the clouds above California

have burned to waste

from their film

inward

thinking about

Hemingway while

I walk my dogs

thinking about

Ask The Dust

and Fante's

inimitable beauty

of language

and the way they both

went out

the beard ate a bullet,

and diabetes took

away the living heart

of Bandini,

took from him

his warm blood

that became mine

and many other

writers' reason

to keep pushing

the sky burning

blue

the fur of my

dogs getting warm

I stop and feel the

street and it's still

cool enough for

their little paws

and my warming

skin

watching the Sun

up high

and remembering

nothing at once

then everything at once

and across the street I watch

two yoga moms stretching

and bending

shoving it high up

from their palms

their shoulders

beneath a bright sky

devoid of clouds

ripped bare

of Bandini

and the

old man.

you took a cigarette

and lit the tip,

blew smoke into the clouds

and sparked flames

between the sky and

your lips.

you dotted the heavens

with a lighter

and i watched

as the stars burned.

Floating by

Whimsically wishing for

Nothing at all

Mocking us all with their keen abilities

Drifting someplace beautiful

Far away

To rest

i.

on the first day

of feeling everything

she wanted to be a storm

so she could crackle

and scream

and break

without anyone questioning her noise.

ii.

hail hit her window

like a slap in the face.

she felt worn

and beaten

and bruised.

the rain washed away

her sanity

until she couldn't

find her mind

so she sat

beneath the downpour

and tried to melt.

thunder rattled

her ribcage until she felt like

she couldn't breathe-

she started to suffocate.

iii.

on the fourth day

of feeling nothing

she wished lightning would

strike her

so she would turn to

ash

and never have to

cry again.

Stretching,meshing, knitting together the invisible fascia separating us from gravity and breathless floating. Sometimes heavy and thick tricking the eye and mind to sleep in a lullaby of rain, sometimes teasing you with peek-a-boo sunshine.

Oh, look! That one looks like a clipper ship sailing away to buried treasure....

The saddened winds of March tell me

That there is a reason to look up at the Sky

It seems that he is very talkative today

For all the trees are offering him quiet ovations

The Sun has pierced him with his golden blades

And it seems that in the middle of that eternity

He decided to offer her a dream

Of feathery sweetness and white delicacy

She, the Nurture Lady, is observing loudly

Her bosky dress moves when she dances with him

She adorns him with collars made of birds

And he offers her flowery reconciliation

They both dance at the rhythm of the Sun and Wind

Performing flamingo moves of whirlwinds and dust

Tapping castanets when the woodpecker works by the electric pole

It all seems that these lovers are having a fiesta

Then it all suddenly stops.

As if this had never happened the bird collars and the whirlwinds

Are all gone, and he goes back to his antique job

He is a humble shepherd.

His little sheep are all gone now

It all seems that he just came to kiss her goodbye

But he told me something

He whispered that that he was going to come by tomorrow

His sheep like this land of fiery sand and crispy grass

He likes to be observed by the poet

For he is the only one capable of giving him a mouth

But She, she is the only one he has not been able to

Hypnotize with those fluffy sheep, she remains still.

"And yet I see a light in the distance so clearly;

if that light disappears now and then,

it is generally my own fault."

~Vincent Van Gogh

I read the words of Van Gogh

and the words read me.

From my vantage point,

fragile Cirrus clouds

like bone china, streak

the powdered blue firmament;

their strands suspending the

softest billows like picture

frames hung on a wall.

Spring is springing,

all around

and where I have been

waiting for words to fall,

there are none.

The leaves on my trees

are falling;

this the absurdity I

essay to make sense of;

putting thoughts to words

in hopes I might part

the very clouds

which have obscured

me from them;

words which sporadically

leak in prisms their Ebenezer-like

visitors

I am in want of a poem

where my words will form

some Migratory V

and soar the skies in search to see

where none return as though in vain

tracing rainbows through the rain.

These words I look for,

but they will not take flight.

...

Early this morning

a salt and pepper squirrel

scampers back and forth

along the arms and under

the sprawling umbrella of my

White Oak tree.

He's in a twitching frenzy

for Sunflower seeds

scattered along the fence;

as if somehow I thought him

unable to forage for himself.

My very colossal and

olde love of a dog

makes a valiant effort

for the warm blooded prize,

but with eyes

now resembling more

the clouds he used to chase,

falls short this night.

Reaching down to scratch

behind elongated tufted ears

I validate his efforts

and he presses into my thighs,

returning the gesture

with a humble wag of his tail.

An ineffable beryl yellow butterfly

flits about his head

but he pays no notice.

...

The hours have whiled

this day from morning

to dusk like a high speed camera.

From the pulse that is my home,

Cornish Hens have satisfied,

allowing bits and scraps

enough extra for two dogs

who lap up clean their bowls.

I've stepped out onto

our back deck and

into the breeze of the evening

with my noble foot warmer

and truer half of

'Till death do us part.'

He settles into the familiar

fluff of cotton ticking blankets

I've piled for him

where he's curled in the corner

by the birch stacks

licking away the aches and rattles

from his bones.

I'm hoping for a little while longer

with my furry companion,

not taking for granted the days;

believing soon

he will be chasing rainbows

instead of clouds.

I know full well when he

decides to leave us

he will have taken with him

a very large season of

what was our life together;

and for a moment

my breath.

...

An awesome spectacle

is overhead tonight.

The Westward sky

is boasting a painterly

crescendo of colors

in palette knife strokes

of Turquoise.

The ethereal Beryl yellow

of earlier, is V'd into

an impasto thick

Blood-red orange;

bearing the footprints

of a master

impressionist's

marks

...

I am warmed this moment,

under the canopy of its colors;

which has generously

wrapped within its splendor

a poetic offering to me all its own;

one for which I had

been eluded earlier.

A heavy curtain of clouds

has parted, making way

the stage for a setting sun

to take his final bow.

I stop on cue and follow the star

paying homage and knowing,

at least for the moment;

it is not

a want for words

I am after,

but silence from them;

standing beneath the one

before whom

all my questions

seem to fall

away.

photo credit: becky e

location: austin, texas

date: april 2015

I looked up the sky

Surprised of what I saw

It's like someone had painted a magical glow

Strokes of oranges and pinks

Hints of whites to emphasis

Couldn't help but stare

And drown on its wonderful bliss

Everyday is a fine day for a walk is it not, and today I fancy a trip out to view our gardens, and to enjoy a hot drink on my rounds.

Alas, Roger our groundsman is not enjoying the best of days as driving rain, chased along by violent gusts deter his plans for spring planting. His prize Tulips, coming along so nicely yesterday are today battling to remain upright under the constant bombardment. The sky is boiling, with grey black clouds in furious contempt for his efforts, unload their cargo with relentless fury, and I think twice about pleasantries with a man in such dire need of sunshine.

I duly leave Roger as he battles bravely on despite the driving wind.

I head to the kitchen for a cup of tea only to witness further despair as our Chocolatier struggles to obtain the grade of Chocolate needed for his Easter Eggs. I remain silent here also, as with only days to go before Easter he is clearly not having a good day either, and I am known for eating his produce from his unlocked fridge, during my night patrols.

Still I make my tea and make good my escape onto the lawned frontage. The Summer House also struggles, being little more than a fancy tent, as the gales laugh at its flimsy construction and threaten to have it away with each forceful blast. I fear my walk is being thwarted at each turn, so head back to the calmness of my room to drink my tea in peace.

Perhaps on Prose it is a finer day, so I settle down in my creaking chair, and write.