achoo by Brittany Fuera (best interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

Harvest

A setting golden and orange sun
Eastern voices, singing in wails and a sneering nasal horn make a lullaby longed to be heard an entire lifetime
Little turquoise tiles, plastered to a temple floor,
cracks felt under a clean tender padded foot
At the top of this temple ziggurat,
dusty feet after cleaning the tiles on the way up
shells of life bobbing in currents of water

You lean, hands sealed together
pray for rain and crops and a harvest,
turquoise tiles, and wailing

The City

If you were a city how I’d search out the secret crevices, creaks and corners of your life
How I’d visit your temples, your cathedrals and holy places
I know I’d find you there, hidden in the spaces of eternal light, of utmost silence and awakening beauty
I’d stand in awe of the patient steady voice of traffic, the consistent flow of people and I’d find your consistency there, the softness of you like sparkling sunshine through the alley and crack between dark buildings
Maybe I’d walk down that alley, hands lifted, eyes squinted, and just wait, listen for you
Sense where you are and what you’re thinking

I’d feel your overwhelming peace come over my entirety as if the sun had warmed me from head to feet, shined my hair with a warm hand and flooded my heart with its warm freedom
And then I’d remember you, you just there, just being and patient and I’d tell you:


Do not hold back now that you've found liberty
For we recognized that freedom at first sight, we saw it in your eyes and in your soul
I felt it in the warm yellow air that wrapped you softly in your bed
We saw your eyes change. your touch grow softer, your face take on a gentle glow
Lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes for now it’s your turn to stretch out to the right and to the left
Across all the lands of this world, into the deepest most sacred places, and close to the most revered beauty of all up there, up high
Don’t just taste freedom, eat a three-course meal of it, hug and squeeze tight love's air
It’s here with us too right now, in each moment, space and feeling
The liberation of who you were and who you became lives forever in the air, in the music, and in the everyday remembrance of you.

Energy Fisher

He walks in the garden, the wild one, his heart flipping from side to side
Did he know what he was already to the other, a different green, edged in, lined with real life, miniature doors closing in around his borders
sovereign, unfeigned character
Tossing a clear fluff in the air a neighbor breathes a turn in perspective and he, the mammoth character, turns his head to watch a live cloud float by
A vault into the air he shakes off his dewy torso and flings green spray dusting the others with drink
Barking up to the sky’s jewels the sparkling hurts his eyes and particles of mirage mirror off stemmed bodies

Overwhelmed by the glazing air words rush at the pen, which one to describe this moment, this multitudinous, over-filled space of them

All of them and him and him again fur-flung and atoms shaken, his light waves propelled into zones of expansion
Rippling circles of energy radaring through the space around his petal mane

A quick achoo of ache and breakage of love released from his depths to oxygenated air
A giggle of post-sneezing and the pansies bob their heads,
dry grass rattling from traces of wood fence
Dripping now, his covered face is human skin sweating and porous
Orange stamen fuzzing buzzing released from the center of him
Dry lit by glistening wavelengths exhaling desert condensation into free space


A single droplet hits sand slipstreams a puddle around something Different


Hold close to the rim, to the spray freed from inside you and the ground reeds beside you vibrating with whim.

pane's eye

Climbing through a window,
dry gray wooden frame
One large splinter sticks out
accidentally hacked by that axe
the axe just inside, swinging on its rusted nail,
head shining in the mirror.

One knee resting on the window pane,
The dryness suddenly warm
Dry warmth fabricating a quilted knee
Squares of red, yellow, and orange pieces hand-stitched to the bend of a leg

The bend overtaken with,
the gentle care stemming from
the comfort of
a dry, warm window pane

Two knees tucked up on that pane,
it's wider now, quilting upper shins
palms placed down on either side knees,
flipping top to palm,
soaking in dry warmth.


The axe has stopped swinging,
spinning now, around its peg beside the pane
A hand out,
a lonely oar in the path of danger
hits the back of the axe, handle up, blade down

stop. A memory of heat and
gifts diffused through shine
A silver flash floating in slow motion reflecting children's eyes.

Human Maternity

A Dandelion palm-blown over, broken in the middle
of its light-weight silk body
once curved toward the sky.

Brainy yellow, it now faces its grassy court.

Its face a mosaic of seedlings,
sitting, looking, watching
little brown poppy seeds
one who knew a hand's shadow,
but not the hand
the maternity of a human hand
nested in the heart of this flower's life.

Loveknot

If I were a tree, with a face like the sun and golden rays
Stretching warmth to the tips of my gentle hovering branches,
Leaves always turned up to the sun,
Baking away like hot buns
Letting sinful steam escape into nature’s sky,
If I were that tree, dark crisp brown warm sap falling from my roots,

If I were,
I’d hope you were a nature lover out on a walk one day in love with it,
Just soaking up the beauty of imagination.
And you would see to your right a large mint and dark green field,
A pasture almost, in the middle of the forest.
Your path taking you so far you leading the way most of the time
You’d walked a ponder, cast your beauty-filled eyes on a new form of life.

I’d hope you’d be that green peace lobbyist and come and hug my fat tree trunk, feel the limey moss squish squash under your tanned skin and wonder at the moisture of such a
Sun-baked construct.

If I were that tree, I’d hope you’d be the love bird balancing by one leg on that small brainy twig, my hair hanging loose.

I’d hope you’d be the one-time white dove that settles calmly barely moving a hovering branch,
Flitting to me and then resting in the moment as if time had stopped, on my supportive shoulder.

I’d wish you’d be that beautiful swan that nests at my rooted feet and sings a song to my branch sky in the morning.
Maybe you could always secretly be more than one beautiful bird at a time and always stay flapping beside.

I can even smell you, most of all, the one bird my branches always waited the longest for and clinged to the most,
that pure dove,
that perfect morsel of time.

If I could’ve traded places with you-me the birds- you the tree-I wouldn’t.
I’d just bake there, love there, be hugged there, be shined upon there, and wait there for you, no matter what you are.

Blown up

A splinter of grass,
Awakens from dry age
In a dew-blown field


Cocoon what you’ve heard
Bubble it up
Take it home to the kitchen table
That little flower floating on the iced white mirroring dish made into a vase


In the mirroring vase,
Look inside
See your eye?
Look farther
Look deeper,

There
A blade of grass, waking up don’t you see?
Smiling, growing, loving you as it does its sister
She’s full of love which makes her overpower herself and turn light brown
Curling inward, a spiral curl in an open patch between blade of grass neighbors

Wait, she’s awake,
“There’s an army of me”, she says
A clear green droplet of rain suddenly rushing down the length of her blade’s back
She stands soldier-straight, the sun has emerged
All of the grass stands straight, dewdrops all so conformed to blades,
Stand up straight splittering water straight into air above grass


Like a fragile woman, so easily spilling cereal on a dried old wooden floor,
Her milk could splat across icey feet, her knees stutter and she might fall.


The water splats in your eyes, surprise!
Walk out and do not think,
crunch goes a blade of grass, a flower, petals sprawled under a sole.

Publication Date: 07-09-2009

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
"I can no other answer make but thanks And thanks." -William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night