Rambling in blue skies - Poem: by Heather Whitley Gibson

Rambling in blue skies.

Lilienthal_in_flight

There in was.

In my way, a large gray machine. Tenanted- to beat acquaint it’s chest.With myself.

To spilling it’s gas and clip it wings. Propellers steeped-right in the middle—

of a dutch painting.

There were to many armies of men gathering around to fix tits.

-dept-ed wings. Her it was.. Large overbearing fans sloth like. Giving window that bright oversight-the shiny fur appeal.

 Holy Sonnets, The Mother propeller and faith in the laws of Angels.

If you plan to sleep. “The American Way”. Scratch the surface of linted skies and the part terns on the ground.

After being “hazed” in even in even conditions

When clouds themselves Sevres that dream.

Who’s love of Land sconced in undergrowth parts of war engines, the crowded rain in, honey sucked dedicated to that thick sun.

You and me, pray by tongues without taste. But even when know words come, they frame a picture.

Hung by yellow dancers, tree stalks and yellow corn. Tubes of paints this dance with Kan-sky’s vibes.

When time it self sup-ones. unafraid as we as time as if impassioned in light, losing our balance,tree grow vertical.

Like leaves turn over, we squint, sane our words slight. Demand not flyswatters, warm with wind

Stretcher out  in grain of Glassy, of sand, of boxes of the past blot as we wipe away , clearing are shields and wipers.

Screaming.

Flies, swirling tackle, the worms splitting sorrow, last seen in {bracket}s mosses.

Pluck the sun Alar y and it’s nozzle to some “day” (Hot).

When litters of flies ramble like new-browns, dark lines on there tongues fluent in speech:

Ton-know A calligraphic sky IS, Does what words.

CAN’T SAY.

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