Which language do you speak?

Do not
        the celestial spaces speak
                        a story we all can hear?  The play of color, words.
                            The rainbow, poetry.  Tell me it’s not so and I’ll know
                                            we speak a different language, you and I. The clouds,
                                                      a patchwork of paragraphs to form a truth, like the
                                                          peacock, butterfly or pearl,
                                                          playing, dancing party-colored, as an
                                                               invite.  All manner of mosaic by a master hand.  Come                        away, they beckon, there is a pot of gold.  Carnations blush in answer when
                              the beryl sky blooms
                                          so why not we?  Ultra the marine sea when her waves pull
                                                 heavenward.  Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly and the sweet
orange tree flames
                   forth but we…we
                                 want to
be
black or white.  Perhaps gray…but that’s
                                                       still dull.  We denigrate or bleach to stone, forgetting
                                                          the possibilities of just the quartz. We sum up the
                                                             epic in neat type-print
                                                                            and the clacking of the keys drowns
                                                                                                        out
                                                                                                            the melody of
                                                                                                            the northern
lights.  Hi ho,
  it’s off to work
                we go and we whistle
                      out
                      of tune, pretending solemnly we know – of anything at
                                                                                    all…of literature, polite; the
muses, maybe
                 and the clouds laugh so hard they cry.  We run for cover and they have no
                             choice but
                                           to match us in our haze.  They eclipse, they render dim the
                                                           sun, casting over and then exhausted, finally, the
                                                                                                                        light
retires….we imagine.  But the moon in protest glimmers just a sprinkle, 
                                                                                                       And I write on what’s been said                       before; clothe in words, expressions I didn't author.  I’ve formed
                          nothing and certainly nothing out of dust.  I’m just a beggar canvassing any to 
                                                                                                                                     view the canvas painted with an all
     inclusive
    invite to the
party for the prodigals.  The party for the pious and the poor, the Pharisee and pure if they
might see like Michelangelo, a hand stretched
                                                            down, look into the sky and hear a story, true.




openlink night, jingle poetry