It is said by scientists that dimensions, more than three,
all wrapped up inside a universe of what our eyes can see.
The wonderment of what that means is lost,
beside being more than solitary. In our daily lives.
Brings and comparisons, perceptions of size.
From our brain we look out. Along a central axis, length it defies.
Up, which way is up? Makes a second dimension we may understand?
One that is oblong, round or squared
Then we see the depth, if one is so blessed? The depth, or length, of which is perceived in physical edge.
Dimensions we still see, the boundaries are set
perception are met 3-D world and time, are functions
Parallel worlds in possibilities yet hid within,
the delicate Calabi-Yau, manifold of the heavens
Backstabbing, backbiting, back’atcha’?
Backdoor, clean floor with windows.
The nation’s press is full of woe
from those who intend to govern
With schemes and machinations
Back behind the scenes
Sneak one through, get it passed.
Is dream-ed, Sleep with the plunder.
Section ‘D’ is what they need
chase the whim
Follow the master; bow at the feet.
when asked, “a name”? They but mutter
If you oppose be on your toes
be ready for snakebite and venom
for one may suppose, what is done
Robespierre has little equal
Satellites, big lights. dark knights
Anti matter or quasars?
Gathered in like original sin
spewed out on the sphere
…morning air. The mist from the night’s cooling.
Flicker in coiling eddies, around
the softly flickering tendrils into the ethers.
Stepping out the door, entranced by light’s
caught in this scene.
Dancing solar heat
pink, gold, gossamer strands of dawn’s intruse
Pulled into this scene,
the rush of cooler gases on the face.
Held the absolute peace. of Saturday morning
Dawn breaks! dimly, we may see
The birds swoop from the few trees around.
Anxiously looking for food
Even in the benign winter,
late autumnal daybreak
A clear night, foggy early morning
Sees the early morning visit
Around the hotel trash bins
Moving stealthily, hopping around the sleeping tires.
A few minutes, with the deed done
A dash back into the sheltering trees
off to the next spot where food is easily got
Their silent fluttering forms
as if falling leaves, gentle in their descents
Grey, white feather filled, early morning assault.
… in the City,
Are sent to try us,
To see if we’re alert,
or just simply posing
The raucous call is calling,
to those far and wide,
he’s the master of his turf, also just aside.
They show no sense of ego,
just birdie sense of pride
they own all this and more of it .. beside.
They seem content to rasp their call
then look about in consternation, to see,
A challenge or interruption
Would bring about hasty retreat
off their feet
up into the world above
Crows likely dream of a world of garbage spread before them ?
they dream of a pristine world?
Where they have the only garbage piece.
Either way their prissy attitude? Is the same …
… rule the skies, in the city …
In the early morning, we are ruled by gangs of birds.
Descending on the city like Genghis Khan of old.
Beaks for their spears, eyes for their bows
They bow their heads to no one. In empiric bird world
Early morning with sun, fall upon the herd,
Garbage bins and parking lots, as their main quarry
Out of the sun they drop onto the unsuspecting foe.
Detritus of human life flyblown greasy paper, polly cups
and special cardboard carton bags
First the crows then the gulls come upon the the ground
they strut their stuff, swagger with quiet kerfuffle.
silently they grab the hoard and make off up above..
Eyes bright, claws sharp, best to defeat their prey.
Mighty styrofoam monster and wax proof paper tray
To repeat the sortie. On another unsuspecting day.
Sing out, sing out…
Pose me a riddle, quote me a rhyme
toot me a fiddle, sing out the line
Play us a melody, sweet and sublime
give us the treble, things of that kind
Play us a tango, mango and lime
lay on bassoon, clarinet, ones that go wang
Come oh music man, pluck us your line
waltz, foxtrot, twist, cha-cha or salsa lime
The pipe sound of our music, the conch sounds of our heart
pound upon the soul’s own; sweet drumbeats of time