A Poem a Day (597): Blue azure

 
Blue azure 

Blue azure cracks in saturation spent,
seeps out through the edges. Histories etched in
streaks of sea and sky explode in full colour,
welding canvas, seeping in, aquamarine tears.
 
Dusted rays glimmer with a distant light, bed
down in places we never knew were occupied,
the bent-over vessel empties, the tide turning out,
ashes slides, submerged, a portrait unpainted.
Here, wealth is water, a thing so pure and simple.
 
In these skinny mirrors the dark does not reflect,
but its character lingers, negativity in relapse.
We sense night where we least suspect it,
worn Venetian masks vanish in trim alleyways.
 
Skewed headlights slink fast, streak the rain, pools of
haze reflected, seep in, swirl out on a raft of knowing.
We turn a corner. Metal eyes. And another. Metal eyes.
Change our way, spot three more. Double-back to four.
A turn, & one perches, angled out, the uninvited guest.
We wait out this déjà vu. Three at once, near-collide.
July 11, 109 in 20 minutes in the quiet zone.

And still. Departed. There is space between 8 spindly trees,
bark arms wide. Tall. The rush, a yawn of air sings free,
this spacious sense of green trails through our fingers,
sensing. Blossom travels, pink petals warm our path,
scent the way. And we are outside it all, looking in.

Copyright, Vickie Johnstone, July 31, 2023

A Poem a Day (596): Rain after eight

 
Rain after eight
 
It follows.
The rain, shy of curve.
Man Ray, the practical dreamer.
 
It crosses continents at will,
speaks without a telephone. No ringtone.
One universal language.
 
A call to tranquil nature to awaken,
leaves to unfurl and draw it in,
while petals seek to shiver out.

The Hierophant blazes through
this bounteous blue with shield aflame,
opens doors. Like a phoenix, he rises.
 
Tears slide from the parting skies
without grief, solitudinal lightness,
rhythmic touches, even strokes.
Slips. Surfaces. Slides sublime.
 
Slithers down an open screen
to seep inside. Misted glass drips,
splattering ethereal words unsaid
in a watery hand.
 
It collides with the soft, circling air,
stills, creeps into the slightest crevice,
wakens whatever it finds inside.
Devours. Coolness driven whistles down
the windowpane.
 
Scattered chords, a light patter of paws
across a tiled, tilting roof.
 
Tyres sweep through the tuneful torrent,
splatter bald cobblestones, create islands
circled by swirling seas.
 
We step back, pausing to breathe in the evening.
The clarity, the sheer fall, the coveted.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 26, 2023

A Poem a Day (595): Drift

 
It's almost too hot to write... 

Drift 

Pure energy drifts, blazes in colours hewn from glass,
reflections cut in fleeting, glints of sunblast strewn,
wild gold dust ever-a-move as if stillness were a curse.
 
There is rebirth in the flowing, overreaching, the arch,
the way you just won’t sit tight in your allocated box.
These sparks defy the lines and lines of etched steel.
 
You watch eyes blink out the bleak darkness of the earth,
this glint amid starbright, a crossing of the gods of old,
grey-bearded and worn. Their fables wander down the ages,
and ourselves are but light years scattered upon thinnest air,
set adrift among the distant echoes left by deft travelling stars.   

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 18, 2023