Seven of Nine

            Seven of Nine


Nine ducklings
Seventh the ugly duckling

The swan
forever attracting

of clarity

      of clarity

Run, run for the splashing train,

but pick the threads of tonality.

Settle in the denim sound,

rocky marks of a bridge pass by.

Spoon a vegan yogurt of berries,

scoop with the wrist the bottom notes.

Trains and raining.

Oh the reverie.

The sun-battered soil

wrung by the vines,

the practiced strength of the unseen,

like the lungs in a flute,

or the switching of hands in a melody,

the texture of the chords, the sapphire of grapes,

played not for the tasting.

The chime and the clearing in the sky

ask to tap one's way out through the crowd.

On the count of three, alight.

On the count of eight, slide through the puddle's smile.

Die Lichtung greets her fellow students.

The lecture starts. The topic is reharmonization.

Psycholinguistics of music.

Conceptualizing strategies for learning.

Cognitive and affective development.

Sociological intervention.

A dance studio decorated with unfolded fans.

Put on tap shoes over worn-through tights.

Write with percussive virtuosity

an invitation to attentive pupils,

clap in syncopation,

a Broadway polka

and a slide across.

Shower, streets and stairs.

Beetroots, beans and broccoli

or cauliflower.

Feeding the heart, sharing in the night.

---

Written October 3rd - 6th, small update 9th.

ideal glass

      ideal glass


in an aikido class
the sensei's rolls slow down
he becomes a white stone in the river

in an undersea movie
a torso of salt water
where is it going?
like a magnifying glass
exploring the room

the river moves in unison

silhouette

silhuette



            *

He who peels the curtain, confronts the light
on bare skin, he who transitions at each step
through the dark page, there to encompass him,
he who leads the way with courage
one grasp at a time,
he who lays his inner eye
on the quivering prize.

He who has outgrown his mother tongue
speaks of tomorrow,
poses a gap we face to answer.



            *

She walks funny in high heels,
both a bun and a bow,
she wears a short winter coat dress,
pins a purse under her elbow,
and she is so proud to be adult
it's adorable.

The shadows lengthen by the power line poles,
she walks home and pays no heed
to the welcoming of the feline creature,
her thoughts drawn to the drawing class
and the dreams that beckon
under her elbow.

gift-wrapped

      gift-wrapped


Worlds on hold in a gmail folder
Which way will this one tip the balance
A few words in a draft
none in another
A book on the shelf that wasn't to be there
balancing in isolation
How to fall into a world that is falling

the meadow of seasons (by GPT-2)

Prompt:


The sun-drenched days
sing securely unattached
fiorituras of white and violet,
the timbres for the bees.
The bokeh of the meadow
invites unreservedly
to join its standing overture.
At an orchard's fence
the velvety beeswax scent
paints the swaying grass.
Under the grass curtain
in the warbling of the wildflowers,
words scurry for closure.

---
"the warbling of the wildflowers" phrase by GPT-2



      the meadow of seasons


Toward me the meadow's delicate song
is whispered,
a spidered little dewdrop in the blue.


The vase bursts from the ground
and the bees lift it
for a darting flight.
With the insects,
not fluttering like bats,
they dance on the bulb
of the cherry.
They laugh
in the summer shadow
and in the winter snarl
like a mule in the yard.


The grazing hill
blooms amidst dahlias in a tango of heat.
Yet nestled there among the dahlias,
back on the meadow, amongst the ivy and myrtle
and the pale, sunshine,
the songs come easy, the shade is gracious.


Sail away! bethink you.
The porch of our garden
bristles on the gales
of autumn.


The geranium-bark vine
shepherd to the meadow's center
in its perennial shifting
caterpillar walk.
The golden eagle glides
In slow circle above the neck
Of the reed before us.
Beyond him the future quietness
can still continue to perfect and quiet
in the infinite richness
of the eternally undulating transcend.

---

by GPT-2, https://talktotransformer.com/

? shore sick

      shore sick


There she blows in the monotonous wave.
A longing guides the beach weather to fall
onto drizzly dunes backed by a shy horizon.
The gadabout meandering scrubby tufts of grass
as she floats afar a bathe a bathe --