In France I came across this sign:
Provisional bar and occasional hotel.
I wonder if this establishment accepts reservations?
Tag: Transcendentalism
Radiant Child
Harmony meters measure
The moods rising
Off the tarmacadam.
Adults, in the swing of
Bills, forget to smile.
Less entertained by obligations
In the local park, a
Teen plays a keyboard
Harvests raw blurred notes, hint
Of a cool soundtrack.
High harmony
Readings encompass
The radiant child.
Echoes of lyrics dignify
The sensual pitch of her
Voice. She sings:
“Harmony travels
at the speed of joy.
A luminous poet is as light
as an ounce of osmosis.
Time after time
Parents, in the swing of
bills, forget to smile.
Moods rising… radiant child.”
Weekly Photo Challenge: Background | Neighborhood Art
In New York I photographed a man engulfed by spray paint.
Honesty Box
How
can
I
accomplish my dreams?
The
hands
on my
clock
are
at loggerheads.
If when walking on the Avenue Of The Future,
I should happen to encounter
a fortune teller
who tells me: “You will mend your luck
when you turn back the clock.”
Will I deposit my gratitude
in the honesty box?
Or will I forge on ahead
weighed down by
regret?
Lady Serenity
When Lady Serenity
saw me, she swerved.
Her detour a reminder not to dwell on anxiety.
I want to absorb the tempo of my female hero.
Go with her on a journey. We’ll decide.
Fill a syrup-colored packing case with maps loosely packed.
Plan our getaway on the backs of envelopes. Take me with you.
“Live and love as if there’s no tomorrow.” I wish she’d said to me.
“Die to tomorrow.”
Add as a P.S.
Tall and Medium Tales
Where was I before the mercury rose?
The day so dry all I can do is get naked on wet sheets and dive
into a book of fairytales called Floating Down The Sea of Ears.
Tall and medium tales about proteans (shapeshifters) like Leonardo
Da Vinci whose career took many shapes such as he was said to have
a ‘protean career’, and a fairytale within a fairytale about a fraternity
of surrealist poets living in exile on the Island of Writers. Each scribe
has cut off one ear to protest the watering down of freedom of speech.
On the Island of Writers, they argue and rant long into the night. Talking
over each other, their hearing impaired and their thinking short-sighted.
I make several pathetic attempts to shift my attention back from island.
Altered by what I’ve witnessed, it’s too late for my brain. The fixtures
and fittings in my apartment — the sofabed, piano, cable TV, candles,
kitchen table, bathroom scales, door frame, window blinds, security
alarm system and my sheets have become part of me; as my habitat
pulls me under the floorboards and this reader connects to the umbilical
cord of the fraternity.
We argue and rant long into the night.
My blood orange eyes look puzzled beneath
my purple shaded eyelids. Half-open and half-sealed.
I weigh their arguments on my bathroom scales. The scales
crack, snap and pop as the debates rage at arm’s length.
How does this fairytale end? Will I flash upon The End?
My first impression is of a monotone snake coiled inside
a M.C. Escher drawing.
Is that black and white snake, Gaia contemplating us? Are
we mirror cells? Mirroring each other’s cells, or are we not?
Asymmetry?
A symmetry?
A thinner tree?
Are the colors in Escher’s field (of vision) under review?
Who was it that said: “Silence is so accurate, the mind’s imagination can also paralyze.”
In my alternative state I have a theory that the Island of Writers
is the mole people living in the tunnels under New York City.
Our Earth is their stars.
Head In The Clouds
When I was growing up my mother would say to me: “Child of mine you have your head in the clouds.”
When I grew older I discovered that folks who write poetry are in the minority.
I’m half afraid to write poetry
for you who never read it much
and I’m left laboring
with the secrets and the silence
In plain language.
— Adrienne Rich
Daily Prompt: Glass half-full | Imagine
Father and child
I endeavour to start out on the right foot but, as the day presses on, I sink deeper into the non-specific.
The ethereal press of promises.
The sleeve of illusion.
The shadow cast by the peaceful lighthouse.
If I am the lighthousekeeper, you are the light.
Find Art
For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.
— Virginia Woolf
