So far, this year, there is only bright orange lifted high up, blooming. But more will come, eventually. Why was a bird inside?

I peek through the low green leaves that hide what is within, to find a nest made smoothly cupped in soft dog hair that shed from Jake.

Crazy little birds begging each day for seeds, and this one here wanting the wild flower hanging pot to nest! They are not shy, nor easily fear.

Then two days hence a little egg left seated all alone, wrapped in that small pristine bowl of dog hair made me think

I’ve killed them all! Me just using the Bayer fertilizer a chemical that can’t be touched and kills bugs who dare eat — perhaps even the not-yet-living bird.

And then another egg for two! The parents, unknowingly bound to raise them in my chemical mess, and I don’t know what to do

But hope, and swear I will never ignore again because I never know what unexpected happenings, may happen – and I am largely why.

But hope, offering what cleansing rains I can, in a hope for what I’ve done.

Image credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech

We are small — very small — isolated in our ways, and environments. So rarely do we trouble ourselves to imagine beyond whatever sky contains us.

Astronomers do. Physicists do. As do philosophers, poets, and even some writers. Politicians unconcerned with their own petty gains imagine what might lay beyond for us, in what may become our future. There are few.

Perhaps it is a sad tail; a failed sun. Not quite enough mass to ignite, though larger than Jupiter — flung out from its stellar nursery before gathering enough of itself in.

Dark planets drifting through our space with no star to fall toward. Warping the background points of light, invisible but for the slightest noticeable effect. Through the force that binds all things despite any distance.

Small collapsing spheres of dust larger than our world — more numerous than the stars.

Japan and New Zealand working together discovered these “free-floating” planets by observing gravitational lensing effects. That is, they watched how something invisible was warping spacetime in the night sky, by seeing star positions distort as it passed. The level of detail they must observe is astonishing, particularly from ground-based telescopes.

Just look what we can see.

This isn’t going to be easy, but hopefully it will be good for me. Jonathan has a theory that, when creating something every day, 70% of it will be mediocre, 20% will be downright bad, but you’ll get 10% that’s actually pretty good. If nothing else it’s a great source to draw from when you’d like to create a “real” piece.

If you’re interested in following along, all the poems will be posted with a new one each and every day. Jonathan just passed his 365th song. Who knows, maybe I’ll make it a year, too.

Expect some crap, but also, hopefully, expect some decent stuff, if you do decide to follow along.

What is not yet, becomes for us what must be, while what is, weighs down like a cinched bag of invisible objects we must forge through.

The front tip asks, devoid of wonder, how these inefficiencies might be reshaped to grease the line we must pull ourselves along, in that quest to reach the prescient state, where the bigger animal mind, invisible, might allow rest.

And forgets, because it never knew, it reasoned like a wire grid with perfectly square gaps that no true objects fit.

It cut them in attempts to squeeze past and reach perfect two dimensionality where all drawn lines meet in the symmetry that cannot discern beginning from end. The front tip small, using tools that do not rise, scratches forward, back and to either side. While below cuts drip down leaving the plane of sight. While warm whispers rise up, past, spreading into aether.

And in this, the front-tipped grid busy in designs, sleeps. And in doing so constructs a soothing curve, formed of inifinite lines.

Us, with our intentions fixed upon some inhumanly self-fulfilling abstraction, hoping for change that is humane. In this we are the prime mover of our own cycles.

Heads spewing out rank files, lines like fences herding cattle destined to lift up some sack of flesh that knows how we best must be moved.

The game played within their small vocabulary of strategy, bombs of money dropped brazenly upon already suspecting heads, and the fat dish that gathers and scoops up to hoard all that must be shared.

The fall with its fresh smell of rot, sweet as the perfume worn by bill collectors, their caked makeup gripped to the skull like zombie flesh than moans to consume more brains.

While the bloated eat even more, bragging like boys and their sport, yet too fat to lift their own finger to the field, to play any more. Too fat but to lie, commanding to be fed.

In the season, drown in the shades of red, the little game that grips each mind wins, just as the house must do. A cackling grandma in the glitter of slots. The old dog that rolls and farts to make men wish to please him. The American Dream atop the pinnacle of scarcity, where it must be held for others to lift and climb.

Where the young, who yet dream what they are given, as if it were their own, carry out to fortify all that they would change.

The narrow logic of numbers might count the fallen leaves, strategically noting patterns of distribution. Then, bound by rule, re-cock the gun.

As all the while that which filled us, bleeds out, even as strangers watch and know, because we are all here.

And the furthest imaginative recourse? To cover heads under the familiarity of earth, waiting in our busy tasks for the passing of snowfall — waiting for the spring that must come along upon the Wheel. The pull of a lever. The push of a button. The happy pill.

The fall is arrived. The chill, damp odor of rot, rising fresh from the chaos of that which fell. Just as history reveals.