a window into a life, a conversation with a soul, a gateway to a heart
Author: David Koblentz
Inspiration is a fickle muse. Sometimes empty, sometimes overwhelming. These words I write are my own but they seem driven by something else (perhaps?).
clouds above a house standing still but this can not be true
trust in eyes the fool’s divine all perception the highway, to the mind
how much we trust our eyes, but they are only as good as our mind, I am terrified of being blind, as most people probably are, I can not even imagine it, less than being deaf, as deafening as that would be, the prospect of blindness would cut me more I think, I hope to never know either. but just sitting in my office, looking out the window, how our mind sees things, clouds standing still… but they are surely not, in fact, we are spinning at untold speeds, held on to this globe by gravity… but we do not perceive it. Are the clouds moving… or are we?
the choreograph the slap slow motion damn, I deserved that with a glint a split look the lock of eyes in a sprint, stopped. we both smile inside with that sly sumptuous style j’amour
I wish I could possess you so the world would never know; my secret angel- perhaps better this perfection would be left alone in the elysian fantasies of my heart without the corruption of the daily barriers an afront to the purity of my affections; there-in the coffin for which I come to leave the light alone or never rise to one; my love.
3 snippets, stuff that popped in my head and I just wrote… not connected, or maybe… just the way I write sometimes, I endeavor to not question the method because I want this to be as pure as possible… I am getting there I think but we all let the shadows of ego in every once in a while, just a matter of training ourselves to be the pure thing, as best as possible, and just be honest with your audience, they will know it when you are not so…
I pine for the days of yore your love, your hand in all, a plot from some lost movie or one familiar into which I now project to be a hero or the common man just once more to hold your hand and look into your eyes grace that smile all to mine- a memory so pure yes, distilled by time like stone smoothed by a rivers run rough I wonder what has become worn down to just round my past has become just that -common.
on a wooden post dangles a chain to witness a breeze where once was a man
god has graced us with such endeavor that even in moments of crushing weakness I can feel strength if I so chose
it’s funny, it is all right there, all the time, we choose not to do the right thing, thinking we have time, we have precious little, I know this, you know this, do we live it moment to moment? Even with awareness does not come grace, this takes effort, the cycle is easy, too easy, a seductive loop, and I am no prophet of truth, we all know what is true… but what do we do with it daily? (and this is also my feel for haiku, not pure to form but who cares, it is about feel, I think haiku really is a great endeavor in theory, in my head this is haiku, much like an American I am not conforming to the form, yep, that is correct.)
a seagull- stoic on one leg on a highway light post a-waiting. a portrait of this age
Driving to work is sometimes just the worst. Sure, I am not dealing with anything that awful, but some days it seems to drain me, to pound down on me, to chisel at me like a hammer on rock, I try to ignore the ping of the hammer’s head… as best I can, some days it works, some times not, but then some days it seems the entire world is in conjunction to thwart my morning, to divert my intention, to bury my usual positive mention, I would love to tell you I win every time, but no, like all things, there is no firewall strong enough, no light bright enough to burn within all the time, as much as we try and learn, so I was driving in, on one of these miserable winter days, sky grey, days ranging from bitter cold to not pouring but very reminding rain, and just I saw this, which I have seen before, but some how it hit me more, at least this day, a seagull, sitting there, as if to say, as if to speak to me, sitting above the fray, quite literally, and then I was awash with OK, well, at least for a moment, at least, that this bird who really reminds me of youth, because of the sea, just standing there like a sentinel, a stalwart, a bulwark, a symbol of what I needed at the moment… even if it all went to fade as soon as the next jack ass rolled up on my six practically parking their car up my ass to where I could taste their bumper (and dumb bumper logo stickers). … … … But that looked down upon scavenger, the dirty bird, a seagull, able to elevate and stand above… alone and against the scrum… so that is the feel I was going for here in this piece.
I am wired how I am wired. I am not outwardly loving or touchy or things of that sort (even though I am obviously a deep romantic at heart). I have always believed in and acted on actions, not words, not ceremony, not circumstance like made up holidays (birthdays and such). For that I am seen as uncaring, unloving and judged as such by most. I have steeled myself against such things over these many years because I am true to myself and my beliefs. But that does not make me a monolith or invulnerable for those who can not see me for who I am and how I am (and have always been). There is some urge among “normal” people for you to act as they act. I am just not an outwardly emotional person and that is confused for lack of caring even if my deeds far outweigh the bullshit people exchange as intimate currency daily. I see all that as window dressing. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. I can not be the one who does calls out the other side as they would call out me as inauthentic. But surely the masses defend and seem to bend like reeds in the common wind to such things. So the long short of things, my mother is in old age, and I am caring for her, as she cared for me, I owe her, obviously. Or maybe that is not obvious but seems what I have to do. I take care of all her needs to keep her in her home and to keep the lights on. But somehow it is not enough. Sometimes that dyke breaks and I forget my place. Rarely though… but there is another relative taking advantage of her but she loves him, clearly, more than me, always has, it is debilitating feeling at times, to do the right thing, and be slapped back for it, yes, I go on, but at times I fail in my pillars to be the rock that I usually am, especially if the one I actually make everything for accuses me of not loving anyone or caring about anyone, when it is plain as day to me, all my actions are there, as right as you can be, the sting of words can still come as I believe that is what is in the heart of those accusing them, in the end, being right or doing the right thing does not always pay dividends but you must persevere, I want to quit, especially these days, say f you to the damn process, but doing the right thing is not always an easy way, if it was, this world would be a much better place.
Just writing this has helped me comport some feelings, maybe re-load the tank. Perhaps to point my ship right back into the storm.
(close my eyes to the ground) I bend to ear the song of the soil for surely there is language there the earth has a voice from within a molten core daring to whisper rumors to roots to rise above to see the sky, once the blind light of sun to only return to the soil’s song once more
…when the traffic is like a box of sardines, I mean, we all have our colorful box we are in within the box of the lanes of the road we are all funneled into, this was one of those mornings, I was actually in decent enough mood, got out early, but something about the combination of a grey autumn day, no leaves, barren trees, feeling eyes baring down on me even though, where the hell am I supposed to go? god forbid I leave an inch of pavement in front of me for the car behind to see, you have the weavers who think that mystically or magically they will find a path, as you pass them sitting in your same lane time and again (and the little inner laugh there in), and then there is the drab, surely made worse on days like these, maybe it is the general consensus of consciousness of the melee of drivers on this path, maybe some public pathos that permeates and amplifies the dread? why are our roads and bridges and barriers so bland? so barren, so utilitarian, so matter of fact, broken cracks, barren sand, scraggly weeds entwined with garbage lagged on the edges, I wonder, if even only for a moment, or just some break in the haze, if these non monuments could be given some aesthetic artistic arch – perhaps funded by a local business or such, to bathe these like-artic shores with some inspired light, some architectural flair, something to lessen the obvious blight, would that make a difference in this daily flight? I think of European cities and all the ancient machinations there, perhaps a dream, or a dumb American’s idea of Europe I suppose… but I propose a splash of dash, is that too much to impose on our dreary roads?
Shades of My Garden 