The Absence of Wavelength

The Best Kind Of Green

The Best Kind Of Green

Amid cynicism and stoicism belies a child that once tore petals from tender flowers,
met by deviation of random numerical methods that afford a dreamer but not an empty wallet.

Dreaming is the process.
Mother Nature does not play victim.

A fat wad did smear fingertips yellow, sent back to the sun-streaked and dewed.
The field either yellow or dying, clouds eternal crying, but not for a lad —

nor a restless man,
until breath exhumed,

and new colors to dream upon, crunchy piles that fly skyward nestle with an 80-lb. plop —
that, with a stick dragged through mud, down the road, his own snails trails were made

until white clumps, layered lashes
lay into the ashes of Autumn remains.

Pockets emptied of irreplaceable gems of specked stone and amphibian captives
released from stag-water glass vacation abodes, just temporary detention,

to the murk, murkier,
skies descending to twinkles,

white glittering, where snug and safe, lie gently upon tar-layered black
on Al-u-mini-um eaves, with packed leaves, spouting nothing all,

as I do now,
if I did it all.

Never considered those verdant scenes, anything but the in-between, because…
joy, love, dedications to gifted sleds and saucers spun down inclines, safe land

and return of spry legs
before shared, repeated again
and again until too old
and return to the only prison —

saw it all in a mirror, protracted, always reflective, reflexes having since abandoned
in solitude like a frog with no season, dry in jail, out a glass bay scene spies fading sunsets,

brightest red or marooned clouds.
as glasses be-dappled.

A refrigerator barely hums when plates sudden clank and rattle, water tumble, and humbled
to have not worked at it at all, until this last fall. Everything scatters on the ground, disappears.

A mind can’t savor the past with whizzing whirligig words’ noises, mind-reeling, ear-smoked,
and a rust body no longer healing beneath drape, on suspension in shed, where they creep in

all insect matter seeking shelter
amid two-by-four construct.

And, of all the wonder, am I the only here…? who recalls?? when beloved dainty fellows hand-release
by practiced stealth, amid the gangly lads begging, what about me, as I’ve oft considered???

How unfair, I never did see you there —
you with me, noxious, but free.

And in the culvert of life, along a quiet highway where born, spread me next spring, that I might cling
to a lonely land that I did harvest with love. I never, ever wanted any other that did sleep in my heart,

not with love,
where each friend found

comfort from eye’s fascination, now walled off by prison of prisms that once sought every unicorn thing
and everything in between, including another’s love…and one very dearly needs me now —

off my lift and into the air,
one last time tumble,

atrophying in humectant air, sun-drenched with the verdant scene now leaving all.
I’m sorry I didn’t love you better, the best kind of green I hold eternally.


6.4-6.5.25
50 lines, vers libre and raw, before adding the following —

The Bard's Hall Contest  (13+) JUNE: Annual Blog/Journal Month! #981150 by StephBee

If Not For One More Season

The best stuff is the unexpected tears from eyes that witness one’s own creation due to our nature, after life knocked us off our game, finger-blamed and shamed, rather because of inhumanity, as everything about should be life-giving, life-affirming, instead of constituents that did ruin, lead others astray, lest we might find our way back to that mother that dusts and removes rumpled articles when not washing all while we slept above soft floor boards beneath by a complacent window filled by calming fire lights eons old strobing and still returning to now…as my mind casts back to catch that slow ride home, if not for one more season.

Be Prepared To Receive:
I share, knowing they steal where they think me unworthy. What do I gain but knowledge that affirms, separated from others who’ve felt as strange, unaware estranged from loves who could say — keep standing where you are…not far now, love nearing?

Be prepared to receive.

Post Preparing —
I have warmth where open arms once gave; now all
cold of limb in the field,
steadfast, no reason to gain but give —
return is but a bonus.