Danny James

Tag: atmosphere

149: At least a sense of being

The speck that is your life, soon enough will disappear. And you must laugh at this, now. It’s only perfect. Right into the glaring vacancy of space thrust your unoffended frailty. Whole and from the lovingly riotous kernel of your infinitesimal being. And broiling your chemistry to the plenitude of amusement, burst open to the throes of raining hilarity, with every fibre electrified to a poise in expressions of your overjoy, dance a maddening dance. Flail a distort of atmosphere, dodging comets and hopping orbits, stomp a crack in the cosmos floor and rupture the very fabric of this realms walls. May the ruckus convulse into wave upon sublime wave of your significance sent rolling out over an ocean of stars and hush, collecting and collapsing them in thunderous pops and whips heard a thousand eons after as murmurs of distant crashed-upon celestial midnight shores. Lighter than an eyelash on your cheek or a spirits farewell kiss, that snowflake on your lip, – the glimpse of a streak you think you saw of a star might have fallen; a bump, some shudder the consciousness felt, that stirred the dust settled on inquisitiveness, and bothers the unguarded hours of sleep, echoing into the abyss and hollow of unfinished dreams to no one – ‘What was that?’
Thus seems the night as day, the globe perennially ablaze soaked fair by lamp shade. It was all you! the jolly frolicking fiend in the moon, can children see. And laugh you must, is all that’s good. The running smile kind that thins the air and bounds into howl. Let the planets tremble on their quiet line, of levity pitch, disintegrating satellites and muffling the shrieks and wails of the Banshee into the finest whisper of peace across a cloud-cast plain. To what melodies you hear; chime of the angels, the drum of colliding debris or chorus o’ groaning spheres, – though forever will quit of thee, – Keep on thy immortal rhythm. They will know enough but you will feel all can felt be, spanning a tiny entirety in a blink of histories across the great warped gulf of this nothing place. May struck, even the Sun look twice from its throne, the flicker that was you, somehow something still.

This, or you might be gone already.

109

When after many days the rain eases at last, mine is rather a relief for what it leaves us, than it’s leaving. I burst from my house to collect the many graces; to inhale a bettered air, with expectations of a healthier day. My exuberance skips ahead, thoughts tarry behind. For what I hope to find never Nature withholds. The mood that I bring comes back to me.

There is a balanced quality in the after-shower atmosphere. The streets cleansed, and everywhere trees have caught crystals, dropping pearls from their branches stooped. Unnecessaries are washed from the spirit, like loose leaves from the boughs. Creation starts over.

90

My housemate returned last evening from a wandering abroad, whose soothed expression of renewed prosperity has recalled my own souls fondness and suitability for the trekking life that has survived the nights dilution. Thus I am riding a gentler, more aerial tone of humour this morning that threatens to lift me further into elations giddying atmosphere, and if I am not cautious to bethink the lead of my cares and chores, I may very well happily drift with its whim, forever up and clear of any.
Patagonia in the Summer, and the blood is stirring.

71: Watching Winter

This old bench has braved the changes, and, perhaps for its lonely place has long enchanted me to sit and share in its story, or receptivity learn. Under strained Apollo’s grace, reacquainting myself with a Winter scene when playful Aurae dance upon the atmosphere with jovial abandon, weaving and brushing glassy chimes whose tickled laughter is symphony of children’s revelry. The arterial bough that splits the sky has long ago cast off her lush ribbons and contented seeming with her nakedness displayed, owns a most essential refinement that nature consents yet ever struggles humanity against. We too, in due season must, without arrogance our gifts receive, and surrender them without strife.