The harvest is an unlocked orchard

Should it be true
where we are now,
this place of residency
when once we held spring?

The climate is removed
from that earlier time,
and now it appears, so are we.
Yet, the crop remains
as apples to gather in.

How connection turns
to a distance,
and then to a space broached
only by silence and days,
lingering spanned nights.

Something inside tells me,
“The seasons needn’t be so”,
that you and I will always be
a refreshingly clear cider,
and that reminders are timely
disclosed secrets.

The end of the world

Which pencils
to so chose,
red, yellow, blue,
green, purple
or obvious orange?

You can’t go wrong
with this drawing
selection.

First, it was a cat
calmly on a picket fence
except it smudged,
so its now a fat bird,
a black one against
a brilliantly
subtle sunset

with, oh damnit,
another dark smudge

of falling meteorites!

I knew the orange
would come in handy.

“Calvin, five minutes til bed!”

As the prophecy ordained.

Peking mystery

*
Stealing a Freudian duck
can provoke after dinner debates,
peeking Peking mysteries
to resolve over Sigmund cigars.

Nobody is ever quite sure
with complete certainty
who indeed was the foul deed
or why there’s an orange segment
missing at dessert, again,
and is that fruit significant?

All their conjecture is stated
in crisply, heated conversation
about rich origins of sauces,
and how that affects
the personality of the duck.

When it was most alive,
and contently, consistently
blissfully unaware
of the waddle in its walk
before the cooked-up analysing
made the gourmet table.

Shoo choux!

Enough
is my cupcake
with glacier cherry
balanced on top.

It tells me life
is sweetened enough
for the minute
in little bites.

And doesn’t have to
be anything French
and fancy.

Just slightly faded

Just slightly faded

You sit with your back
to the fields
wearing blue,
your lost river attire.

Misplaced,
like the missing button
on your old blue jeans,
as unfilled as
an unused pocket.

Even the trees
steal away
with your thoughts,
but you’re still, immovable,
you won’t turn around.

~

Collaborated by myself and Sugarmuser.

A solitary watercolour day

We all need our unobserved corners,
the ones under the leaning tree
that keeps its distance,
which bends away to be discrete.
When disconnection sits
by the riverside,
sets up its easel,
paints lime days that otherwise
would only be too sketchy, too pale
for downstream words.

~

I like these paintings

‘A castle in the hills’ (just bought)

And by the same artist.

‘A woodland lake’

Tin house nip nap

A large paw stretches,
needles extend
followed by a yawn
on the garage roof,
eyes barely half lit,
paler semi circles;
it is seriously heated.
Such luxury to be up here,
tail swinging over the edge,
swwisha swish swiisha

~dangle~

whilst next door’s livid
roving, barking nutcase
circles his garden range,
tries to leap up,
mouthing obsenities.
I admit, he does make it
halfway
but forget it pal,
your climbing abilities,

~dangle ~

leave a lot to be desired.

Wrinkles

Origami swan,
once you were only
a fold
in a paper river.

Now you are winged,
majestic.

Origami swan,
once you were only
a backwater glimpse
in a smile’s crinkle.

Now you are
many beautiful feathers
the unfeatured eyes
never see.

Black hole sun