Lunaris Rarus

Tens of thousands of insects performed a symphony, an elaborate musical composition resonating, familiar and strange, persisting, unwavering notes upon notes – the last hurrah – as I strolled along the cement walk, to view, in an early evening wan indigo sky, the golden orb of a blue moon. Pale purple colored shadows decorated the reflecting surface of the blonde satellite presenting the appearance of a face: still, mute, suspended, shedding an ochre glow, casting mine moon shadow: casting a shadow for all, for all mindful of the rare reverie.

– Robert Pennington Price

TO SENSE

To Sense

With the cooler nights lending themselves to more temperate mornings – it's been a brutally hot summer – I have taken to riding the mountain bike. On the wide open country roads traversing the old railroad tracks and the creeks and streams heading up the St Jones River I was rewarded by the pleasant aroma of freshly cut grass; my path was strewn with an abundance of cobalt blue morning glories and a pair of yellow finches raced along side me, always perching, waiting for me to catch up before taking wing flying another fifty yards before lighting to repeat all over again. Butterflies flittered at lush green foliage, smal winged and large winged, orange, yellow and white. The sun shone brightly and the sky was a paler shade of the dewy and reflective morning glories. On returning to a more congested area at a stop sign – ceding to the oncoming rush hour traffic – I discovered two copper pennies, one heads, one tales; the latter perfectly canceling the former. All-pervading, the adventure leaves me with a sense of gratitude and the recognition of good fortune: and two cents richer.

– Robert Pennington Price

Bike Ride Apple Pie Breakfast

Bike Ride Apple Pie Breakfast

In the cool of the morn

Devoid of all scorn

I inflated bike tires

Beyond all the mires

Rode; less forlorn

Returning to home

Cut oats not alone

Golden Delicious

Coconut, raisons judicious

A pie all my own.*

* Add ginger and walnuts!

– Robert Pennington Price

THE CANOPY

The Canopy

The verdant cloak, inching closer to the bay window overlooking the head of the St Jones River where I write, is glistening with the continuing precipitation – each leaf a sparkling emerald –  droplets the size of quarter dollars rap and tap on the sky-light at the apex of the vaulted ceiling of my tree house. The verdure is eerily still while starry openings reveal a silver-gray yonder. The usually sun-bleached white walk is tan, colored by the moisture that refused to cling to the lush vegetation that drapes an arbor of branches like long arms and fingers reaching, reaching until autumn and then winter, perforce, amend the green and disrobe the wooden structures.

– Robert Pennington Price

VIRGO

Virgo

A dense cluster of  leaves of the trees in the wood turn upward in anticipation of  the impending precipitation. Branches waggle, yes, and no, thrust back and forth, urged up and down by a sub-tropical breeze, while the bluish-purple sky dims and rain droplets rattle on the sky-light and pepper the bleached white cement walk. It is humid, yet cool. There is a sense of stillness: yet simultaneously, a frenetic energy boasting of what may come. A distant boom and the rustling of tens of thousands of leaves softly sounds the eve. Waiting… waiting… for come what may.

–Robert Pennington Price

The Slogan

On this hot dry and overcast August 22nd 2012 I have been very pleased to entertain at my round table, in a room in the corner of the palace in my mind, discussing the theme of trust and distrust, the generations it takes to instill reliance, or break it down, (mostly break it down), and other brilliant revelations of character as conveyed in his short stories, none other, than John Updike himself.  Fragmented  translucent clouds wafted overhead, signaling the onset of autumn. Outside and stories below in the courtyard the pool of dense rippling blue-green sent up an abysmal odor of chlorine, as we talked freely and intensely seriously, recalling those famous last words, from far too many manipulative close family members, erroneous employers, randy rectors, unthinkingly enthusiastic law enforcers, corrupt congressional coteries, former gold digging girlfriends, (to put names to a handful), “trust me…”.

Robert Pennington Price

MOVIE REVIEW

Movie Review

Ugh… Hatfields and McCoys… Ugh…

Too much like:

 Some close family members,

Staunchly contorted clients,

Exed  gold digging girlfriends,

Former wonky employers,

Past  lustful ministers,

Nearsighted Law enforcers,

And

Current  corrupt congressional cohorts;

In other words:

Too much like:

Most  imposed acquaintances…

Robert Pennington Price

Thursday

How did it get to be Thursday?

Yesterday it was the weekend.

How did it get to be Thursday?

Still… no money to send.

Less than two days it will be the weekend,

A time for hard work and to earn.

Less than two days it will be the weekend,

Enough money to go to work; I yearn.

Next thing you know it will be Thursday

Will there be money to send?

Next thing you know it will be Thursday,

On and on with no end.

Robert Pennington Price

From A Bay Window

From A Bay Window

 

The leaves paint a dappled backdrop on the white walls; their shadows cast from the sun, low in the evening sky. Green fingers from the verdant canopy dance with short quick movements from side to side and up and down; nodding yes, and then, no. The dark and threatening storms have swept over the bay to New Jersey taking the thunder and lightening with. The weather has calmed and the cement walk is bleached white again, dry, of the few light showers that were satellites of the mother rainstorm. I read and write by the waning light – message a friend and view responses – reply again. Back to my charge, by and large, gleaning insight, from come what may.

Robert Pennington Price

The Phantom of Her Blog

The Phantom of Her Blog

Her blog appeared with the ping of my phone, I transpierced, mesmerized, engulfed, navigating my way round the phantom, lifted, carried deep into the well, emerging, prancing over catwalks, springing toward the decaying spiral of dripping eloquence, up, up to the dome overlooking all that can be seen; an ancient river of wisdom.

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