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One perspective

The caged butterfly beats wings
against captivity, hostage to forces
beyond the walls imprisoning it.
Arresting (and attractive) orange
(dotted with black) elegance —
I am enchanted by such
spunky thrashing against its netted bondage,
beauty bound for something more.

What makes me move on past
the incongruous scene (set behind
an inhibiting screen) is the thought
(or is it hope?) that the lattice serves as shield,
protecting the gentle innocence within,
armor against the elements — a matter
of perspective authentically mine,
beset with doubts until I’m out of view.

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The voice

I heard the voice — whirling in my ears
like a breeze whistling on leaves
with the bluster of November not expecting
December to overshadow it — though
in my delirium I could not find it.

The voice — alien and incoherent as it seized
my mind without a through to the impression
it left — told me to leave (bounded
in lunacy and invisible) to
the irrational rabble wrapped in regret.

Was it mania — a psychic knot tied
to some forgotten tram unspooling and
unwelcome — or merely benign?
I am not delusional enough
to think I know the difference.

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A cosmic chorus

The lyrical sun meets the day hopefully,
a low trill softly rising like the hum of footsteps
falling on the hillside, bringing goodwill
to those who listen. That subtle, haunting
sound warbles in the ears of humanity,
perched above us but inviting fellowship.

There’s a lesson here, I think — the light
recedes and returns (a tide for the whole
planet not just the flustered oceans)
permitting the moon to hold luminescence
until it illustriously trumpets its return —
an example of civility for deaf ears.

Are we more moon than jelly fish?
Do we hold a mirror to the light, feigning
a warmth we have not within us? Or can we glow
from within, lighting a course for people
to accompany us as we find the chords
to harmonize with the orbiting haloes
circling us in a cosmic chorus?

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Beholder of the eye

Behold the ghoulish beauty,
the elegance we find
in everyday places:

tired rioters
holding each other up, exhaustion
exhumed from discarded weapons
of mass distrust;

the joyful egg
bounding through a flower bed
with the crack
of a breeze winding it forward;

the hungry musician
ensnaring a wheelbarrow, merely
a mistaken muse
inspiring labored hymns;

and me – I
sprint to a parking meter, a wild
armed mime escaping
from a box only I can see.

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The harvest moon breathes

The harvest moon breathes
deep tonight, sharing spices
from the cornucopia of pumpkin oranges
and warm apple reds
cooling in the autumn breeze
tossing leaves through the air
like cinnamon confetti celebrating
another summer’s retreat.

As squirrels snack on acorn squash
preparing for the unflinching onslaught
of gray, dull winter, I sip
on apple cider awed
by the colors of nature confident
in this moment
the moon will never exhale
and fall will never dwindle.

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