Posts tagged ‘Terry Scott Niebeling’

May 26, 2015

How the Rain Goes

How the rain goes.

The day the morning skies opened up,
rain came down in steady droplet form.

We know that feeling, the coming change,
or at least the animals do.

Around were deeper shades of green,
deep sepia trunks of trees, and veils of standing water.

There was no dry in the air, no dry in the heavens;
precipitation entered, and we are waiting for it to pass.

Bodies came wetted through,
going door to door so far away,
at any destination, at any time—covered.

It happens out of the clouds,
out of miracle,
out of nowhere,
out of thin air, out of life.

Miniature trails come sluiced as streams veined out,
their knotted design along sidewalks spread.

Now it is everywhere, on you dripping, on leaves, on outer matter, and on the ground.

It is soaking, seeping, as it follows gravity down—this life, new and old as one pooled.

Rain went sounding harder and harder,
pouring and pouring,
cats and dogs,
jazz crescendo, percussion,
high hat smashed, pit-pat pit-pat,
drumroll going, please,
brrrump brrrump,
to this bursting waterfall overflow,
busting through,
there was no escaping its element.

The day the morning skies opened up,
rain came down in steady droplet form,
and you were caught in between this transition of wet and dry,
not there, then alive,
then entrenched, then changed, just so.

How the rain goes.

May 24, 2015

Touched by Sweetness

Having impregnated
a mind
of pulsating flowers;
touched by sweetness
they stir,
coming in
at full bloom.

May 22, 2015

The Miracle of You

That great idea sparkled,
imagining a self that is beyond oneself,
though alike all others,
but different.

Where breathing air is a miracle
of filling a mass, and seeing for sight
a mechanism viewed, not closely near to being understood,
nor recreated.

And flesh and bone, a false creationism,
one of God, of man—of both alike;
the muse so exactly measured,
so detailed and defined and primed.

To discuss it would be off topic.
So, let’s cut to the chase.
Realism in truth, no “isms” could deduce it
to reasons or plainness, or a way to prove it in ways.

There is nothing and everything all at once, just waiting, just waking,
and this time it is just you who steps out of the front door to go.

Au revoir

May 21, 2015

Pre-Open Mic on Nicollet Avenue

Streetlamps poured
a waxen yellow glow on the Nicollet Avenue scene below,
as above heavens danced and sparked white
as now onlookers stood and watched.

The hum of vehicular masses turned to a city of cratered paths,
while people were lit as props, good and evil,
coming and going about their static business.

This nature in society, framed, isolated—what we have;
metal grasps of synthetic hands
coming to and shaping us,
to make up our wake up, to shake up our trust.

Bleeding oil, exhausting fumes,
killing cows, and loud preaching fools;

we exist as a populous,
with meaningful purpose, and American sentimentalism.

Illuminated here by streetlamp’s waxen yellow glow, on Nicollet,
under heavens about to open wet,
mingling with ghosts of our yesterday,
with whole cultures of churches and states to thank.

Amen.

May 20, 2015

The Cat and The Squirrel (55414)

The backyard squirrel foraged
Rolling through a thick grass,
Rubbing its underside on dirt,
Thin belly in a thin brown fur,
Moving thru sniffing, bobbing.
The cat watched from the sill,
On a makeshift dresser drawer,
Eyes darted at every twitch made,
At every moment of food found.
The two were close, intermingled,
Not viewing each other though,
Just seeing themselves different,
Obscured by a dripping window,
Staring at what could’ve been.

May 19, 2015

Bathroom Backdrop Part 1.

“I can gather all the news I need on the weather report” –Simon & Garfunkel

There is a varied world view at 9:00am.
I sat in a bathroom on a chipped enamel seat,
where devices scattered and dusted lived on the floor,
or clamped to a metal bar on the pale skin of a small wall,
they were begging for a purpose.

Here, the white draped hand towel symbolized stormy conflicts
which could become a bit less precipitous,

next to that, the hair-iron and blow dryer—likewise the same, utilize me now.

They were items I seldom ever touched.
They called me, shining, purposefully—let’s fix this problem.
We have a solution.

They spoke of their warmth in the form of buzzing,
in the cool air of the bathroom.

They were not like me on this cold beginning, I was unplugged and exposed.
They were about to be turned on.

In morning a system of systems was awoken.

My hair was too short to be straightened, too drought dry—no need for blowing,
and sometimes I liked my hands wet because hydration is key.

And they still needed something to fix, still needed a purpose.

May 14, 2015

Have Your Day

The day you have
is of your design.

May 10, 2015

It was Highland in a Nutshell

It was wet cans of PBR from a Coleman cooler
and pulls of Bulleit whisky warm
on a Friday night.

It was green Jalapeño poppers wrapped in fatty bacon
next to glistening short-cut rib rows
in a twilight kitchen.

It was pickup trucks frolicking in rusted skirts
over deep grass fields,
while hunters gathered fungi at the midday shade.

It was alabaster ashes of last evening’s fire
smoldering, becoming ghost stale
near metal pasture gates left wide open.

It was small brown trout caught in cold streams
bleeding, below an Amherst hillside
melting in the last light of a springtime Saturday.

It was Driftless region bluff’s strong straight-wind
carrying Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
into folding valleys asunder from a driver’s side window.

It was a weekend’s mosaic of moments,
laced in and strung up together,
of oscillating seconds and intrinsic perspective.

Oh, it was…

May 7, 2015

Lilac Blooms

A pressing breeze caressing Lilac blooms consumes me,
as morning nature sway past an open window freely.

May 1, 2015

Difference

a day, a day,
to
wake
and
maintain.

a day, a day,
cash
coffee
conversation,
culture contained.

a day, a day,
one
is
never
the same.

a day, a day
where’s
my
change?

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