my mind wanders when driving.
driving.
lights bend in the fog
mailboxes flash reflect
thoughts wander
‘when might I see you again?’
around that next corner
around the bend
not likely
for you are dead.
I can only hope
that flame ignite
to immolate, yes, immolate this dread of passing.
one day, from then, then to seek
your light
a torch, so I might bear
lead me down some other path
and there
we shall meet again
and talk
of common times
in common tongues
in a new place
outside of time
how subtly we move down the long table, a feast with our family, different times of the year feel the same in here, time is somewhere peering in with jealous eyes. knowing at some point we will venture outside again, once small children (so I recall) are now here at the main table as adults grown up, their kids at the small one or running around, the parade of cousins, aunts, uncles and those married in moves on, the table has swelled all these years, I always knew, but never saw the subtraction coming as I do now, this soon, expected at some point, sure, but never on my side, in my direct row of chairs, a reckoning, for this is the way life is, I suppose we all hold onto untouchable belief, even in the sheer face of the inevitability, the reality, maybe we are fools but I would rather side on the side of belief against all and embrace that fool of myself, for what else can we do, pass the potatoes down and share a drink or two, a sliding moment of smiles, a flash of stories brought out like seasonal accouterments, as the actuality of the tales seem, and are, further off in the distance, for perhaps this is the time of my reckoning, at least as I slide chairs, as the elders inevitably become phantoms, one by one, some by some, so, all the more – stop and enjoy the spectacle, the pageant, the miracle, the banquet of life while the fruit is ripe, the buffet is vast and the glasses full, a moment to take in, as I approach the land of reckoning, not for myself, just yet, but I see, and feel, the coming of the sunset for the generation I am replacing in line next as I move toward the end of the table, may I carry such yoke with dignity and humanity – and love.
perhaps this is causality
and I am the casualty of-
the rain
a grey veil of gloom over
even silver linings wane
not some days
not all days
today, one of those lingering
an insidious thought invades, breaks the levy
‘I have nothing’
or feel that way
perhaps only because I ‘had’
I can not stop the swell, the surge
the rush back, a rampaging flood now converges
that a bound fist in my abdomen confirms
my eyes well,
we all want to travel back, to rewrite;
and we do, in a way, down that path, in our mind
but know, always know the foundation
the truth is in the earth, hands clench this
the cruelty of the steadiness of dirt
support of life and burial of the dead roots
as far reach as heaven, up into the air
roots buried, anchors, always, memories
a library, a curated collection
rows and rows of known, wanton forgotten
I am alone-
most days this is not a bother
some days a marker, a visitor, my own host
I scrape for false shelter
draw out the homilies on my lips
all the words I left out
a mantra to my burden
to wait out the storm and pretend some more.
note… to any new people (as I am seeing more traffic), hello you (waving), my work is off the cuff, one off, unless otherwise noted, perfect? no way man…. but I post it… and here it is… when I write the thing it is visceral, you get me facial, that’s all… and if you like it … great, if not, also great, I appreciate the read, the time, your eyes, thanks… we are existing right now at this time…. which is a miracle, billions of the years of the universe have brought us together… for corn dogs… well, er, at least that or more I hope, so all your comments, recipes, thoughts, coherent rants and advice for my garden – are appreciated. I am the bamboo whisperer… I tell ya…
for of a pauper
or from a prince
from a line of kings
or of a reign of khans;
that comes
that which speaks all languages
and none.
a last supper, perhaps
the thought had crossed my mind, after
father,
for all your faults
all the times I thought I knew better, still
my father;
meatloaf and corn
paper plate
fruit cup
struggling with the plastic fork,
as I must watch
the constant beep of various machines
trying to understand the strange menagerie
of this common foreign land,
meatloaf and corn
I ignore the bits upon your shirt
the dots of gravy
the unshaved look,
focus on just being here
visiting hours, for this is surely not home
there are different rules here
absolute rules here
for no matter who’s father
least not mine
in a bed
stranded, helpless, reduced
tubes, bruised skin arms
asking about the rutgers score
the masquerade of familiar
what of the outside can be brought in
drapes are the thinnest walls
the clock, sits, only the third hand seems to move
time is giving me more now
as forced conversations run out
then there is time
just the time to be
together, silently
for now,
father.
yet the laughter
of a playground chatter
of simple times
for summer’s early friend
has disappeared
and even the yolk of death
ousted for a child’s smile
of walking pets
in this backwoods
jungle gym of civilization
chalk scratchings underfoot
graffiti lines and tags color
notes… yeah, I am old school, metal head, rap, OG hip hop, classical, electronica, ambient, alt…. do I surprise you yet? nah… pay attention, I got all my kids in detention but pay attention they are all in attendance just they can’t all be present for this romance, so… I have walked the streets of suburbia, and I also know all the worst parts of most towns… not many people have my shared experience, I go from Bed-Stuy to the Upper West Side, from Toms River to Franklin Lakes, from Hazleton to Center City – hey PA, south bronx, got ya, people forget and lament, laurelton and the rock beach away, out of the reach of bay ridge… I travel all of it… (ahem, I really do…)
*and this one is staccato pace… the poem that is… just so you know, I do things in purpose, I am not some enigma, or a puzzle, is there layers ? sure… but for me I want at least some visceral before you start peeling the onion, so….. have at it. and thanks for any and all those who read me, I do appreciate your thoughts.
a stroke of sun
and there they went
with a brief brown beat
the little birds, a little flock
dash out from the relative safety
of the holly on my front lot
I can only imagine the flight response
a sudden skyward shadow thrown
an eclipse
grandeurs of gods
for as I look around
in this seeming ghost town
all there is are the survivors now
those who chose, like I
to winter in place
in this place
in the space afforded
where life has placed;
I imagine for a moment-
the beat of the sea
the rise and fall
for that is the heart
the proof the planet moves
through this universe
the breath
of the earth herself
and all the life contained there,
is there such a contentment
of a contended sigh
just now,
yes-
notes… another day, and things change, the world flips, I can only ride the waves, the better I get at it … the more I realize…. I am a novice, not a child anymore, there is too much to know, too much to explore, but what choice is there, but to go for it, take in as much, absorb until the sponge bursts, if it can, it it will, challenge the universe with your capacity, so I guess what I am trying to say, non-artfully, in my own way, take a ride – the wave is hope, if you catch it right, the crest, the feeling, the momentum is…
*thank you for your time, your eyes, any and all likes and gripes are always welcome, and appreciated, we are on this rock at the same time after all, and for some reason the universe brought us to this moment, all those billions of years culminated in this, trivial ? no… a miracle if you really contemplate such things…
and there, on the ground
I was not expecting you to appear
a ghost of oak and passed
a flash, lightning grasps the synapses
a bolt, a soul past
a page again revealed, open tome
and harken back, for she was alive then
there is nothing in this domain
no tree does remain near
no, this can not be here, not now, how?
nowhere in this cradle of maples exists
there was one but gone
the years, in creases
the sun, decreases,
the sin but to live longer than those loved
a traveler stained
tattered remains somehow stronger in the ruin
steel hardened under the constant cause of wounds
circumstance, fate
the great ghost oak awakens
the gateway, a marker
to this time of dying
so oak moon;
I know-
so oak moon;
I beseech you, I seek you
among the long of nights
for the respite of demise
may you grant wishes
upon, whisper
just whisper out, existence.
notes… sometimes the smallest things trigger a memory, this one in particular, I remember the day, much like today, not very remarkable, not very suitable, an early december rain, as I walked outside, I remember the crack, the flash, lightning arcing into that oak tree, the one that had always been, for at least my short life, FLASH! and the lightning arced out into the old basketball pole into the ground, the hair on my arms standing, the shock, well, the literal shock of being right there, seeing the death strike that killed that majestic old oak, and I remember her under that tree, and now all there is, is a patch of grass, not even a nice one, or uniform, many years have come and gone and the earth seems to hold the scar like my own, stump to root gone for so long now, but that little stretch of lawn, a scar, strange, maybe we are returned to dirt and something of us remains in that part, eventually it will all be plowed or something else, a street, a house, but for now, a reminder formed by the earth herself, and today, a subtle reminder brought in by a breeze, I literally do not see any oaks around but there was a singular leaf, a note, left there for me, and then these words came to be….
(for those new to my blog, welcome (and where ya’ been?), I write and post almost all in a whirl, off the cuff, the vast majority of what you will read here is done in one sitting, like I am doing now, flowing, that is how I do things, if you like? great, I appreciate your time, thanks.)
in the background “I wish you were here” is playing, somewhat muted from the other room, but such an easy sentiment, so true, and I do, looking out the sliding glass window door at a fall, well, the fall has happened, just the outlines, the bare bones of trees now, with giant lollipop tufts of leaves that the squirrels have devised and deployed as housing, not much camouflage now, not needed I guess, my the little buggers have grown quite fat, nearly falling off the limbs like overmatched wallendas, not the daring darters and dashers of just a few months past, a hawk is circling high above, but they pay no mind, I half expect to see a scene out of one of those wildlife documentaries, but nothing happens, just a feeling of stillness as I watch the outside world move about, a stiff breeze bends my bamboo halfway down, puddles have gathered where they decided to form a crowd, standing alone in the house, the colors are not dreary, just certainly not bright, every shade of brown imaginable, and wet bark, tends to be blackish, every once in a while there is a flash of bright color, a cardinal, or a bluejay will swoop in and steal my eye, but mostly the monotony of brown, I hear no sounds of the outside, just the song, and my mind…
“How I wish, how I wish you were here
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl year after year
Running over the same old ground, what have we found?
The same old fears, wish you were here”
I feel time flowing around me, like a standing ‘henge rock in a river, for at least a respite, before I am swept with the rest of it, I’m not sad, no, more of just empty, or deprived of what I once had, no blame, no anger, none of that matters now, never did but stole those moments anyway back then, those days, not today, for I am in the here now, regardless of good fate or bad, there is no turning back, just this pause, as I try to lose myself in the minutia of squirrels in their world, in my backyard, mine, at least for a time, a lifetime just a stitch in this quilt, if that much, deep breath the experience in, fading into my own pale reflection in the glass now, staring, at myself, no, through myself, no doubt, I am the sum of what stands here, maybe I won the argument, maybe I stood by principle, maybe I was right, maybe I was wrong, that has all washed away now, inside these bones the truth takes hold.
“So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell? Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change? Did you exchange
A walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?”
-fin, fade to gray
notes… the quotes are obviously from the Pink Floyd tune above… do I need to even say that? perhaps…. I don’t want to be accused of stealing things, those words are surely not mine, part of my post, and the inspiration, that they are.
Shades of My Garden 