Thoughts… from the porch.

Thoughts… from the porch.

late autumn eve
not many a late november day I can stand outside in shorts, not that this is balmy weather but this is not the bite of winter, by all accounts a miserable day, stuck inside watching the rain, on call for work so I was distracted by customers rather than to dwell on the mopey grey of the day, only now, as I venture outside do I see the pools and puddles from passing mild storm, and, oddly, I am oddly enamored by the scene, the major maple trees are totally barren of leaves, but my japanese maple still boasts deep red extensions, framed against the heavens, well, framed against my porch light, there is no magical moonlight out tonight, so man made light will suffice (and does), as I look to the trees, the droplets reflect tiny colors into themselves, the gentle drip of remnants of rain collecting and falling to the ground, some decide to pay a more personal visit on my crown and shirt, I don’t mind, I listen for the sounds, there is the low hum of human din, almost like rushing water but less wild, a distant horn of a train, somehow always seems to complement the fog, this is not silence, no, there is a constant level of low noise, which in a way, is soothing, the occasional car wooshes up the street, headlights screaming against the whole backdrop, an unwanted interloper but only a momentary disruptor, back to that low hum, maybe it is the major roadway just there past the last street light, I can see the streaks like some particle collider speeding by, something like time lapse sped up film, a blur and still, I imagine if I would be more satisfied in the middle of some pasture, in the middle of veritable nowhere, but no, this will do fine, the home of my birth, the land my feet have known to walk, my eyes grown up on, my ears the familiar, and on the other side of the world, or universe someone else is taking the time to stand … and absorb in what it means to be home.

your. eyes.

your. eyes.

the trust of the eyes
of all our senses
the leader, the lenses
how we frame every still
how we film every scene
these portals
“might you be lying?”
a silent answer
a coy reprise
how would we know
if the very windows to our world
were in fact.

the last line is meant as a rhetorical question…

castle walls.

castle walls.

so do I? stand in the face of the inevi-tsunami, hold up the palm of my hand as if to stop the flow? the instinct, the urge to do so, seems to command me, should I build sand ramparts to the sky, each more impressive than before, only to see them withered and washed, once more, and will each stone of my bones be also ground down, into grains of sand, to use as future armament against future circumstance, or do I stand here, to be washed away, without a fight, without flight, swallowing whole just as jonah might? to what end is the struggle, to what end is the plight? even the most stalwart castle walls will fall, tunneled under, siege towered over, for there is no impenetrable dome or domain as to which I might be aware, but that gleaming dream still comes, still plants, still grows from false soil, or lying soil, or comforting ground, to germinate such foolish a child that might stand with such pride against the tide, from where does this hubris hide, for even fear will not subside, this futile task, to struggle against the vast, against any and all odds, as the house always wins, as ours falls, for just a glimpse perhaps, of our alabaster blinding walls, built with all the muster, the end written far long before done, but just the same, just the same we blaze forward for that brief moment in the sun… before we succumb.

notes… do you ever wonder if it is worth it? life? what else do we have? but the fight… and we all lose.. or do we? what is this hope that is still a lantern in the utter darkness for me? humanity? the will to live? the foolishness? the knowledge that given the vastness we (me and you) do exist… even for the briefest of moments… and a whole world is built around this…

adoption or adaptation

adoption or adaptation

maybe we don’t think of this often, but for some reason I have a clear mental picture in my mind at the moment, words that sound close, in proximity, perhaps even in deployment of use, but the differences, while subtle, can be miles between hills, in my mind this seems like a cosmic battle of luminescent bean bag chairs, adoption is almost like an amoeba, you are taking something in, almost akin to absorption, the forever change occurs within the mass and stays part of the whole, packing a suitcase for the journey forward…
adaptation? on another hand, is the outward reaction to a stimulus which changes you as well, you need not necessarily absorb the stimulus in entirety but rather bend your ways or grow to deal with the difference of reality, more like finding a nice wind breaker from llbean, this also carries forward with you, each of these altering your truth, but in a much varied way, the subtle shuffle of just a few letters in a word or situation, can be the determination of the path of survival or thriving or neither…

contemplation, on vacation, hurricane remnant

contemplation, on vacation, hurricane remnant

I can understand the stories,
the lore
here at the shore
when the wind howls like it does now
something beyond man
a power like that only of god
for what else could whip the seas
into a tempest
such as this?
such fury seems aimed
such fury seems personal
we need to aim animus to understand this
such as this
and somehow I am too enamored
hearing the wails of wind
and the crash of waves
like an other world orchestra
even if I understand the underpinnings of the stage…
no, there is still mystical corners
in our defined world
and so I wish to be a sailor
of the olden one.

https://www.facebook.com/100025033805573/videos/1083596298994671/

notes… so here I am, the remnants of a hurricane have come ashore here in south new jersey, cape may, no shortage of storms I am sure if she could tell me the stories, I have been through worse here, this one is now all wind, no rain anymore, wailing, constant wailing coming through my third room floor balcony, I have only my imagination to think of how this must have been ages ago, to hear that deafening wailing, on a ship in or on the shore on, I find it illuminating… fascinating… hypnotizing, and yet I can understand the fear such a wailing demon must have seemed back only a hundred years or so ago… really not that long… and I appreciate my station, to be able to be here to hear this, so I wish to recall this when I can, when I am in the throes of the doldrums of daily office life, to recall this moment, this sound, this experience and how tied I feel to the ocean right now, right here…

contemplation over a cup.

contemplation over a cup.

sometimes
there is nothing clearer
than having a cup of coffee
on what seems to be
the edge of everything.

notes: this is what popped in my noggin sipping a lumberjack espresso looking out on cape may harbor this morning. being at the edge of the ocean, is almost the same as being at the edge of space, at least with this getting older model vehicle, there is something ancient and infinite about the ocean… and maybe that is what draws me here, maybe that is the calm I feel here…

conjuration.

conjuration.

7 days.
conjure.
I wish I could conjure my every whim but would then boredom set in – after a time I surmise, would I want a clear blue sky every day? or would I miss the rain? how many blazing beach sun days in a row could I go? or would I miss the snow, the enviable snuggle of an old quilt and hot cocoa? would the tree leaves forever be green, I would leave some evergreen but would trigger a fall into colors that match the dawn, and then perhaps to see those branches bare, to see buds appear and grow into all fair shades of green again, and some days I might like to lie in-between the snow and sun, a harvest moon’s mission or the blooming march of tulips across the lawn, maybe I might even miss the roar of a thunder shower with powerful drops parading on the roof, drains over pouring like personal waterfalls, new rivers coursing through the streets, washing away the sweat and grime of the modern pavement mongers, temporary public pools with no dues forming for all the not so wildlife that calls my near home home, bird-s a bath, doe-s a nose, might I think to cycle through these things in some semblance of order, to create some semblance of order, some semblance of anticipation, some semblance of wonder – and create…

notes… if you might imagine… if you could imagine everything you wanted… all the time… where would that road take you?

observational (as I am known to do time to time)

observational (as I am known to do time to time)

driving along-
riverside park;
an old couple
I wonder-
if I will make it that far
or alone;
surrounded by leaves
yellow is the favorite color
of this autumn
so far.

(work brings me here)
(nyc)
(in passing)
(I do believe I am far but)
(and I fear this)
(the yellow was bursting)
(soon there will be nothing)
(in passing)

Contemplation… composition… hence the mission, earth to houston, me to houston… is there anybody out there ?