I watched the clouds slowly surround Crescent Park and the lightning go off across the river. I should have left, but it was tempting to see the dark clouds cover the sky above me, as the wind picked up and the river pushed against concrete and metal. My hat almost flew away. I thought I could, sit there, and watch the clouds accumulate, and then suddenly it began raining, not in droves, but I biked home in the full rain, and it was beautiful.
Update: The earth needs to cool itself
How does rain form after a couple of hours of being incredibly hot? I went outside to buy cereal and I was met with an oven at the lovely hour of 9 in the morning, quickly as the air was denser and lustier, and it crept up to my head. Hours later the sky couldn’t take it anymore and slowly it began drizzling until it rained inconsolably, as if it had exceeded its capacity. As a friend once told me the earth needs to cool itself.
My view is straight but hopeful
that no other had ventured this far,
gone down the narrow trails
and found wide escapes
The blue glides down a deep fall,
watching it clash into soft mossy rock—
a force of echoed
in a violent rapture
of thunder and wind
dispersed white mist
creates houses of colors,
that the sun molds
The distant eyes of a girl,
upon frothy waves
If she made the passage,
the gulls would greet her ears,
of life she’d gone through
There appears nostalgia
Alone in a diner, it encloses me: rain,
as I glare down on the red-white, checkered tablecloth.
Looking at the window, I’m unwilling;
there appears nostalgia.
My soup in full humor to
on immaculate gray towers.
Leaves of solemn thought.
I thought of you all winter
I noticed you flew down to my grass, to examine,
and wonder about your next move.
The silly feet prancing in jubilation, circling yellow daffodils.
I tried to memorize you before your final spin:
orange blended to a dark gray, faded to a black head,
open, light gray wings and tips of blue past me.
Poem: A flight
A flight that leaves us in distance,
even a mere thought it could be,
perhaps real is the distance,
but once realizing the length of time
apart, I know you’ll stay close,
as day thinks of night
and the heart brings you to mind.
I don’t know,
want to know
Poem: La Corneille
It springs up from a fence
And its friends are on the
This one flies down
I keep walking
It digs me with its call
To something known
The scene carries its meaning
In the black birds
Like the morning when
They lined up on the wire
Leaving at the first of morning
The emptiness of a muddy afternoon
it calls to fill
the day with premonitions