The stories we tell about ourselves
hang like stars in the night sky
infinite, glowing bright,
until they wheel onward, unseen
to the other side of consciousness
returning one day with memories uncovered
for people new to us to greet
What stories do you weave about yourself
which constellations do you show which story do you leave hidden, silent
to wish upon like evening’s first star?
We control the setting
paint our truths across the splash of night
and leave our thoughts about our own dark-sky corners
for solitude’s consideration
sharing only on those special nights
when a bright conjunction is framed by twilight blue
when the pinpricks align
and the crescent pauses in the sunset sky
when a twinkling streaks across indigo
flashing for a moment before it disappears
when wonder and intimacy overcome fear and doubt
when, in colonizing another – their skin, their eyes, their heart –
we bare all.
I’m standing under midnight sky
watching stars streak and blink,
silent, white over indigo.
I’m standing on the edge –
day/night, dream/thought –
listening to the city’s life coursing
its ebb and flow pierced by staccato.
This timeless place, floating,
this moment nowhere, infinite,
is mine, unanchored;
I step out into the clouds
and slip free.
Bare trees rattle their bones against white cloud sky
Clusters of leaves and twigs – abandoned nests – fill the in between
The animals have fled, birds flown
And all that remains are the cawing clawing birds of darkness
Large and black they clutch their prizes, crackling detritus, in the emptiness.
It’s strange to post something I started writing at home in the winter, now that I’m down south, but also kind of nice in a distant way.
Night is lit up, day-like,
black clouds glow white
shadow-reversed in negative
like so many ghosted figures
looming before the stars.
Beneath this sky
our simple gardens fade
to murky darkness
their leafy features dim,
But out there
beyond this small world
the main show rages
so much bigger, brighter
than anything we yet know.
Inspired both by this story about a giant coronal hole in the sun’s atmosphere, and also by the effect of the downtown lights from a nighttime event shining on rainclouds.
The swallows come
with pink-tinged evening
swooping and soaring
they dive low among the grape vines
all the way down to the pastel sea
then up again
flashing past flower-laden walls
and earth-red rooves
while the blazing sun sinks
beyond the edge of the world
as the cool mountain breezes return
as darkness rolls in across the wat’ry horizon
washing silence and shadowed hues
over the softly leaching vista