23 – crazy’s song: Song for the Sky

when you look at the sky—that’s for everyone
no one can own it—people try to write on it
project movies on it—I’ve seen ’em, I know
what I am talking about—no one owns them,
the clouds—they’re castles, mountain ranges,
Hard Rock Candy Mountain—where you get
cigarettes from cigarette trees—you look
at them at sunset—when they build from pink
and fluffy—to dark and blacker than black
hearts, black times—blot out the stars, blot
out the sun—and then they’re your best friend
make it rain when you’re too hot—and then they
arrive with ice and a brawl of snow that smacks
you like a fist and then they’re no friend—and then
you know … no one owns them—mighty castles
greater than the richest man’s home—brilliant
paintings better than any Old Master—the root
of architecture, music, statues, poetry & theology—
and they are as much mine as yours—and I am happy
to share the view neighbour—it’s a beautiful evening,
the sun’s majesty glorious colours … yada yada—postcard?
snort

24 – Painter’s Declaration of love for The Weather Woman

City steams after spring rain washes
evening so pure the horizon appears
limitless, virgin mother blue porcelain Bavarian church
inverted eggcup of clouds and setting sun, the broken
yolk stain sopped by the crust of the city—upper and lower.

Lilacs strain the air with evening’s reward,
tulips parade to paint their moment, maple trees
afir with green puffs of exuberance, and all is
impossibly alive again, free from the frozen season,
fragrances arise, melodies of perfume; sing a song.

This is now, this is the frequency Kenneth, this is
the vibrancy, the stirring, the beginning, each one of us
knows it, feels it, talks about it, even in the rain rubber booted
umbrellaed hat dashed moment, the gardeners dig it, the birds
and the worms dig it, the weatherwoman digs it, sings it, that song.

Beat of clouds and rain, earth and seed, the evening sky stretches
scarlet teased to tangerine against three grades of blue fading
to a colour previously reserved for the personal use of the King
of France, the lost Dauphin took the formula and the colour
had been lost until now when I found it here in your eyes.

This is the burst moment, the thundershower of blossoms and fruit,
the promise of dance and high pressure zones with only clear skies, sunshine,
a starlit sky at night—so we can dream endless universes, heavens;
we can dream what will be again, this time, next year, next frozen
season, when the sky is etched black and love seems lost. Marry me,

or at least be my girlfriend.

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