A List Of "Beautiful" Words: Yellow

Body

Staycation

Rooting through yellowed, dusty memories

Those of my grandmother's back yard,

The smell of sweet maple leaves

And the sting of late autumn

We made "potions" in my backyard,

Collected rocks from the stream

In the park, and amethystine bruises.

April, when the slush finally gave way

To the annihilated lawn, the mud warming

Bringing worms for fishing to the surface.

I remember when my brother lost his

Pink fishing rod to a monsterous carp

At the KOA campground pond,

How dad fished for it with his rod,

I can't remember if he got it back.

We never went fishing with him again.

I fold up my hippocampus and stow it neatly

In the chest from whence it came,

Closing up my ribs, I vow to discuss this

Experience with my therapist,

Cleaning off the dust of age,

Hoping his insight can interpret the

Dregs of this old cup.

Soaps

the lover’s almanac : part one.

I Take Pictures of Flowers

Who:

For my love, to make her smile

When a purple blossom makes

Me think of her favorite color.

For my Tumblr followers when

I post proof of my wilderness walks.

For my soul, so I might revisit these

Moments of awe and beauty.

For these,

I take pictures of flowers.

What:

A moment caught in my

Binary bug net,

A digital trace of my travels,

A daily commute or intentional stroll.

And along the way,

I take pictures of flowers.

Where:

My cloud storage fills

To the brim, and I deign to

Empty a single pixel.

Yellow, then red warnings of

Limited space,

But still,

I take pictures of flowers

Why:

To preserve what I cannot

Trust myself to remember.

Every detail, every shimmer on

A petal, every ring of color,

Every fold and roll and pleat.

To replace what I cannot have;

With no box or garden or

Sun-exposed pot,

I can only hold onto these beauties

In digital form.

When:

The golden hours escape me,

But they are probably sour grapes,

A cast of yellow hue on a face,

Not meant for leaf or colored bract.

Nay, whenever the feeling hits,

I pull out my device.

No process or plan in mind,

I snap one or two decent photos

And continue on my way.

Moment by moment

I take pictures of flowers.

How:

Only carefully, gently,

Holding the camera as I would

Carry a basket of down.

Motionless, I hold my breath and

Press the button.

My phone, with the help

Of an AI worth my trust,

Or with my moderately expensive

Camera I would like to buy

A macro attachment for.

I know not the specifics of how

My precious ladies make it onto

Film or image, but even so

I take pictures of flowers.

On Writing Poetry

and I still

don’t know where to start

writing poetry any more be-

-cause every moment feels knee

deep in the ongoing fire of the

world perpetuated by forces

beyond my control but not

my understanding. They have

names and wear gaudy ties

and smile for the camera

after lobbying to reduce

safety to up production 

and pour toxic waste into

the ground / minds / air

so if I told you I was in

love with a jasmine on a 

bonny hill as the sun rises

would that lift a child from

the ruin of a hospital? I am

running out of time

for hope and trying my best

to throw spare change over

the flames and protest to the

powers whose pockets are too

full to move the dial an inch

away from oblivion and I

don’t know where to start

but this will end one of two

ways. So, maybe I’ll write again

for the end I want see

for the day after

when I can show you a jasmine

on a bonny hill as the sun rises.

The ducks by Stonegate

A pair of mallards sits on a

Manicured stone by an

Artificial fountain

Ah, the massive continuity of ducks

Here there be lakes,

(Or ponds, or even fountains)

Here there be ducks.

i care btw. i care abt the song ur listening to or the bug u saw or how u just got outta the shower or how ur happily hanging out w ur friends or how ur kinda sad or how good was the meal u just had or ur fav character from an indie game nobody knows or if u chugged down some water. i always will