An arts and culture aesthetic that is blue.
Lady on fire, things are getting crispy.
The flames are ascending,
And the cold is only weakening.
The rage of those fingertips,
And the voice—crackling.
I am your own pyromaniac,
Feeding you, burning everything.
Suffer the dance of flame,
Burning wildly—it won’t abate.
Okay. I laugh as it rages on,
Perspiring, dancing, and alight.
Burn and burn again.
Oh, how you glow.
Lady on fire,
Rage as you desire.
Photo credit: Ellen Barrett
Light falls across a surface.
Shadows appear.
Leaves create patterns.
Images form.
The moment exists.
Later, the scene fades.
Details blur.
A mind holds fragments.
A shape remains.
Color shifts.
The event changes.
The day passes.
Routine repeats.
Action follows action.
Memory registers.
A brain stores impressions.
Time moves.
The past recedes.
Ordinary things become lost.
Only hints remain.
A feeling lingers.
Specifics escape.
Recognition occurs.
A source hides.
A mind constructs a story.
This story becomes memory.
Actual experience disappears.
A manufactured version stands.
Truth erodes.
Photo credit: artist unknown
Taking the train.
Approaching Bridgeport Stn. A nice scenic journey. I highly enjoy travelling by train.
Shivers.
The steam from my breath.
You know, I miss my winters. I miss the cold sun. I miss the clouds draped over the sky, the frosty branches, the unspoiled snow where you could feel the crunch beneath your boots.
I miss how, when a wild blizzard hit, I’d wake up at 5 AM, put on two layers of pants, and embed my feet in that layer of white. I’d make little snowballs, pile them up, throw them against a fence just to hear the BOOSH!—God, I loved watching them explode. And I remember rolling those snowballs into big, bigger boulders, building a snowman all by myself.
Oh man, the fun. Another thing I loved? Forts. I used to build forts right out of the snow, with ceilings. I’d invite my friends in, and we’d read comic books, play on a Game Boy—man, that was awesome. We’d take off our jackets, climb up a high hill, and slide down.
God, the amount of fun.
We haven’t had a winter like that in ages. I don’t think we’ve had a winter like that in 20, maybe 25 years. It’s all getting warmer. We were lucky this year to have even one weekend of snow. But if you really want to experience it nowadays, you have to go into the mountains.
Snow ain’t coming where I live anymore.
Photo credit: artist unknown
Cloud Nine.
Everything’s coming up for me,
I feel nothing but happiness, glee.
Even the clouds in the sky
Cheer for me, they shout, “Oh hi!”
In this moment, I am free,
Feeling my best—happy to be me.
Even birds sing me their song
As I laugh—we get along.
I’m on cloud nine.
The grass is green, the wind’s alive,
It swoops, it swoons, it twists, it dives.
Sunshine bursts—citrus bright,
Freshly squeezed, a sheer delight.
Each day’s a happy song
About Cindy Wai Chung Wong.
And the spell—oh, can’t you see?
She casts, she blasts—boom!—on me.
I’m on cloud nine.
Photo credit: artist unknown
Swaggering across the horizon—
A dream, a vision,
A dazed and languid lullaby.
So many hopes arise,
A mix of vapor and sunshine,
Floating, floating, floating on by.
Soaring high, take flight
Into ghostly white cotton candy,
Floating by on top of the world.
Photo credit: artist unknown
Rainy day.
It’s coming down thick,
Soaking streets so heavy and slick.
All the buildings drenched,
Like a thirst that’s never quenched.
It’s relentless and won’t stop,
Drumming rooftops, steady drop.
Invasion from the sky,
A flood of gray where dry hopes die.
Echos of winter.
I found this sticker of a snowflake on a window. It’s since been removed. An inconsequential memory, but a memory of winter.
Parking lot.
This is a blank spot that exists. Sometimes it stores cars. But mostly it doesn’t.
Small Crop Circle.
Credit: Jeffrey Friedl
@blue@piefed.social
You're such a haunting memory.
Credit: artist unknown
@blue@piefed.social
