a coruscant dawn

a coruscant dawn

coruscant

kə-rŭs′kənt

once we are untethered from this land, this earth, this gentle crust that has so cradled us, bound not by laws of man and nature, released from the bonds of gravity, perhaps only privy to the forces that guide energy, there is only the all night, daunting, no, the canvas on which, for there is no sunset there, out there, beyond our protective dome, in the complete dead calm sea of everything, space, space unto space into never ending expansion, and we shall go, maybe there are shepherds there as well, certainly paths to go, but no, there are no sun sets there, and no true to us eyes to see them, there is only dawns, perpetual on different spectrums, distance means nothing when time means nothing, and there we will be, drifting in a sparkling sea, a divine conjuring of a coruscant dawn

the inner circle

the inner circle

:pause, even here,
in one of my openly secret places I come
the cliffs of calvert
tower above the bay
as always I remember them
except window dressing
now and then, the light, the waves
or a plate of near glass
but in either way, a welcome hearth
I could go a whole universe
and not feel so loved by the earth
in just a coordinate, a spot on a map,
here;
so I pause,
watching the smallest of waves curl in from afar
like a sweeping hand, over and over arcs
a consistent caress under our single star, warming late summer
I see and hear the clamor of the bits of broken shells
for the whole ones stay calmly together, for now
I pick a piece up, for no other reason
no impetus, but for the random chance
and see the lines, the stark colors
the circles and invisible lines, and I think of the sky
the planets
how even saturn, or jupiter or
the other less famous suitors of fame
the hue’s house of colors,
the patterns, the swirls, the same
all right here, like little broken dull mirrors
lying about on this gentle shore
for me to find, and realize
I need not travel far to this wonder far
and feel the rush and thrust of creation
in all the broken pieces, out about my feet
as they are wound down to once more become
again recreated,
perhaps stardust for another beginning,
here, in my hand, all of history from death to birth.

Notes… although I had a terrible sinus infection most of the week I still came back from my annual trip to the cliffs a newly charged battery, perhaps a little wiser, smarter, calmer… until the grinder chews me up again, and then I will be due for my yearly appointment to those shores… a calling.

the gathering…

the gathering…

age, like time, is funny in some way, not laugh out loud, or ironic, just how, like water over a rock, or wind spilling over a rocky outcrop, how time erodes and molds your perception throughout, age, a birthday, a long way from those days, of silly burger king crowns, roller skate parties at roller usa, or perhaps bowling, I missed out on the bouncy house phenomena, that was saved for only carnivals and festivals back in my dawning days, but things are all relative, when you are a kid there is such a feeling of the infinite, but somehow, time and age – they whittle this down, to real numbers, not that I am counting, not that I can count, but the perception, the grasp now of dwindling moments is there seemingly in my very hands, so, yes, another birthday (not today, you can hold your well wishes, thanks), but back in August (Leo proud), another birthday, things have been so sparse in these covid gripped years, the fear has splintered everyone down to basic units or less, a night out to dinner once so mundane now seems like a special occasion, or even just oddly strange, and even now as things slowly slide back into the normal, so I picked a place, an old haunt, from my college days, down in New Brunswick, I played to my audience, knowing there would be something on the menu for everyone, that everyone not being a large crowd, not at all, but why put out anyone through a compromise, even if this a day ‘for me’, something I rather do not like on the whole anymore actually, but there is here, this gathering, just myself, my slightly older brother and my aged mother, the first dinner out together I think in some time, without my father, who by circumstance was devoured by the covid plague, one day he slipped and fell, hit his head, at 84 you take no chances, went to the hospital, got covid there, in less than a week – dead, that was almost two years ago now, but somehow this still had the feel of strange, all that is left is us three, covid seems to have distilled the rest of the family down to just this, no gatherings or holidays, all missed by mandates, and fears, and precautions, and maybe some were or are happier this way to be truthful, rid of the bonds they had to endure just by birthright or marriage, how quickly the unit seemed to fall all apart, that many less times together, perception, the counting, as one generation marches into the dirt and my own path looms closer, there is only so many times this casual dinner may occur, perhaps the only function of a birthday with which I concur, for at least I get this, a simple indulgence at best but stamped indelibly with an invisible number as we never know what fate may bring, but we know fate will arrive at our door, hoping for more is not a bad thing I surmise, but also keep your eyes open and recording the happening of now, like a film so you may return to it again, mind, the lives in your immediate orbit, and take a deep dive into these moments, especially at gatherings such as these- as mom orders some key lime pie, my brother eyes a classic slice of ny cheesecake, and I settle in with a nice cappuccino with a rock candy stick to swirl clinking the glass as the sugar dissolves, the meal seemed to take forever and a moment, and now it is gone, one more down, I hope for more to come but I will always at least settle in happiness with at least the next one.

quip

quip

’tis the oldest desire
the oldest sin
in the world of men
to live and live again

I was watching the first episode… and these words came to me, dreams… fantasy… our lives… tethered in belief, belief that we are going to last for all time, but all evidence seems other, but there is always that itch, that hope… within us all, and the greatest sin, perhaps, is not accepting our temporal anomaly….
cast away.

cast away.

the waning late summer sun
resting on the face
of a golden still pond
this- is- calm… (pause; inhale… hold… hold… exhale…)
“pinch me my darling,
for surely I travel in the realm of dream”
but no, a sweet captive
of the great blue marble
cast out upon the blackest sea.

notes.. and never forget, we are all on the miracle ball, sure, other life is probably out there but hey, for all we know right now we might be alone, and this is the gift of our home, the goldilocks zone, this wonderful place, even the grittiest corners are better than the alternative but we should strive to bring light to all… at least that is what I see when I catch a quick reflection of a sunset in a pond off the parkway on the way home, horrid traffic, angry drivers, asphalt plows that have flattened forests, but nature still remains, look around… (and this piece wrote itself when I was driving home on the parkway tonight, right before exit 135 (clark) there is a body of water, a pond I suppose, not sure, but it is there, I would love to photograph it, or film it, but pulling over there would be dangerous, but it looks so alluring every day, it makes me smile, the sun setting over this little unknown body of water, regardless of what is going on in the world, there is windows there, thanks to nature, look through them for a little relief… the opportunities are there)
the veil.

the veil.

this self afflicted veil of darkness;
when the light hits these eyes, this skin.
emerging from my cave
I know the feeling, always have
the warming, the inner joy of temporary reprieve,
how soon my dna seems to forget however, so, waiver,
to slink back to that dying comfort
to the slow killing-
all paths lead to death
yes,
but would I rather know the land a bit more
before,
does such meandering matter,
perhaps not,
does that make me dig my own plot however
that much sooner.

I might rather then, burn my feet in the light
on that unforgiving exposed plot of sand
than reduce down into a heap of still dust
a huddled cold mass,
all that lies between, is will.

notes… maybe my thoughts are a diary, of my inner self, or not so inner, just my self… sometimes there is rain. “but it can’t rain all the time”…

scrape the sky…

scrape the sky…

so part of my daily commute is to pass over the snake hill bridge which gives me an excellent view of the NYC skyline, perhaps one of the most famous in the world I suppose, but when it is exposed out your window daily, the luster tends to wear off, I suppose the same can be said if you woke up in a Cairo high-rise and there are those silly triangles again, seems impossible but there is a truth worming around in there, in our nature, human nature, this morning though, the way the sky was, the way the clouds were stacked, nearly drawn, like a Bob Ross painting, happy little clouds perched perfectly in stacks that defied my ability for proper perception, for they ran nearly as far back and then met with the large fingers of the NYC skyline, so skyscrapers actually met, and touched the sky, there was interaction there in the outline, from the billowing white grey mass there were cracks, windows, doorways, and light was pouring through in direct beams as if directed by an unseen artist’s hand, like each cloud was trying to contain their own sun, like grabbing a light bulb with your palm, light does escape, just enough to highlight or even create the shadows that gave all this depth, when in the dense jungle that is the streets of NY, the massive buildings lose some majesty, just abother block, just another façade of windows and stone so many stories fold on fold, but from this distance the word skyscraper really feels at home, for the buildings literally rise up into the horizon, like mist covered mountains, rising from the ground up into the sky, seems almost impossible, not just a postcard, a backdrop of our human will to stand tall, and our arrogance to think this will last… but at least for now, our hand has touched the sky as one.

light.

light.

for the night never does truly escape the sun
there is only that veiled curtain drawn
the pause of night-
the time to sleep, between the exhale
then, the awakening of the dawn
that always comes
always, until, well, not.
but the sun is never vanquished
only turned from our eyes
for a time
forgotten
for a time
in the spin
gravity’s fond trick
holds our feet strong
humanity, tethered to the earth
the agreed bond of our birth
until that release-
when our sight may cease
as dawn becomes all days
and then all nights
become all, all light.

notes… this post is based on my last post, sort of… just musing on the same topic and really enjoying the music this time out, sometimes I get it right, even if only for myself, welcome to my world folks, your thoughts and comments are appreciated but not vital, this is my thing, just throwing my art onto the shores of the world, so let it be and let each other be well… trust me on that…

the strange comfort of tethered spinning

the strange comfort of tethered spinning

(stream of consciousness post, written in one swipe) perspective, the things we take for granted, no, the things we take for normal everyday reality, the sun rising and falling, when in fact this is not the case at all, but how often do we notice, is gravity cheating us or treating us? for there is no real night, there is just the lack of sun in our sight, as if we ducked underground into a cave for some hours, that would be more the real experience, if we were to have to force such things, in a land that did not spin, as ours does, with our feet tethered to this ground, to this earth, anchored in the crust-harbor of our birth, able to roam the globe but never truly escape the motion, the spin, the dance, the do-see-do of our solar system, an orbital religion for we have faith this will always remain, truly in our lifetimes this will not change, we have developed a whole circadian system surrounding this almost artificial circumstance, what if by chance the world was not a top? would we have all flocked to the light side or live on the marginal borders deciding when to indulge night? or perhaps odder still might some of our ancestors lost all sight, too live in the cool darkness of perpetual night, or would our eyes become accustomed to the slightest light, from other stars, and what of the moon? would that young sibling remain clipped at our hip in the same way, a moon rising and falling in a night sky, a mere reflection of the sun’s rays, would the heat of perpetual day force the oceans to sway, to bend and flow to where there is less ambient heat?
the non perception, that is in a way baffling to the logical me, how we are just used to this most unusual circumstance, hurtling through space, spinning, tethered by unknown bands to the sun and other planets, driving about, walking around, jumping, flying, lying down, but all the while in perpetual motion, even if I close my eyes I can not feel the sensation, but here I am sitting still at my desk, writing, but I am traveling right now – flying through space on a rotating clock, maybe that is the force that ages us, the same one that hold us close – prevents us from ever real rest, as I breath in one breath and out the next, my breath has traveled through space and time, I close my eyes and try to visualize the the trail, with each exhale, I think I can almost feel the motion now…

notes… and we are a spinning… what do you think ? did this piece at least make you sit and spin on your own thing ?