Seven Images I Can See
for which the words I currently have are
inadequate:
the lay of the alabaster plaster on the wide-reach
ceiling;
the more than shimmering reflections of the spa
water on
[ the clearly aging underside of the elliptical
vinyl tub cover;
the shadows of the trimmed orange tree on the brick
wall;
the crimson color of bicycle reflectors deflected
onto my skin;
the multitude of prismatic designs inside a
sun-soaked barrel;
the unthinkable rapidity of the flapping of
hummingbird wings;
the multifarious eyes embedded in the peacock's
enormous tail,
each one eyeing me as if to say I am watching you
and I dare you
even to try to count me and my comrades or to
account for all this.
A
Tripod of Traversal
Here
in the tri-city area there's a special spot
where
all three borders coincide and one can,
like
nowhere else at all, appreciate the twilight
(pre-dawn
OK, post-sunset preferred) & most
especially
when there is a tri-light show to be
seen
and pondered and absorbed and adored:
a
local architect's self-designed house is mega-illuminated,
and
right behind him a refurbished guest house possesses
decorated
solar panels that reflect sun rays and moon beams
streaming
from the vast open skies that overlook the schemes.
Finally,
through the old-growth trees one spies multiple strings of
multi-chromatic
seasonal (Christmas) lights on a huge triangular
structure
which the mysterious owners leave on all year round!!!
Yes,
yes, yes; go-go-go; one two three 1-2-3, we got con-ti-nu-i-ty.
Just my
luck:
After
hours of painstaking labor and
such
hard-fought thought processes
with
skillful manipulation of digital
tools plus
electronic preparation,
I went to
send my creation to several
simultaneous
on-line gatherings but
then the
super solar flare occurred
and wiped
out everything in sight
with super
electro-magnetic waves
of
absolute and total destruction.
Last time
I dedicate a poem to the Sun.
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