cast away.

cast away.

the waning late summer sun
resting on the face
of a golden still pond
this- is- calm… (pause; inhale… hold… hold… exhale…)
“pinch me my darling,
for surely I travel in the realm of dream”
but no, a sweet captive
of the great blue marble
cast out upon the blackest sea.

notes.. and never forget, we are all on the miracle ball, sure, other life is probably out there but hey, for all we know right now we might be alone, and this is the gift of our home, the goldilocks zone, this wonderful place, even the grittiest corners are better than the alternative but we should strive to bring light to all… at least that is what I see when I catch a quick reflection of a sunset in a pond off the parkway on the way home, horrid traffic, angry drivers, asphalt plows that have flattened forests, but nature still remains, look around… (and this piece wrote itself when I was driving home on the parkway tonight, right before exit 135 (clark) there is a body of water, a pond I suppose, not sure, but it is there, I would love to photograph it, or film it, but pulling over there would be dangerous, but it looks so alluring every day, it makes me smile, the sun setting over this little unknown body of water, regardless of what is going on in the world, there is windows there, thanks to nature, look through them for a little relief… the opportunities are there)
the veil.

the veil.

this self afflicted veil of darkness;
when the light hits these eyes, this skin.
emerging from my cave
I know the feeling, always have
the warming, the inner joy of temporary reprieve,
how soon my dna seems to forget however, so, waiver,
to slink back to that dying comfort
to the slow killing-
all paths lead to death
yes,
but would I rather know the land a bit more
before,
does such meandering matter,
perhaps not,
does that make me dig my own plot however
that much sooner.

I might rather then, burn my feet in the light
on that unforgiving exposed plot of sand
than reduce down into a heap of still dust
a huddled cold mass,
all that lies between, is will.

notes… maybe my thoughts are a diary, of my inner self, or not so inner, just my self… sometimes there is rain. “but it can’t rain all the time”…

scrape the sky…

scrape the sky…

so part of my daily commute is to pass over the snake hill bridge which gives me an excellent view of the NYC skyline, perhaps one of the most famous in the world I suppose, but when it is exposed out your window daily, the luster tends to wear off, I suppose the same can be said if you woke up in a Cairo high-rise and there are those silly triangles again, seems impossible but there is a truth worming around in there, in our nature, human nature, this morning though, the way the sky was, the way the clouds were stacked, nearly drawn, like a Bob Ross painting, happy little clouds perched perfectly in stacks that defied my ability for proper perception, for they ran nearly as far back and then met with the large fingers of the NYC skyline, so skyscrapers actually met, and touched the sky, there was interaction there in the outline, from the billowing white grey mass there were cracks, windows, doorways, and light was pouring through in direct beams as if directed by an unseen artist’s hand, like each cloud was trying to contain their own sun, like grabbing a light bulb with your palm, light does escape, just enough to highlight or even create the shadows that gave all this depth, when in the dense jungle that is the streets of NY, the massive buildings lose some majesty, just abother block, just another façade of windows and stone so many stories fold on fold, but from this distance the word skyscraper really feels at home, for the buildings literally rise up into the horizon, like mist covered mountains, rising from the ground up into the sky, seems almost impossible, not just a postcard, a backdrop of our human will to stand tall, and our arrogance to think this will last… but at least for now, our hand has touched the sky as one.

light.

light.

for the night never does truly escape the sun
there is only that veiled curtain drawn
the pause of night-
the time to sleep, between the exhale
then, the awakening of the dawn
that always comes
always, until, well, not.
but the sun is never vanquished
only turned from our eyes
for a time
forgotten
for a time
in the spin
gravity’s fond trick
holds our feet strong
humanity, tethered to the earth
the agreed bond of our birth
until that release-
when our sight may cease
as dawn becomes all days
and then all nights
become all, all light.

notes… this post is based on my last post, sort of… just musing on the same topic and really enjoying the music this time out, sometimes I get it right, even if only for myself, welcome to my world folks, your thoughts and comments are appreciated but not vital, this is my thing, just throwing my art onto the shores of the world, so let it be and let each other be well… trust me on that…

the strange comfort of tethered spinning

the strange comfort of tethered spinning

(stream of consciousness post, written in one swipe) perspective, the things we take for granted, no, the things we take for normal everyday reality, the sun rising and falling, when in fact this is not the case at all, but how often do we notice, is gravity cheating us or treating us? for there is no real night, there is just the lack of sun in our sight, as if we ducked underground into a cave for some hours, that would be more the real experience, if we were to have to force such things, in a land that did not spin, as ours does, with our feet tethered to this ground, to this earth, anchored in the crust-harbor of our birth, able to roam the globe but never truly escape the motion, the spin, the dance, the do-see-do of our solar system, an orbital religion for we have faith this will always remain, truly in our lifetimes this will not change, we have developed a whole circadian system surrounding this almost artificial circumstance, what if by chance the world was not a top? would we have all flocked to the light side or live on the marginal borders deciding when to indulge night? or perhaps odder still might some of our ancestors lost all sight, too live in the cool darkness of perpetual night, or would our eyes become accustomed to the slightest light, from other stars, and what of the moon? would that young sibling remain clipped at our hip in the same way, a moon rising and falling in a night sky, a mere reflection of the sun’s rays, would the heat of perpetual day force the oceans to sway, to bend and flow to where there is less ambient heat?
the non perception, that is in a way baffling to the logical me, how we are just used to this most unusual circumstance, hurtling through space, spinning, tethered by unknown bands to the sun and other planets, driving about, walking around, jumping, flying, lying down, but all the while in perpetual motion, even if I close my eyes I can not feel the sensation, but here I am sitting still at my desk, writing, but I am traveling right now – flying through space on a rotating clock, maybe that is the force that ages us, the same one that hold us close – prevents us from ever real rest, as I breath in one breath and out the next, my breath has traveled through space and time, I close my eyes and try to visualize the the trail, with each exhale, I think I can almost feel the motion now…

notes… and we are a spinning… what do you think ? did this piece at least make you sit and spin on your own thing ?
Neptune (the mystic)

Neptune (the mystic)

a hesitation, if there is
before the moment
‘too soon, too soon’
but the blue tone comforts in
surely at the end
when faced with the reality
and all horror falls away
when faced with the certainty
and all doubt fades away;
if only, we could recall the singular moment of our birth
that first light on first eyes from the emergence
a transition from womb-night to this waking dawn
and here with this-
the mystic
the last stop for us to visit
in this instance
not too soon, in fact as meant
not pre-ordained but locked in the hand
there is no struggle
or even if there were
to lay eyes on the mystic
for one grand last time
and give thanks for time passed.

notes.. I post as I write, rarely do I edit my work, so it is not as perfect as I would like…. so neither am I… so enjoy, or not, either outcome is fine, all thoughts are welcome, I post the art for eyes, let them pry let them gauge.

on the hollow.

on the hollow.

on the hollow steps of ghosts am I
wondering if my part in this play remains
even in this spotlight life-
as a dandelion seed
cast up-out upon the winds
seeing, fortunes rise and fall
great, empires crest into decay
so I may –
wondering if my played part remains
never touching the ground to fully sprout
nor meant to be
regardless of this known form on out
spawn cast out among the living sea (of air)
leaving no discernable trail
nor chapters verse
hardly laid a mark upon
for that seems to be the course
for that seems to be my curse
steered by those foul tradewinds
of- my birth.

whim.

whim.

on glan day
oh eudmhor gh’st
on wind doe haunt
on gales doe ride
cross’t o’er beinns
cross’t o’er sruth
as heart of t’land
as souls of t’earth
bound by past
t’and future’s know

note: so this came to me, in words in my head, to write this in somewhat gaelic. yes, that is strange as I really do not know my true lineage being adopted… but I don’t care or question things anymore when they pop into my head, I mean, hey, I am not a psycho I think, I just have a different input to the muse to amuse and paint my art with words, so here they are so, unfold… all thoughts are always welcome.

Enceladus : Ocean Moon

Enceladus : Ocean Moon

the veil of Enceladus

from afar
a cold blank stare
for generations the bright
capture’s the eye
then
with robotic lens aimed – (I see now, for myself)–
ice the sky is your upper atmosphere
but the ceiling painted with cracks like ice on here
firing sky scrape plumes out into space
plummeting down to the surface
and beyond in rings
for below this dead frozen mane
a great sea does froth and move
gravity squeezes and bends the dome
all inside this hidden domain
does life? does life… begin or remain?
the answer will come to us one day
but until then … ?
let an octopus dream – in a her own pen

notes: I am of the belief there is life in our solar system beyond the Earth, and even more wonders out there beyond our tiny solar system… so there is many layers to this poem in that respect… but make of it what you will, I can only write and let other eyes and minds decide.