Art by Otto

Purple Mountains


The first time I climbed
To the mountain tops,
And for many ascents thereafter,
I would turn so often
For expectant stops
And anticipate my laughter.

What joy it was
This oxygen buzz
As I hiked every mountain neighbor.
I would look on and, lo,
The valley below,
Tiny art, would make more from my labor.

Or so I forethought.
This to be it ought
Each station a new creation,
But the increment small
Showed bare change at all,
‘Til mere top was a modest revelation.

I knew to get through
To the mountain top
With unsullied expectation
I must bow my brow
To the task, to the path,
Forego my gratification.

Only at the top
Do I turn around
Speechless at new found elation.
With my eye I descry
Through cloud scudding sky
What looks like another nation.

Purple serried ranks
In starburst rows,
White capped monsters lurching.
The wrinkled haunches
Give away the blows
That set peak onto peak, perching.

Now my view
From the highest pew
Is delayed ‘til I feel it’s new.

Clouds



Grey foam softly becomes
This distillation from my being
Grey form entangles wisps
Of stolen feeling from my head

Between myself and clouds
There is no division
They hurt gently like love come to
From a hundred years of solitude

Clouds explain the difference
Between you and me, I’m sorry,
I can only make you see
The grey mass among my mystery

The colors underneath are free
I’m afraid intemperate ugly form
Would hide from sight and plea
Against cold accusation

Were your wind to whip away
This stratus on to stratus lay
The shroud again reveals the shrouds
Its only more uncovering clouds

Fog on 280



A sheet of cotton unspun
Of purple nightfall welkin
Colored shades if milky tufts
Picked at and strewn by rug hooks

Spills gently over Skyline
Filamentous condensate
Runs in runnels down valleys
Viridian valleys bound

Down one side, up the other
Plashing forth like bathtub foam
Or egg white wisps stiffening
Flowing up to 280

I zizz through ghostly riders
Outriders foretell the mass
Of fog at times covering me
Whipping well by my windows

Travelling through this planet space
Prickles the hairs with special grace

Puddle


I didn’t mean that
To come of that.
It’s such a universal pitch.
Still, I go on, resigned, or proud.

Empty
He crawled along
A dense packed
A steam packed
Urban sidewalk,
Watching the heads bob back and forth,
As they waddled ahead of him
To a rhythm of vim continuum.

They receded, grey, 
As they passed him,
And he ate sharp breaths
That marked and marred
His slower pace.
Up ahead a disturbance was forming
To the sound of people
Crackling with rage.
Something forced a division
In their stream,
As they passed by
In hopeless fury.
Around a large puddle.

He stopped instead,
And staring into it,
Whistled in breath
At the surprise.
His spectacles focussed
And the crackling sound
Slowly stopped. 
He could see his features.

Clearly in outline,
A lumpy strawberry
Topped by a carmine beret
Covering a bank of sandy hair.
A knurled nose framed
Either side by Y’s,
Wrinkling lines that cupped  
His berry cheeks
And formed the remainder
Of his fugitive smile.
The mouth was simian,
Flat with vertical striations
Betraying an age
That looked knowingly 
Out of russet eyes
Grown large behind glass.

The cobalt sky formed a corona
Toward the edge of the puddle
And around the face
That had muddled
Through so many years.
Sharp edges of fear
Grew soft in recognition.
He paused to note each age,
Each evident mark
That belonged to each of his ages.

Quite suddenly a boot
Splashed into the puddle,
Deranging the portrait.
His face flew apart
And waves mixed his eyes
With the sky.
He was so absorbed
He gasped at the violence.
He clutched his heart
Whose rhythm pounded waves
In his ears,
And his eyes
Fluttered about
The scattered frame.

Eventually,
With a last few waves,
The image settled again.
A self conscious laugh
And he was renewed.
People kept bumping him,
But he held his ground.
A thought was forming.
More errant feet
Would splash the puddle
Deranging his face
Again and again,
But it always returned.
It held its ground.

This image
Inevitably
Connected to his feeling.
Each struggle with life,
Each personal interaction,
Like Proustian friends,
Caused minor and major
Emotional derangementTo his comfortable self.
A higher sense
Of comfort with life
Was assembled,
And he could handle
Scatterings with greater aplomb.

Restored
He straightened himself	
And edged around the puddle.
The heat seemed less,
And he felt lighter.
He went bobbing away
A little more quickly,
A red mote in a sea of grey.
Full