There’re subtle hues of blue in the sky;

celeste, cerulean, cesious, my.

Soothsayer’s breath, the wind, slayer of clouds;

Suspended particles gone, there’s no sound!

But what makes the sky BLUE, what shaft of light

stirs this illusionary color so bright?

Mist lingers, and the shadows doth scatter –

Fog, an atmospheric nuance, matters.

Blue has no layers, primary color…

Can I think of the sky as my Mother?

LAYERS – a poetic prose piece


…Young girl, soothsayer; perched on a stool, contemplating her face in the mirror, naysayer, delayer, dives DEEP into her eyes and practices sad, glad, mad, whimsical prayers not spoken, PLAYACTING, adding layers to her psyche, trying to be what YOU want, slayers, what should she do, betrayers, what did she see in those eyes [?]  Players, FAKE, until she really did not know who she was…

I find old feathers in the grass, other times baby bird fluff.  Is this molting or a struggle well fought?  What layers are entwined in the soul of a bird?

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I want to fly.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I want to fly.


When your Soul needs to fly look towards the Sky;

A playful Mockingbird’s humor is wry.

Looking at birds up high, my mood spry –

Shy Clouds, drifting across the sky, change…BYE.

Celestial hues fluctuate, wonder why.

As a fae cloud dissipates does it sigh – ?

Leaving Thor homeless, rain fall from an eye;

I’d like to see a Hawk’s nest, but they’re sly.

Meditation’ll get me there, by and by.

If’ I could not “have” the sky, I would die.


Bock, Bock, BOCK, the Sky is falling, the Sky is Falling, THE SKY IS FALLING.  Chicken Little stumbled across the barnyard, fluttering her wings, tangerine rust feathers dropping to the ground, BOCK, THE SKY HAS FALLEN, scratching at the dirt until dust rises UP into the air, BOCK, SKY HAS FALLEN.  Chicken Little nervously pecks at the scattered corn, chicken feed, BOCK, BOCK, BOCK, honey fire, her soul is sun burst.  THE SKY IS FALLING.  Wings flapping, this bird has got too much heart.  THE SKY IS FALLING.





aka – Why do they do that?


Lifting its face up, the Cat sniffed the sky;

then, closing its eyes, becoming “the why…”

Perched on a thin branch, the Blue Jay MUST see

as he turns his head back, to look AT me.

Art of the Stare, this narrow black Cat knows well.

It wyrds me out, this inscrutable tell.

The mad Mockingbird is a great linguist;

several voices “within” except for English.

When the wind blows the tall green grass’s bending,

But the quiet Rabbit stays put – hiding.



The air at Dawn is a good recipe.

Breathing in and out I seek clarity.

Sunlight shifts through the woods, funhouse mirrors.

When I walk among the trees I’m nearer

Chit-chat Barn Swallows, Avian Gossips;

when they stream overhead their talk blossoms.

A Red-Tailed Hawk soared between pine “summits.”

Soon after, a second Hawk followed.  “COMING!”

Slick ice on the road facilitates whit.

A ripped-up mailbox lays aside it.