path of gens. the road to fear.

path of gens. the road to fear.

woman in black long sleeve dress screaming
Photo by Rene Asmussen on Pexels.com

panic is like a little voice standing on the shoulders of worry, shouting, in a tiny voice but in a vast empty room filled with boom and echoes, spreading rumors, and birthing life to innuendos, your rational self whispers rational thoughts in a calming matter, no matter, that other voice shatters even the best firewall, at least in drips and drabs, and sometimes waterfalls, the dyke breaks and floods commence, all the while we hope for the best and know for the best that most of the worst will not commence, but for that certain uncertainty unleashed, growing, multiplying, hard to see or count those masses massing in shadow, panic does not thrive in light, dwelling and swelling in the comforts of night, undermine, underfoot, under your breath the words, take flight, but to where? is there a safe space, somewhere, no, shelter in place, any place, as safe as can be which seems like a threat space now, but how? just days ago things were peach, not a worry in the sky, not a cloud, now this breach, this worry, this agent of chaos raging, throbbing, pulsing beyond control, we will to shut it out but our only option now, wait it out…

Solar Cell…

Solar Cell…

left human hand photo
Photo by Jonas Ferlin on Pexels.com

a mist of rain, a touch of rain, a slap of rain, occasional buckets even, plain misery plastered across the sky, my eyes filled with blanket gray, the rain can not even find the courtesy of an even tempo to match my wipers, the constant refrain  (back and forth) and adjustment to meet the spray or drench, nothing in between this day, traffic, somehow rain melts brains or at least that is what my history tells me, and that day is today, red and blue flashing lights call attention to the shoulder, drastic go no where spastic lane changes ratchet up the morning tension, all in a hateful dance, jockeys trade for position, I can feel the sum dragging me down, pulling on me with the weight of one thousand times gravity into a grinding stone, the lack of coffee infusion is not helping either, but wait, a novelty, what if it is just me? am I simply allowing myself (lazy self) to drown in this morass of outward molasses? is my predicament really so dour and helpless? or am I letting myself set sail adrift in this madness?
a calm realization slips over my countenance… like sinking surrender into a soft comforter at the end of a long day…
how many hours have my limbs bathed and baked in the sun, taking in the warmth of the giving orb down to my bones, and perhaps even slipping into my soul, I decide to not be up that creek with no paddle, for certainly this is not a creek, and I need no paddle, probably just better analogies, but either way I stick my foot in the ground (so to say) and pick another route towards the fray, all that light, if memory serves right, I can feel it now, coming up to the surface from the remembrance layers below, beaming out from my epidermis a burgeoning glow, if I can absorb the light therefore I can radiate same out, in my mind’s eye I emit a subtle glow, growing, like young confidence zooming down the street without training wheels for the first time, I imagine being a source of light, a lantern, a beacon, for the outside world can not always control my experience, today, I choose this! to be light!

The Marvel Marble…

The Marvel Marble…

so behold, that bright marble, a miracle, just another globe in a pantheon of globes in a universe of spinning discs of light, glass encased perfectly situated ball locked in an invisible dance, trance, with a sun and her children spawn, in the outer regions of one tendril of a galaxy’s arm, all racing along a hidden path with purpose, the macro, from afar, a small blue dot winks on the horizon of the heliosphere, and zoomed in closer reveals, an ant colony scrambling about with seeming importance, unaware of perspective, distances so great that they can not be measured nor traveled yet we bustle about, about this marvel of a marble, and from the down here we look out, with our clever inventions and intentions, our human projections, so slight cast out into that great expanse, the art, the gallery of god, strewn across a canvas so massive we will never see the whole cloth, or even the fabric onto which this vision is projected, the strings, imperceptible stitches, the concepts, all tie time together and flow, we can not be alone, for just the ornaments on this holiday tree alone must have some sliver of this gift, this life, so many forms travel on just this little darling of a marvel, this fascinating rolling marble, suspended by magical natural forces, we take them all for granted as they blanket us in wonder, whether designed or natural happenings, the definitions of impossible are quite shattered by our mere presence, there must be more out there, if even we have not seen all the flavors on our own planet, the depths, the dark, the corners un-found or lost for generations, drowned in magma, locked in miles of ice unseen, how much has been before and how much more to come, we are but a footnote in the grand procession, the thrust, the flow, the river of life as branches, arms, reaching in every direction, even to dead ends and new beginnings, life carves through this valley forever changing the landscape as we ballroom dance swing around mother sun, destructive nuclear fire, that yet brings life and desire, our desire, to thrive, inhabit, love, all on this, the blue, marvel marble, floating endlessly in the sky, in space, a womb of the most precious thing of all, life.

“my mind can venture where my body can not”

contemplation…

contemplation…

asphalt dark dawn endless
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

stopping to listen to
the birds chatter
watching a car drive by
wondering how many more times
will I hear them
when I’m gone
to contemplate the patterns of branches
and the conversations of leaves
to figure only
even my own being,
so I listen, so I watch

notes: observational poetry, something I do, I pause often now just to look at the trees, or if there is water, water, there is just something about water that draws me, a lake, a pond, the ocean biggest of all, but nature, the core, we are tied in to it all, we all feel it but not always…. in our busy days, with our busy lives filled with things that have no real meaning… I am no different, I am caught in the same revision but it is just that, a distraction from what matters, if anything matters, structures, social structures, determine so many lives but that is the way it was and will ever be, and then all that out beyond ourselves, the sky, beyond, there is so much out there outside our snow globe…

the house unto which you are born…

the house unto which you are born…

two storey house with attic
Photo by Jeffrey Czum on Pexels.com

in this house of seven gables
my crown
I wear
three pair one
from these windows, these portals
there stares
the observer, the owner, the visitor
contemplating the street
the sun, the trees
sidewalks buckled under root
curbs so artfully formed
like molded cliffs
assessing the neighbors
all locked behind doors
dwellers in dwellings
seeking more
but just that fatal one step
one move
the other side, of that front door
to leave the confines
into only what was seen and filtered
not heard, tasted or felt
from within these membranes
these walls
that contain, and protect
one specific flavor
one specific intellect

notes… we are in our own prison, we have freedoms but at some point there is freedom from this form, and none of us know what that will be…

flashbacks, history, memories, reality…

flashbacks, history, memories, reality…

IMG_4811

the ice bucket

I’d almost forgotten you exist, buried back there, you probably have not seen the sun in a decade, the house is quite empty now, quite quiet indeed, no kids feet running rambling, glasses clanging, wine corks thunking, seltzer gurgling, conversations rising sometimes hanging, sports on the TV, pictures of kinders, munching on crackers and platters and dips, how many years has it been, those family get togethers were so common back then, thinking back they feel like a monthly occurrence even though they certainly were not, and certain things were always there to please the crowd, the cloth napkins, certain dishes and certain glassware laid out, the fold up tables from down stairs set up to accommodate the flood of thirty or so relatives, the extra folding metal chairs, stored in the back of the hall closet, black marker marks on the bottoms as to not be confused with the extras brought in, what a fiasco that would be, to lose a chair to a relative you are most certainly to see again, at least for a few more gatherings in that same year, this all seems so distant now, almost blurry, fuzzy, looking down at you my old friend, a companion, a contemporary, a holdover, a memory trigger, from that time ago, your place of prominence on the table, brimming with fresh made ice from the fridge, gleaming silver tongs just under your lid, like a functional centerpiece you did reign, where did this all go, where did everything go, I guess, we all succumb to age, and change, and the accustomed customs wind up out by the curb for pickup, someday, maybe this day, maybe not, you cleverly survived by hiding in the back recess of a cabinet barely touched or ventured in, but for what? a surprise, or just a ticket to a time gone by, people gone by, time that has moved on beyond usefulness, I think I might put you back, at least for a while, and maybe every now and again, might I seek you out, to trigger fond memories of lives and holidays of a by gone day, when I need a smile, to remember not just youth, to remember everyone at that time, as they were with my eyes as I was… like a child running around in a forest of trees to which one day I would grow up to be…

 

another quip…

another quip…

close up photo of assorted color of push pins on map
Photo by Aksonsat Uanthoeng on Pexels.com

“why do I seek objectivity
from perfect strangers
I know nothing of them
or their dangers”

notes… why do we seek comfort in the bed of strangers, minds I mean, get your head out of the gutter, ok, blame me on that one, my words lead you on, but we pin the tail on the donkey of expectations all the time, why?  we yearn for approval, as do I, just try, try and fail and then try and succeed, just believe in yourself, why ? simple… the universe has selected you, yes you, to be alive right now, and we share this space so I would appreciate some help in the matter, you won the universal lottery, think about it, all of the history of the universe… ALL of it, created you, reading this, if that is not amazing or a miracle, then show me one, OK, outside of pandas, koalas, and platypus… no fair on that count, I concede…

black-light footsteps…

black-light footsteps…

shoe prints
Photo by Linus Pettersson on Pexels.com

might all my steps, all since I have first roamed this earth, all my footprints, in hind new sight, become like glowing beacons under black-light, neon green pathways of where I have been, to see it all mapped out like that, a cartographer’s delight, a story, lines, paths crossing, intersecting, leading, tracing, back and forthing, the mundane, the unusual, the one timers, the two timers, the everyday worn down trails, what patterns they might reveal, the common or the familiar, pointing to family, friends and perhaps strangers, cousins or a dog park, the beach or just a long walk, meandering, spinning in the rain, peeking around a corner to spot a local deer, or standing quite still as the baby jack rabbit passes slowly, how many miles all these years, and I have never changed the oil, surely I am overdue, but I guess when I am due the engine is over, how many roads have I traveled, how many vistas toward have these feet drawn my form, all these neon zig-zags all over the floor, I wonder if some wonderful pattern might appear, a talisman, a mandala, some secret ancient symbol I have been drawing all these years without knowing, and then I might pull back, and rise up to the sky, looking down and seeing my creation from way up high, and the humbleness that will imply, as I see only over a few states my pattern’s eye, how much larger the world, or just this land is than I, I whisk the globe with my hand spin, seeing witness to all the lands, I have not been, and might never not be, the seas, I imagine walking the equator once round, just for the story, and back down, gently back to my grounded self consciousness, and look around, and up, no trace of me in the sky, one day I think, maybe, one day… I might become a constellation…

notes… one of those things that just came to me, and you don’t believe in inspiration ? you silly thing, what causes it, what moves it, what moves us… strangely, we have no idea, why does art exist ? what is the point? it does not feed babies, it does not raise cattle.. but yet… it persists… and always has, so the canvas, is the universe…

 

location, nature, all these things… what else do you expect of me…

location, nature, all these things… what else do you expect of me…

this was inspired here but my experience was this… the rest, well you can fill in for yourself, as I expect you would…

upon opperman’s pond
beauty beyond beauty be
snow worn on trees
witness, jury, frozen pond
the slow captured still photo
a face of ice
milky glass window
outlined with banks of snow
halted in the cold
what now sleeps below
forever within this hibernation dirge
there remains a joy
the indomitable force of life
rejoice