there- ! storm clouds a’ gathering
o’er the grave- of my brave- dead king
pray-tell, what portents, will this bring
more dead wars-
more dead kings.
notes… sometimes I don’t know from where it comes (inspiration that is), I was passing a cemetery, not as old as the country, much older than years I can know by touch… and the words just popped into my head, the idea of a surviving warrior, longing for former glory but also realizing the horror…
“a hope of light”
and reminders, signs, talismans, so obvious as to be screaming whispers vibrating in obedient corners, all there – hidden in the plainest of sight, a hope of light…
as today I was a wheelbarrow more than a man, drawn out like a mule, to drag payloads back and forth, never in balance like once was new, and gravity has a way of multiplying the trade pay, the yoke, the wear, and there is less lubrication these days between the ground pounding and my bearings, even I would admit the tread is worn from sun and toil, but I would argue there is still good rubber there, but after the day the wheelbarrow must go back in storage, to the garage home, bringing dings, dirt and memories caked on, reminded, nothing is ever new again once out of the box, certainly not now these years of use altered… so arrives home…
the patience I might have left the house with a full tank, that has now been spent, every inch of me ready to pounce at every little non-event, of words, of even good intent, even though I know, I am a porcupine wound, can’t everyone just see, just read, the glaring signs, and make no sound, shall I pass by, until at least I may come on down, or let the tension un-bound, I manage not to wreck the crew… somehow…
so, not wanting to tie myself into a fight or fits, I park myself outside, look upward for some guidance, to what is left of the fleeting day sky, and to be entranced by – the hope of light, that promise, the next morning, another glory yearning, and the next, until there is none, the rest seems to slip away, the tension locked in my jaw starts to fade, the pressure in my temples begins to contract, a breeze comes along to rest on my cheek, a family of deer creep along my yard, unaware of me being disarmed, for maybe a minute ago they might have sensed the will of a frothing hunter out for blood, but that base urge has melted down and gone, replaced with thankful tranquility, a cure for humanity, or perhaps just the elixir to wash away the non-humanity we engage in every day, so I bathe in – a hope of light…
caught-in between
this was not a day of summer, this was not a day of spring, this is not a day of well, anything… like a dew drop in a spider’s web, a captive but not the intention, I can see the trees swaying to a breeze that seems to be ignoring me, as if I am not here, as if I didn’t matter, or I didn’t get the part to this play, or a ticket to the audience even, like watching a performance in an aquarium, all the action on one side of the glass, not the one I’m on, the sky, no the sky to the ground, the air herself has been grey all day, not a hope, not a peek, not a sliver of anything other than, a stagnant lukewarm humidity hangs like a mildewed coat on a nail in a dingy forgotten corner of the garage, stale, not sure if this is drizzle, or just fog a little more organized, waiting for the break, rain or shine, but none comes, not a promise or even a hint, a rut, somewhere-in between, the day drags as hours run backwards toward dawn, for eve and morn seem one long sordid line, is this lunch or dinner time? am I vain? or a vane of the weather, a bell-weather, drawn into the consciousness of this local universe I call my locale, my home, my square yard carved out, my dome, this globe, a drone, and I am lulled into the zone, so many things to do, of such little importance, but the engine must go on, so I am told, by some soothsayer or taskmaster inside my soul, for even optimism sometimes spills a glass, milk perhaps, not to shed a tear but to prove a point over a pint, lacrimonius harmony, so here I am feeling yet left outside of all but clearly in the web – like a ad-hoc-hammock for those passing through…
notes… the photo is mine, proof positive you need to pause at times, this morning was strange, and the day, as I said, but I allowed my eye, or the world hooked me, to see the webs catching dew just outside my front door, a walk I take at least two times a day or mostly more, so today, I did not look for the spiders, because why? I know they are there by the traps they provide…
a thing I do from time to time… just snippets or things I never finished, I always intended to finish, but I am a creature of the moment usually so I do not go back, maybe I will… nah, probably not, so here is some snippets, do with them what you will.. my orphans, take care of them in your head…
(1)
erotic patterns
curves
sultry lines drawn in sand
a back, a palm
by the hands of wind
sliding across the mounds
silently caressing grain by grain
(2)
the psalms of wind
and the homilies of wings
I really like (2)… now, I have to admit it has nothing to do with (1) except me posting them together, and in a weird way it makes sense together… but they were just scraps, but who knows? maybe this is what the universe wanted to impose, and so it is.. because it has happened, am I getting to vague ?
“Birds chatter of Wisdom“
birds chatter of wisdom
and sing unto that praise
onto that human ear
which what might capture
the image-a-glimpse caught in the sounds of their clamor,
the leaves bend and sway choruses in that speaking breeze
and drop fruit with what to consume knowledge
to raise up creation for a caravan of local nomads,
the seed holds and germinates within new-form hands
delivered, is enlightened in the new birth, (from that attachment)
the words of speech empower the subtleties of voice
saving from that mire that which doth spurn,
and lay down the foundation in may
build yet a union to be spoken of and carried
out far upon sailed that common wave
out into the world as the prosperous evolution
freedom of expression
freedom of expiration,
and so are we
as the birds chatter of wisdom.
notes… this is a re-work of an old work, something I don’t generally do… but there are no steadfast rules here, so this transformed, in my mind, to something else… this.
may I stay
and sway
forever, in the lands beyond
like a frond
of a perfect palm
hand drawn
stark outline
in the setting sun,
shadow on sand
dancing,
to the gentle song
of the waves
sliding,
into the shore.
notes… if, no when, I go to sleep, for in this life, I wish to be on the shore, water is the force of life, and I want to be at that shore for all time, if I can be, or least that is my dream… I hope this work conveys that sentiment, for it is my sentiment before I become sediment for I will… all my love, all my consciousness will be transferred to that, that golden shore, of my dreams, and so will I be, for the immediate eternity, a dream along the beach, so I hope, so I dream….
dear, my dear
born again?
must be september
but I can not seem to remember
musket balls to remote controls
I will not swear fealty to cross that moat
nor believe the stories you untold
over brook and crooked back
banish me then
from your impossible lands
where to tell time I had to face
the dire clock’s of dali laced
no, no mad hatter for me then
I’d rather fare the lion’s den
so I might now
exit stage right
(to all a bow
to all a good night)
notes… my notes, have this as “jumble” because… well, if you are privy to me I would say it is obvious… but I always am speaking on many levels… well, ok, often is a better description of assumption, this one has levels to it, I am referencing things in nearly every line, I do that often but not always, see how I can weave a maze of my own post? that’s fun for me, words, thoughts, a playground in which I bound about like a kangaroo hopped up on speed, g’day mate let me kick you in the face like a joey in rage… man I need to cut back the caffeine … or not…
the trees of lynnwood road
old photos reveal saplings – carefully planted
a family yard laid out in planning
a landscape of new houses for miles eyes,
the generation that planted them
nearly gone,
and mine, surely not many decades to go
but they will remain
the trees of lynnwood road
“how time passes differently from man to tree to moon, from the near eternity to the nearer soon“
notes… lynwood road is where I grew up, probably not where I will die but a good a place as any… sine my father died I have been going through his things, and old photos, seeing the neighborhood in it’s original form and all… houses like homesteads dotting the plots, all equal apart, trees tied down because they were so young, one flood or storm and they would be done, now it all seems so familiar, because, well this is, they know me and I know them…. we don’t talk, we never did, but we understand each other just the same…
“by the time we figure everything out, we’re dead
maybe time is meant for living
so it’s time to forgo the figuring“
so perhaps I am guilty as most, or maybe it is the way I am wired… I just over think everything, but how do I overcome my own nature? I guess we are all in that box, that conundrum… but we must, we must break free of our own mental bonds, does it matter in the long run ? probably not, but I would rather go for it if possible, to imagine the impossible for me personally… I’m trying, certainly before I am dying, maybe it will amount to nothing but damn I want to make an attempt at the exploration….
can it be all blue skies?
so dare I dream, and even consider such things, to know better, but wanting to forget that sentiment in the all-together, even if in the temporary transmission of that delusion, there I may seek to dwell, my perfect self, my perfect body, my perfect mind – all aligned, even if for a brief-breath, can whisk me away to dream land, a sunset over easy on the ocean, the temperature just right, the kiss of the sun just warming on cheek, water curling up on toes just cooling on feet perched in soft moist sand, for a minute for a mile, might I stretch into this thought island of mine, a breeze that wraps all around, not a sound but the steady heartbeat of soft fading waves slipping into the shoreline as far as this mind’s eye can see, to this blue sky, a photograph, to live in, to escape to, a postcard never mailed far from my soul, a destination for only me to know, held inside those most inner gates, an escape, from the every day, in plain sight, might I take this flight, to regain the trust, my trust, in the beauty of this world, unfurled, a collection learned from reality, to build brick by brick this fantasy, so may I endure and stay a minute more...
