space – As it Comes

for d’Verse Haiburn Monday – Stars. Other entries here.

Once inside the auburn hush of the park, we stood like lonely aliens. I wafted his gaze from the clay cold park bench to the blue black chiffon and diamante sky. I took a deep breath and I asked him if he would craft for me a heaven above his steel blue, warming smile then drape each shoulder with it; perhaps even wrap me up firmly with the bow of his strong and loving arms, and later would he sing for me a Valentine and strum my heart using the notes from the ebony sky as we lay together enmeshed in whispered secrets woven into tall grass where the chorus of his serenade would dissipate to meet the sparkling angels glowing in the night? He turned to me with a twinkle in his eyes and said, “No, but I can juggle. And actually, a star is a luminous sphere of plasma held by its own gravity…now breathe.”

Explosion of stars
Artificial light withdraws
Nature’s filaments

A gentle buttercup’s shining gift
clings to the ceiling of my chin,
lighting it up; igniting once again
fragile dreams of a young mind
with such a tiny fire – minute,
but as golden as the sun’s aureole
of burning fire.
I wanted more suns, more planets,
more chances and more hope outside
of my back yard and the gentle, wispy
tendrils of our Milky Way.

I want more than to see the slow weighty
drip of bees in their search above
the green inky nibs of grass and bare stems
scavenging for tiny morsels of nectar;
visions of their bare legs, blind like steel rims,
coming and going, until they have almost vanished
from wildernesses everywhere – the wilderness

beyond washed up cups and plates, ironically adorned
with designer berries and rare
wildflowers; together with the bees,
our own are rapidly disappearing.
From behind sterile kitchen windows,
I imagine a phantom paradise, a forgiving
universe –

tiny planetary nebulae: silky soft blues
of Nigella – wrapped in silken veiled
threads – the gaseous halos that hide
her modesty inside a constellation of mixed
blushes of red primrose, blinding, white
light daisies and swirling lavender
forget me nots with singed yellow
starburst centres –

feathery fireworks pinned to deep
inky blue skies and purple hazed clouds
of Globe Gilia, ignited by Indian Blanket’s
luscious rouged pinwheels; fiery,
and tempestuous molecular clouds
of maroon red clover in colonies
of Musk Orchids’ subtle shades of soft
outer edge to tame the wars set alight
inside the firmaments of an abandoned
circular soil patch –
its circumference an orbit of neglect,
but nascent.

Baby Blue Eyes and Blue Sage – sea
of a tranquil moon’s clustered star
formation will surround flaming
burnt ochre Fox Cubs – spikes
of their brilliance reach for us in stark,
vivid long arms to fingertips’ casual touch;
white noise shrieks from their centre –
shouting life.

California Bluebell and Chinese
Forget-me-not join hands to form
new constellations, tossing flaming
titian hair against its sky; new and exciting
join the dots on the blue black felted boards,
playtime of our children’s children creating
a sky full of new ploughs or even dragons.

Orange Cosmos of Sulpureus their heads
of daubing yellow to sea spun corals burn
ornately. Supernovae remnants; remains
rain down in tiny iris-like flowers of many rainbow
colours – pink, yellow, purple, blue, white.
A whirlpool of flare stars, contradictions
and swirls mill around fluffy pink red giants.

Violet mauves and tangerines bleed
into the whites of tall tubular guards,
with golden throats. Clusters of Godetia’s
satiny pink and magenta’s splotched petals
form the soft ridges of my daystar’s fiery
accompaniment burning outwards
to meet the cooler buttercup yellows of
simple wildflowers and timid flames
of dreams.

On hazy summer days tall lupins
will direct the traffic of bees that will come,
and come again and remember that they can fly
as near to my sun without fearful
scorched glances from a flame haired
temptress – a beacon in a circle of hope
for a future.

In winter she will still be loved
but missed until the mistress of such
unveils and vanishes right before our eyes
but not for a while, not until summer squeezes
dry these last few rainy days.

In a lack lustre centre of sombre, ruddy
black clay – the antithesis to my vision lays
in the perimeter of drizzle welling up
inside this fan fiction death star,
dreary rainwater produces ominous shadows
in dark wavering reflections –
punctuated with ice pick rain drops
disturbing silhouettes already snagged –
they are caught on brambles before they are
are even sewn

~ but for now I can still dream ~

of new rain –
deep red from the blood of Mars,
rains from the lilac storms
bombarding the shaded evenings of Pluto –
swept with perfumed gypsum –
the sprinkles of planetary rings.
Multi-coloured auras soften barbed
swatches of crowns among
sunflowers and honey rich dandelions –
aglow, incandescent guardians – incense sticks
lit with scorching rage to effuse
sweet smells while camomile and chicory
loosen the hinges of lost tastes and losing
battles to restore our deprived senses.

A Woodcock’s magnificent
hallowed call pierces this universe
dream, seeping through the heaven’s heavy
heave of tri colour combinations
in the foliage surrounding and protecting
our new life, increasing the chances
of a new found hopeful existence
amid celestial heads of blue cornflowers,
the beaming bright yellow and red charms
of wild poppies – all to tantalise
the bees – oblivious to the importance
of their function and place in our lives –
helping to create new life, wherever
that may be.