upon brash and darkest night
of tides roaring to the hum of all else;
I see the light
from the shore
in the depths
of her eyes
sparkling-
calling me home
in this storm
a whisper wisps of false hope
but these long salted years
have worn me down
so even if I broke
upon those rocks
the last thing I will see
before I drown
is the light
in her eyes.
(and I can lie peacefully now
at the bottom of the sea)
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?).
musing on that new old feeling
as a child, or young adult
I used to not know this undertow (so well)
this current current
but now the flow-
so familiar-
regardless of time spent elsewhere
on other shores
on other endeavors
looking to not remember
the truth of the universal
and how this brings up my soul
wraps my heart in hope
to sail this path once more
with another-
I wonder
always the toe dip to concur the temperature
so sure-
but never
to be sure
one must endeavor
once again
those waters
to see if they flow together
(for a time or forever)
for I hope for the latter?
until the never – I shall
until that golden ring
an ending and a beginning
to be bound
once found – again.
word play, am I punny to you ? what am I clown?
a sachet
not a hatchet
the difference is sharp
to a t
all the difference
from delicacy
to a headache
sun burn
I much prefer the subtle sun
rather
than the searing heat
of peak
summer-
steam,
shimmering up asphalt
from a sudden shower,
no, for me
seventy three degrees
is quite fine
enough
to warm the skin
to keep sweat within,
let me bathe
here
in this subtle sun.
lost love…
“when will you evaporate?”
I know… the question well,
I can tell, I can’t tell you, her
but.
the thought is there
I wonder if this thought will ever go
or evaporate
for decades now, haunted
in the same regret, the memories,
a book written I memorized by default
but her?
the erased years in the rear
but not for me
visited daily
god damn I hate myself
but yet I am myself the same
god damn I hate this memory, these memories,
my mistake, our mistake,
but I love these memories
to know the where I have been
the perfection of the time, that capsule, that time
the ease of companionship in that relationship
too easy, this seems impossible now
the now, where is she, I hope for her best
and one day to return to her
when this is all over.
(first and only draft, posted as I wrote it just now)
what happens when you screw up the best thing you ever had… and have never been able to get close to that again? I suppose we blaze on… but sometimes we are wrong… she is rarely from my thoughts… I wish things were different then… and more importantly now…
in the absence of time…
when we die, we are at the end of time
we exist in time when we lived
we existed, that is not something that can be erased
so, when death occurs we are taken out of the simulation
the chess game, if you will
we remain,
history is concrete
there is no denying what has existed
so therefore we are forever
however, my worry is consciousness
that I think is tied to current/active time as we perceive it when we are “alive”
but what happens to that perception when we are out of time…
terra under firma perma
cobblestones, speak to feet
like stepping stones
in lines as streets,
perhaps- like a cousin brick,
invokes the memories-
of horses and spokes
when we first lost touch
with the ground below
just something that popped in my head… that is how it goes, sometimes it flows, sometimes I am silent, I don’t force it, if you like my stuff, just wait, I come in waves…
lost love post…
I wish I was right
in leaving-
but everything since
says I was wrong.
and yet- the deceiving,
the less admission
of my own part,
if I only knew
everything and as all else now
the comparison
would be easy.
flow of
time in palm
is gone-
before even
the sensation-
renders on
the scrawny one
as of late I have been observing a skulk of juvenile foxes near my house, sitting out, putting some goodies (berries and nuts) out on this big hunk of rock that sits on my lawn (removed when the foundation of the house had to be built), there were three of them, at once they all seemed identical but as the days (or nights) have worn on they have certainly grown at different rates, and now it seems, after abundant encounters observing them, I am down to one, when night after night I could make a simple call they would come out of the woodwork to check out my offerings, a short span, maybe just a few odd weeks, but time is such a devil, such a tease, things like these seem like they will stretch out forever, but never do, so now, last night, after many a night of not seeing any of my local crew, just one appeared after I waited a bit, from a direction I was not expecting, the last remnant I suppose, the most tiny and scrawny of the bunch, a cautious gate, as if walking not to break tissue paper, each paw light as a feather following the other, foxes have a subtle dance like they are ashamed but of course that is just my human projection on many years of evolution, but just the same, I can only report what my eyes record, the scrawny one grabs up a blackberry and I can hear the merry chomping along, perhaps it has only been a few days long since I saw one, or the three, but pause always feels like an eternity compared to these moments of realized reality, a simple lesson really, about patience, and perspective, and the nature of things, and well, the nature of nature, so I wonder how long this might last, this new resident and this old one, well I suppose then I can only wait until the next setting sun, and see if my friend once more comes, and if so, be grateful for that.
Shades of My Garden 