I must admit, I find a touch of solace (or wonder?) watching the milk bloom in my morning coffee, almost like experiencing the genesis of clouds in my own privately owned weather globe, until of course it becomes amorphous, which is only merely a few moments, but then stage two, caffeine kicks in… the phone is ringing, there goes the moment, back to ‘important‘ matters… (sigh)
escaping the indoor sounds
for I am not truly escaping all human sounds, there is the occasional car, or neighbor walking their dog yammering on their phone, but much better than the din within the walls, of TVs with sports, a washing machine sanitizing dishes already clean, a dryer tumbling more coins than clothes, a phone ringing out loud with scams, for some reason, just tonight, an avalanche fell on the roadside of my mind, it all just became too much, too loud, maybe salvation resides in the mundane, taking out the sunday night garbage to the curb for pickup, a ritual that keeps you in line in your time frame prescribed, that even keel, how after days and nights of pouring 90s, how 70 degrees feels, so slight, the night crickets are not as loud as on those humid horrors, the swarming mosquito lions of this savanna are not as blood-thirsty, they even ask for reservations to dine, or so I imagine their disposition, there is a steady silent breeze, everything, everything is in motion, but calm, subtle undulation, as if receiving a gentle neck massage from ethereal unseen fingers, this is one of those moments I wish I could wrap up and hide, save for a more dire time, is this perfection? surely not, but much closer in that direction than the bulk of my days so far…
this scene, a trigger, to make me breathe in deeper to capacity and past, to smell and taste and tap the very essence of now, all the plants seem relaxed in this bath, a return from a desert to a meadow, from far pendulum swing to the middle, I wish I could transfer all humanity into my now, the sweeping deep calm of this moment, like being held afloat by a warm loving ocean without any worry, worldly concerns left at the door behind me, just listening, listening, escaping the indoor sounds, for now.
part of my porch series that will continue as long as I do…
a hand written note found on scene:
“for have I traded honor in for fame
even an ounce
what I thought was binding my life was actually blinding
for have I renounced honor for fame
the adulation
the kiss
the instant opinion on the lips of those who do not know me
the adoration
the adulation
a drug, the addiction
but a tool I might have used
to carve a statue
instead of a tomb.
(and so I leave you, gifted all of a life’s single bounty, cashed in – with regret, so I leave you early now without that kiss)“
notes… I will be tight lipped on this one, there is a lot going on and a lot of inferences (catch them? show me)… but the original thrust was just the crown of fame be that as it may… who among us is better than the highest or the lowest?
the lady in waiting, trade in a life for the dream, so clear, a portrayal of all love inside a movie scene, i always thought it would be you, a quiet painted green wooden porch, the type of porch that encompasses all around the house, peeling paint on all the edges of door and window frames, buckled from years of the seasons beatings, a backdrop to all the reasons, the creaking rocker swing, and there we are, looking out at a long field of green grasses, something like a farm, harmonized by the subtle magic of the grass swaying, for a jersey boy a strange thought perhaps, maybe this is some sort of rockwell archetype (or hummel) etched in me somewhere at my core, a typical apple pie american bucolic scene, and my mind shifts…
maybe the shore, the ocean, the beach with no one else around, the gulls sounds across the dunes, I suppose miles of swaying grass resembles the sea after all, the same calming feeling ensues, wind waves undulating on, perhaps she waits there for me, or am I waiting for her to arrive, here at, the sunset of our lives, a sun sinks below into the depths, seagulls become just black angle angels hovering against the glow, tired and quiet now, there is just the sound of the waves break, the pulse, the true deep heartbeat of the earth herself, and your hand, I can feel the warmth from what blood is left, our eyes locked out to the seascape, as if we are one, and we are, because that is what I wish this to be, my lady in waiting, my love, I will come for thee, if I have to cross the face of god or the scour the body of the universe – for you, I will, I will come, to spend those last moments with you – as one, I will walk barefoot across the surface of the sun, burn all that remains save my soul for the return, for I will journey on, until, I am once more with you, my love, my lady in waiting.
reliable light switch,
always in reach
on and off,
like the sun’s daily ride,
always in reach
on and off,
one day the bulb flickers
causes a moment pause,
always in reach
on and off,
some years later flickers again
and then just off,
reliable light switch
forever gone.
notes: I was on my exercise bike and this came to me as one of my basement lights went out, sure, it was flickering, it was on for so many years, and flickered on occasion, and then was out completely… you do the math, if you know what I mean, there is more to this poem internally as well if you unpack it visually…
childless
lifeless
stuck on this rock alone
with none of my likeness
notes: often said, probably by me to make myself feel ok, “you need a license to drive a car but not have a kid”… true enough, there is truth in there, but in a way it is also a shield, there are days I wonder about such things, kids, that I might never have them, I have such a hyper tense apprehension that I need to provide perfection that there is trepidation in that arena, the burden of bringing a life into being is so daunting, that I want to be prepared, maybe too much so, and then I see those that have kids almost haphazard, even in my immediate circle, and just wonder, I just have such a deep respect for life and the creation of same that I would want to be ready as possible to support that choice… and maybe that has bottled me up some, regardless of where you are, having kids is a walk on the tight rope, there is no book (sorry Dr Spock), there are no rules, or easy path… like all things rewarding I imagine it is quite hard, and should be, but I do see those who kind of just have kids without any thoughts like I am laying out… and wonder if I am wrong, because having a kid early on, all those years you can be parallels, I am not quite past the parental age, especially these days, and perhaps I must admit, maybe I have been wrong, or would be wrong, and there is also the selfish imposition to further my DNA position down the line, that is part of it right? at some level (baseline mammal) we want to survive, even at the base level of genetic code that itch exposed, so some future search will find a feather (or whatever) and see my name, great great grandpa Dave, I am an adopted child, my dearest ex came from a bad family mix… we never considered it when we were both in our early twenties… was it a mistake? she was the only woman I ever considered as the mother of my children and the subject was off topic… so strange to boil this what if, so damn strange.
slow the moon
slumber the night
summer night
august swoon
the air is sweating out from under my skin
the mosquitoes are quite in love,
enamored in mood, feasting on blood
drinking up the night fill on through
an uncaring host
no tail to swat
no care to move
for my backyard is no bayou
no beasts are lurking there,
parched lips
brown bottle
cold sip of beer nearly satisfies,
baking on the other side of the sun
direction under the moon’s eye
kept from sleep and dream
invisible mist heavy surrounds
gravity in shackles
down to the ground
I melt into my chair
into the scene
bring me rest, being me sleep
my flesh weeps into the air
the romance of being lost at sea
this seems almost un-conceivable these days, but it still happens, a little vessel out there with a lone inhabitant, far from any home or harbor, and aside from the starvation I might admire, or envy such a ride, at least in my mind, drifting, in no general direction, or at least the perception, at the whim of nature completely, as we pretend not to be here on terra firma, but truly adrift, to admire the marine life that might approach, I wonder if I could, or should, start a company that promotes such travel, a shipwreck in style, the capsized life for a boatload of dough, of course sans the starvation and wilson ball (and perhaps the extra facial hair – maybe that is negotiable), there would have to be some ground rules though of course, no internet, nope, no way, no cell phone, GPS phone just for emergencies, some sort of solar power array for lights at night and storage of foodstuffs, no grey poupon, fishing gear yes, I wonder if currents can be planned out upon, like certain times of the year for a near perfect route, now this sounds more like a headache the more I think about it, but to make it safe, maybe that would draw the allure out of it all anyway, the fear, the danger, the chance that you are not found at all, how could you capture that all? hmmm… a desert island might be a better control option, but there is just something mesmerizing to me, to be out to sea, just drifting, no control, hoping for a chat with a dolphin, or the moon laddered toward me across the water at night, of course avoiding the teeth and fury of any storm, just floating along like a kite where the wind may take you pulling that string of yarn… there is peace in that lack of control, if only you can let go…
…but imagine the pageantry, lying on your back, a conjured perfect pillow propping up your noggin, just you, your mind and the night sky, not a soul in sight, stars almost close enough to pluck right out like buttons, you have the time to count and name them all if you wish, concoct your own constellations, draft your own lines between, drifting along in the vast swell like you are your own little galaxy, riding – the subtle waves up and down in inches, the calming sound as each beat gently raps your vessel, and your hand which is dangling just breaking the water surface, nothing to control, nothing around, nothing to worry about, nothing but everything to contemplate, perhaps the sound of deep distant dreaming whales singing a song your subconscious can sing along and also answer, exhale, just a dot on the great wide water of the earth, for me this is truly an intoxicating dream… but aren’t nearly all impossible things… ? … ?
damn the heat, sitting here, stewing like potted meat, my legs are pincushions, feeding stations, they look like shot up road signs in rural locations (for those unfamiliar there is a tradition of shooting at signs out in the sticks, hey it can be boring out there), but I want to soak in the last lines of light tonight anyway, knowing (well always hoping) that the next day will come, but I certainly do not want to let this one go, not yet, sticking to shade today did not dissuade the helter swelter, but the recent tropical storm left a mess, nothing major thanks, but still lots of limbs and branches to gather once I cleared the obvious big ones post event, and yet other ones to cull and cut, I’m not a professional landscaper but perhaps I could play one on TV, probably not a good idea for a TV show, not even on DYI network now that I think about it, so there I was melting, as the summer sun can do to you, even by convection baking, taking my time, stopping for breaks, wondering why my water did not get cold enough so I put a bottle in the freezer, sure to forget and find an ice block later, but then, in moments gathered, like a sponge realizing it’s purpose, akin to soaking in, I would stand there in the middle of my driveway, lookup skyward high, and admire the immediate warmth I could focus, staring at the sun directly with my eyes quite closed, but I can still see that heat seeking globe, more orange and red penetrating through my downed garage door eyelids, how good the warmth feels, like getting near a fire just close enough, just far enough, to not be burnt, that satisfying glow, as all your outer layer is exposed and rises, at first from outer and then from the inside, reflection of radiation radiating, pulsing, like a breath exchange, in and out – in and out, like symmetrical twin-couplet waves never crashing just as if a buoy on the eternal ocean rising and falling in perfect calm increments, breathing up and down, the warming sensation on my face until I sense the intensity nearing a red line, or a burn, so I turn and go back about my business, or nonsense, somewhat satisfied, charged, with light, and the warmth that has fueled life itself, I sweat more in the toil in the shade than in that moment, and the energy is drained, quickly, little twinges in my back, here and there, remind me of my age, my limits, I’m not confined to ancient stock, not yet, but perhaps closer to that than the indomitable spirit of childhood or even early manhood, the middle ages were not the best times for man, perhaps this is true for now, for me, who knows, I can only be me, anything else would be delusion, although many might have tried that particular path myself included, but today I am just me, sitting here, worldly duties fulfilled, the silent and not so contract with my neighbors filled (property values are an underlying strong current in this urban sport), my prize, sitting for a moment to glare off at the fire bitten clouds, watch the sun slowly sink down, the week’s end, back to the grind of work in the morning, but I must remain armed, armed with these soft moments, energy spent, sweat, sweat around my neck and down my back, all sorts of the insect world half bent at taking turns at my epidermal spigot, so I let them have at it, maybe I will itch to a bleed later, but for now, I just want to sip in this sun, the fading rays of waning summer days, for they are life, best to charge up now when things are bright, like the land, to be ripe in fall and be prepared to sleep and dream of days, days like this when the sun draws into the night and the cold, the cold is just a tale on days like this.
notes: part of my porch series ya’ silly goose, it varies by times of year of course….
now writing this after the event, I am unclear, was this a dream, a hallucination? something other? of that I am now unsure, but in the moment everything seemed as real as a pinch in a dream might, as best I recall, but this is the next morning after all so I can not be nailed down to the details, however they might seem…
the scene:
nearly 2am on a summer night, hazy, street lights suspended in the humid air, hanging there like diffused cones, not exactly romantic, I know, I had to venture out to my car to put a couple of things in so I would not forget in the whirlwind of morning when I am surely not at my sharpest, especially before the coffee kicks in, the whole street seems blurred, mired in the dampness and lingering heat, almost like the reception of my eyes was off a bit, I scanned around like I always would, sometimes I spot a fox, or other things that go hump in the night, but tonight, about three houses down, something, surely a four legged thing, as best I could discern a deer, perhaps with antlers, I’m not sure, the form is also hazy like the whole lot of the world right now, I raise my phone up, pop on the flashlight app so cleverly in there, held up like a torch but not as bright, at least not on this night, the damn light is trapped in the infernal mist that is shrouding my sure identification, I swear the thing is looking at me, is it a deer? by itself, this late? I see them all the time, the local pack I mean, I know their work hours… and this ain’t one, my mind races to identify for certain, some fear has snuck back stage, coyotes have been spotted in the area and who knows, at this distance roughly could be the size I suppose, probably I am over thinking, but what throws my mind, the color seems off, for any creature of this earth, aside from a polar bear, which this certainly is not, I approach slowly, with caution, my flashlight phone is really doing nothing to help, and still the ‘deer’ stares right at me locked, surely my stealth is anything but, I hear no sounds, not even my own breathing but the white deer is aware of me anyway, as I am aware of it, just staring, the only two beings of the hour in a standoff, except I am approaching, these are my broken-in shoes, worn down like thrift store blue jeans for sale, walking in velvet, no sound, and I inch forward, I swear the thing has a glow to it, I can not describe it, except it exists in a mist, in it’s own atmosphere, the haze that is an occupying force, this night, I sense it might take flight, so I slowly, surely, lower the phone, activate the camera, get ready for the shot, somehow it knows, it looks forward once, and then back at me as to signal, I press the button, FLASH, hah, I must have captured it, for it is gone from view in the next instant, I hurriedly check my photos, nothing… nothing? this was a long few minutes of pulse to come up without a fish, there was something there! I swear! I check again, and there is a faint outline perhaps, a phantom’s trace maybe, and the more I recollect the white deer, bounced like a light-beam pinball behind the neighbor’s house, so fast, grease lightning, a trick of the mind? a trap of the haze? there were rumors that these parts were a farm long ago, I remember seeing a ghost chicken run under the car as a small child, but that was so long ago as to seem like a made up memory, I begin to wonder, and I look at my phone again, there was something there, an aftermath, a remnant, so what were you? the white deer.
Shades of My Garden 