From Oakland to Los Angeles:

Through-the-window landscapes of Southern California, along Interstate 5

        Book

        When I open Your BOOK,
        it changes the weather,
        the mood, the light, the
        smells and aromas of life:
        Sounds and things in touch, 
        Things out of touch,
        things within circles or
        Spectres in shadows.
        Appetites, memories, mirrors,
        and Hallways into tomorrow.
        The instance of birth;
        The exact moment of death;
        And all the journeys in between.
        life becomes LIFE
        when
        I open The Book.

Hyperbolic Circus, Avery Falkner, 2017
http://www.averyfalkner.net

The music of life
Flutters, giggles,
Roamulates, undulates,
Ping pong spheres in the all-day sandbox;
Clear-water teardrops on an afternoon brick;
White-dot mini-pearls, anywhere and everywhere she goes.
The shadow proves the sunlight, he said.


Two Waves

One wave slides across the shoreline,
and heaves up onto the sand
Carrying with it
Seaweed, barnacles, dark debris,
Oceanic refuse and
Humanity's litterness...
Trash, oil spill, repugnance,
Filth.
This sad, infected wave
Slides back into the greater waters,
Leaving its upheaval deposited.

One wave crashes past the shoreline,
Glittering, sizzling, shimmering,
Dappled with zest-mist
Golden with sunshine,
Alive with glimmers of
Breathing and dreaming and laughter.
And this wave
Remains.


Demons clawed my throat
across the night but their
Destruction was sabotaged by
A gentle hand, a silken
Voice, a starry wind, a
Gesture, heavenly, eternal:
I AM.
And so,
you are,
and so, climbing, coughing,
Be still.
Rest warm.
Sing strong:
Today is ablaze with tomorrows.


Good Morning, Ruth

The angels are here
The sun is rising
You are robed in living light.
Welcome to Paradise.

Don't look back, Ruth,
Remember He cares for
Everyone you care about.
Your sweet ones -- we dissolve
into His loving earthly care.

Welcome Home, Ruth.
The arms that gave you to us
are the arms that swept you from us
and the arms that now
hold you and now
glide you into glory.

I see a dove, soaring into
blue and cloudless skies.
Good morning, Ruth.

(for Ruth Struble)


This

What's it like
to have this
great big wonderful beautiful
magnificent gigantical
four-squarish city-sized
glittering glamorous
gargantuan all-powerful
unbreakable over-arching
all-infusing ever-expanding
completely invisible
incredibly sophisticated
intricate and articulated
unknown and well-known and
utterly un-utterable yet
scripturally disclosed and
baby-like ensimplified,
bastian and battalion-cheering
daily-dosed and data-blasting
altogether God-exalting
DESTINY
living breathing dancing floating
over your head every day
and everywhere you go?

Late in November, King Autumn arrived, and began tapping the trees with his magic wand. I snatched a few photos as the colors exploded here and there, in the parking lot at my place of employment, Responsive Ed, in Flower Mound, Texas. Behold!

                                         Always Be You
                                        (Valentine's Day 2016)

                           When morning skies brighten with a luminous blue,
                           It pales to grey-tones when the morning sees you.
                           When evening stars glitter against deepening hues,
                           The evening bows in reverence when the stars look at you.
                           As the seasons roll forward and Spring greens all things new,
                           The seasons hush their colors and weave a queen's crown for you.
                           As I press pen to paper to speak fresh words anew,
                           I symphonize the old familiar song, "It will always be you."
                           My valentine, my heart-song, my sweet lady, it's true,
                           Now and forevermore, "It will always be you."

From December 19, 1955 to December 19, 2015, and for the happy miles ahead, I've given my marching uniform a new name-tag:

                                                     THE WIZARD OF HA’S

                                            It’s my 60^th birthday, it’s the great big TA-DAH,

                                            So I trumpet my new title: The Wizard of Ha!

                                            Schooled by the brightest: one Ollie, one Stan,

                                            I emerge at this milestone: a fairly funny man.

                                            Chaplin and Keaton and Groucho agree,

                                            Tossing me their top’t title, Mr. T Hee.

                                            So crowned, I march forward, into the new mile,

                                            Reflecting the laugh-lines of the Master’s glad smile.

                                            And what a grand calling, such a noble employ,

                                            Painting the world for a child’s bright joy.

                                            From Ringo to Bongo, to Captain, then McBly,

                                            To the song of the sunrise, to a waltz in the sky,

                                            To the final performance in the One King’s applause,

                                            Until then, at your service, I'm the Wizard of Ha's!                     

                                            

                                One day, this day, any day, every day
                                A stroll along the unspectacular landscape,
                                Or
                                does the everyday paper-bag wrapping
                                Conceal the most spectacular display?

Blocks of pavement squares

enshadowed, un-enlightened,

slope-hammered down

to allow sprinklers' overflow to

river a painter's stroke, a stream,

a kiss like rushing goodness

over desert-dry,

shoe-trampled

stone.

                           Festive flag: vibrant/vivid green,

                               fluttering, rippling, chortling in summer's breeze

                               Aloft the castle's pointed turret spear--

                               From nowhere, the darkly thrumbling hedge of doom

                               slams down with boulder-tonnage, threatening

                               to crush castle, turret, ramparts, throne and king, and--

                              A crash of wicked thunder, a crack of bone-finger lightning strikes!

                              Roar-rumbling with hideous 

                              laughter, exploding to shake the valley into echoing dust---

                              Until the king, quite content, lifts a finger

                              which lifts a standard

                              which lifts an indestructible wall

                              hewn of marble mined from eternal depths and--

                             A bird sings in the suddenly open sky.

                             The flag begins to move, and--

                             All is well.