Sunlight and Silhouettes

Some mornings seem to twinkle
brighter than others
as I sink deeper
into my snug, chocolate brown
worn, leather arm chair

The cool late August breeze
washes like a stinging splash
of salty-cold cape cod ocean
over my still waking eyes
filling my nostrils
with the meaty scent of brine

Sunlight and silhouettes flicker
slip slowly across my thigh
then pounce like a lynx
onto cream-colored walls

Shadow puppets morph
into giant jungle-green, leopard-skinned soaring-necked giraffes
exotic knuckle-kneed, glade-wading
powder-blue flamingoes, imperious
golden lolling lions and tigers
and ruby-masked knights
tilting at urban windmills
on medieval paths

Animated tales
told in cinematographic light
and shadow of a shifting
vernal equinox
of wind blown leaves
on trees that block the bright

Indifference foretells the tail
of yet another
luscious fleeting summer
of vibrant green hues
and vivid august blues

Born of solitary moments
spontaneous, she leeps
in shimmering single slivers
life dances, for a breath
across scintillating silver
unscripted screens of time

Fists of snowballs, paper-white
hydrangeas pinken softly
signaling us, sparingly
of autumn’s imminent, unrelenting
sweetly ominous, arrival

Junkyard Pyramids

In the outer-cape town of Truro
where rubbish removal
but a fusty, fabled, foreign myth
known only to the provinces
of far off fairylands

Evidence of life
and a blue moon’s month
of passed over profferings
to the putrid, fetid
junkyard pyramids
burst at the seams
of my creaky, aged
wooden garbage bin.

Pungent, wafting
maliferous bouquet
the spirited olfactress
hovers hauntingly to gloat
a tiresome reminder
a bullhorn of reproach:

“On the insipidities of life
you’ve been swimmingly
under-focused,
on the things keep others ticking
efficiently and fluid
all but bound together
like the waxing, waning lunar pull
on the ebbing and the rise
of ever-shifting ocean tides!”

A question of attending:
lent laimbrained concentration
on life’s vacuous, abhorrent
and tedious details?

Waiving white a loath confession:
“What I’d rather do is jump!”
avoid the gnawing mission
to the dreaded, humdrum dump.