morethanenoughtruth

Body is a fine instrument,

tuned to frequencies

of time and light.

It plays; I rise,

unlikely cobra that I am,

uncoil from warmth of bed

to clarity of smallest hours,

and flirt with streaks

of gathering dawn.

Spirit-music fills

what’s left of time and night.

I sing along with morning stars.

No bouncy ball directs the rhyme,

but lit on lacey screed of mind,

Northern lights sweep aura,

morphing pink to purple,

mauve, to teal, to green.

It’s time to dance,

a two-step urged by frequencies

of light and sight,

slip-sliding ‘round the edge of night,

the bend, the lip,

the definitive event horizon,

of that deep-deep-darkest

of black holes.

Cringing from what must come,

I cry, “What’s next?”

Am I rugged-individually alone?

Should I ally myself with All,

or invest in earthiness of Things,

Toll-House-cookies, roasted-beast,

gluten-free non-GMO pancakes,

or gramma’s apple-pies?

How “is” is is?

Dare I trust it to be real?

Who would incarnate

must stand safely sound,

firmly fixed aground,

shaded from that lovely light,

inured to spirit’s mad delight.

Granite shoes are safe,

a resolute embrace.

Silly poet that I am, I float,

a winged dragon,

flitting to-and-fro,

an aerial do-si-do,

called to vision’s allemande.

Hijacked by beauty,

like Hubble snaps

of Magellenic clouds,

eyes are full of stars;

stars are full of me.

Lucky stars!  Lucky me!

When morning skirts the edge of day.

Realities of breaking-fast intrude.

Oatmeal begs a bowl and spoon.

Teeth hanker for a brush.

Throat wants minty gargle.

The throne I sit would flush.

Staunch quotidian ilk

demand their daily due,

as toll I pay to even play

their stupid silly game.

Well worth their price,

such gentle gauche accoutrements

call me back from

tantalizing edge-of-mind.

“Put feet to floor,” they bray,

and join life’s lovely lively fray.”