Friday, June 28, 2013

Stephen Ellis

Thus Brain Turns Head Often Slowly to the Left : Six Fast Sonnets [08 July 2011]

I thought I was drowsy but in waking saw my sleep was wrong

[ Post-Lenten Summer Breeze Up Early from the River ]

We who no longer are a “we” increase
within the smaller focus of a backyard
domain where flowers are even smaller
and wild still for having just come in
where no one prevented either spore
or root from growing first down in under
surface that is both death and the living
sheath from which it draws itself out upon
the clear edge of both horizon and human
skin each of which break down but
always up again as well in freshening up
as blue sky for every wastrel that can
breathe where life bangs lightly into itself
in the crush of mint where flowers bob

[ In Bite of Oceanic Sky where Yellow Sunlight Sprightly Writhes ]

The horizon's wire burns from blue to
white to final orange and hail to every
onlooker in the embassy of their separable
selves where some small heat is left to
humors gone snowy for a moment in rank
pale yellow grass where we take a stand
as if in the mild windy chill of a turquoise
watercolor caught in the constant virgin
pools of our seeing eyes in lovely if also
rather dim regard of our earth as it remains
a parcel yet to open to our feet as when
we walk upon its lavender particularities
shown in muddy thought that grows flames
that way forever bathed and green and bright

[ Always Happier Bathed the Way of Optimum Cloud ]

We know the function of silver nerves
along the means by which the happy arm
moves itself like bees that suck the tide of
leaping flower upon flower from nights to
morning daisy smoke and swim think mists
among the towering pines that grow upside
down within our hearts in thought and passion
lettered in pledge to aether made to shimmer
orange and blue sherbet ice of northern
lights out upon the crest of body's harmless
gentle 'plash that knows of stone and limit
that holds the water to the place of darling
sounds and fluid gone in life to make a place
through which to release your giving breath

[ Give Me Breath to Make My Peace Exhale ]

In the house and from the other side
the cooing of grey mourning doves inside
the thistled wild cucumber drape about
the entrance to the garden calm that always
is and isn't what everything comes to be
about no final outline but what undulating
comes to combat little secret farts of vain
conceit where what one wants against
the all that's tantamount to tonal relaxation
comes to be a trestle bridge of angel light
laid on every head while first blurt morning
crows go venturing where vision grows
barley peas and greens and shines with
refrigerated splendor bracketing the gloom

[ Let's Stretch Out on the Loom of Combat Pay ]

Or that we can't fight fighting it and just
must stay at home in then garden weeds as
spruce smells soar and my foot hurts from
walking all day too much around contraries
that make the music library sing of so what
whole thing nourishment and floundering
among fingers of time like popsicle ice gone
smitten along a tongue's complex regalia's
gentle noon smack breeze across tidy world
pictures of sigh crypts and puzzlement over
just what work and whose lips might be exempt
from kissing from dawn through charry
dusk and night's charmed calm yet metrical
through audible love's sweet interpolation

[ Skill But Paled by Certain Flight of Some Ancient Martin's Song ]

Then always white rump and underparts with
forked tail and bluish head and back for there is
no foe bountiful enough to prevent clear
streams from springing up and furrowing
recalcitrant soils where limbs move and stars
go uninterrupted by day unseen yet perfectly
present also lit when even just opening a can
or finding accidental shoelace curled in blue
grass candle-lit by dusk the common and most
fair part of what the heck do we know but to
participate endure and be this thing of not
destroying sense by letting it just hang like
white laundry in the stark shade of such earlier
places and times as are no longer here with us


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