LOST

in the morning
the arrival
sets the sun spinning
the clouds crumble and
roll
white-blue days
are beginning
(night recedes).

the pageant rolls cool thunder
a mystery unfolds
its sheathed wisdom revealed.

loose, the knowledge remains intact as missing
ideas are grasped, answers sought
the strange man still speaking no secrets,
but insisting on a silent stare.

we rode from our wet caves
searching for daylight
and asking in tongues for safe passage.

this incantation
began with a sentence
and initiated the slow breeze
of moonlight and winter magic.

the crescent moon and morbid glare
set fragile still the swamp of city lights
wrapped warmly by the hills.

we, like memories sunk in the tall grass
looking at the sky and all its glitter
splattered stars from east to west
and a thin stream of smoke rising from a nearby factory.

fragrantly watching the world weaving
patterns and patches of broken rain

the sky dissolves
into evening.
the stars ascend.
the ocean grows calm…

~Joe Rossi, "Highw@y"

THESE ARE THE SHADOWS

early morning
the rising sun ceremony
the blessed skies

the afternoon was soft and enchanted
night fell sharply
and the old man died.

these are words often shapes and fantasies
revealing the madness in all told lies
the hour chanced upon happiness
but then fell backwards into time.

nowhere could be seen, but never felt
ideas melted what was once before
held dearly, an image of an imperfect world
made out of clay and diamonds and coal,

serpents, gold and green, made thinly into cracks
and crevices,
small thoughts occupied the conversation,
as the clock clamored up the wall.

movement, certain energy and the sensation
of sound evolving at the speed of love
defines the musical embracing of notes
like a dance of waves upon the sky.

surrealism bought Dali a ticket to phantasmogoria
there shapes remained twisted and grotesque
later on islands rose from hot burning sands
and formed mirror perfect pools of love.

a face swam like Phoenix rising and swirling in blood
her name a sentence in Satan’s red book of doves
bought with the price of fortune and ice
and torn from an anchor in the good lord above

these are the shadows and the memories
etched into the fabric of history
which can be torn, or discarded or worse
made to be something not discovered, but lost.

~Joe Rossi, "Highw@y"