with glittering stars. 
Where I am you are.

Friday, April 03, 2020

Living





Life and death on planet Earth or
While watching a child headed for the beach.

A star is born
Its brilliant lustre blinds
Its pull, its gravity irresistible
Its beauty unbearable

Whelmed by attention to
Its every want
Its volume  swells
Its beauty hones

As fission fizzes
Its death approaches
Its glow mutates to memory.
A window closes.