Skyscape

Hillside.

Blue sky.

Breath blowing above squinting eyes.

Watch the clouds sprinting by.

At once- a dragon, a lamb.

Souls of puddles awaiting

yellow rubber-booted stamp

of toddler’s approval.

Unsullied, before the fall.

Beyond the reach of trees and steeples tall.

I indicate the shape of a claw-footed bath.

You show me Charon’s Lethe-locked craft.

We laugh

and under the disapproving huff

of angst atmospheric

the clouds wander off

giving unbroken blue perspective.

Vertigo grips.

I bite my lip

as realization drips

savagely.

All that holds us here is gravity.

Before us an infinite we can’t see

through eyesight limited by our humanity.

The perception of being pinned in place by forces

we name and explain with theoretical solemnity;

research in universities;

master in laboratories;

weaponise selectively;

is overwhelming.

If we hold our breaths and listen

we can hear tiny rustles in the grass by our heads.

Insects inspecting our picnic while

we repose reflecting

on shifts of perspective.

The earth is a dervish and I a willing conductor.

I feel her energies flow through me.

Honeyed, bulbous, nebulous,

effervescent viscosity,

warming, wondrous.

Nails clutch roots and wet dirt crowds cuticles

as our indentations of individuality

smooth to meaningless

completed by connection’s kiss.

Garnering Respect

Iconoclasts

have come, at last

to save us from this drudgery.

This too-easy, this clear to see

hegemony.

But icons as they are say what

They want and not

the truths we seek;

brutally bleak, more earnest than just

freakishly banal.

Their hype and zeitgeist distort the swarm

redefine the form of normality.

Crudely mis-marketing misogyny and misandry

as pride.

Another cardboard enemy

a Goldstein drawn among us to deride.

A different one allows themselves to be

unformed; unsure; walks clumsily.

This unvarnished personality

without polished paid publicity is kept

as curiosity, held up as sideline eccentric

to reject

at will.

And they will.

Using nebulous concepts like

Standards, or

Breeding, or

Culture

as excuses to slaughter to the screeching of vultures

or whatever altar serves best the purpose being pushed.

And the person being crushed by such faltering disservice

does not stop being a person when you’re hungry for their blush.

Objects made of people will ultimately fail.

“Neither use nor ornament”; it’s the old wives’ sliding scale.

Old wives, old knives, old scores to settle.

Metal measures mettle but the meter always morphs.

Intangible out-fluences – diluting stimulations

Reactionary conflation of the story you would tell

Intrinsic expectation of how disgracefully you fell

from the pedestal they put you on, the one you didn’t build.

It grew beneath your feet in the instant you stood still.

Starlet in the spotlights, frozen, blind, wide-eyed.

Demanding penance for your daring to have a private life.

Sordid little details now publicly discussed.

Using terms like “unladylike” and “ashamed” and “disgust”.

Hold your head up high, dear; fear is something they’ve not earned.

Their weak attempt to dampen your flame that brightly burns

Is just a pissing contest. You’re treading on their toes.

The days of rule by bully-force are coming to a close.