While Up And Adrift In Cloud 9...

Reprieve from damp,

and rainy, or sultry weather,

I schlepped a

light weight Shaker

made folding chair

out upon Jim Baker

Nabor's green acre

and once enthroned

as a " FAKE FAKIR"

in rubberized web

bing (seam ming lee

lapis lazuli trimmed),

this body of mine

lapsed into Quaker

state averse to focus attention,

gnome hatter eyes fixedly glute

to the pages, sans

newsworthy printed material,

to apprise and jute

keeping me astute

with major local and global

journalistic burning hotspots

whatsapp pining (the

most recent issue Newt

about Gingrich commendable

TIME magazine), boot

with rather light

breeze tolerably blowing

temperate, moderate air currents

enveloping this here ole coot,

who aint got Hoot

tee and the Blowfish, nor toot

from no mo' magic flute,

thus by natural

dint cocked mean

looking head (you figure out

which one) between

the devil and the

deep blue seas tureen,

which gaze extended clean

skyward to cerulean vault

populated with strunk

and white tufts

in stark contrast did lean

in to the verdant rich green

sward abuzz within

invisible micro ecosystems

niched and stitched by Jean

E. Huss flora Dean

and endearing fauna

minted quartered gene,

which hubbub of variegated

organisms sound

accompanied motley crue

of each scudding soundcloud

shape shifting bill

low whee near weightless

(cottony ma their) keen

stern preachily mass stir,

then puff (like

a magic dragon),

no more easily seen.