Surrealist California state of mind

Bland birds sing in a symphony of color,

I listen-

each note a different shade.

In the morning fog their

sounds swirl in the air like speckles of

multicolored dust,

some red like rust,

glinting in the rays of yellow sunlight.

I see-

A verdant sheen of green grass

that flows, soon tall and lithe,

to glow against the hills,

like golden waves in the California wind.

The mountains loom in the distance,

against turquoise skies,

and rivers reflect ripples of white clouds

in my eyes.

I imagine-

those drifting cotton tufts as they’re

painted orange by the sunset,

pink, too

like rock-rose flowers,

or lips after a kiss, then red

as a tongue, tasting bliss

tinged purple by a tangy lollipop.

I smell-

the sweet scent of flowers and

red barked trees, taller and wider than you can imagine,

which give shade to

tiny plants,

some with petals that are purple or blue,

others with bright berries

in a ruby hue.

I hear-

the soft patter of clear drops on

forest leaves,

dried quickly and soon brittle,

tan and brown;

the crunch of dried grass,

popping when consumed by orange-yellow flames

burning red then smoking to matte black.

I remember-

that seeds lay dormant,

and soon burst forth in shades of emerald, jade and lime-

all it is, is a matter of time.

I wait-

by the ocean that reflects blue hues

along beaches where stalks of long, green, algae

rest buried in the sand.

I observe-

The frothy cream of the seafoam bubbles

bend into rainbows,

where tiny shells are sprinkled along the shore,

like dropped oil pastel crayons

or jelly beans.

I breathe-

the salty air

the taste that tingles

the top of my tongue and forces tears to my green eyes;

a reflex that I can’t contain

but I don’t mind.

I don’t think-

that I’m one of a kind.

I’m not a single note,

I am a symphony,

and like those bland birds that sing in color

I express-

But my notes are words.

Absurd

sometimes,

Spoken from lips

Or taps from finger tips,

Or written with ink on paper through a flick of my wrist,

And pulled from deep inside.

It all begins

within

the folded veils

of my colorful mind.

Leaving the past behind

I forget-