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 ?

the malaise

the malaise

summer seems like a passing thought, as the days wind down into longer stretches of shadow now, subtle and sudden this seems, the decorations strewn about my driveway, my windshield, my mailbox, a myriad of the colors of dawn signify the cycle is moving ever forward to the end, yes, the sweet smell, a hint of decay, upon closer inspection the age spots tell the real tale of this festival on eyes, one last glorious burst as the sun slides out of reach, for a time, the now feels like a lingering but will soon be the past, as all things, time spins forward, hearts beat, children grow into grand old age, and the world spins away, sometimes I wish to be the cleverest man alive, and capture all this, harness all this, hold all this, a moment, in my mind, my belief out-paces reality, somehow I know this, but I would rather reside in the beauty of hope, of the other side, of another spring.

star light.

star light.

when all the stars fade
and are gone
for we will not know
that the end
has already come;
left to linger here
for this news
in this bath
of our own unknown-
with that end
speeding towards us
an end already ordained
for us;
nothing to do
nothing can not be as done.

These words came to me as I was driving in twilight, the minivan in front of me I noticed, had a custom license plate
THNKUGD
and a handicapped sticker, I smiled, maybe I will enjoy this a bit longer, tonight.

shadows cast.

shadows cast.

shadows cast
where they may reside
measures the distance
drawn out from the sun
intoxicated by spin

so here I am
on the days where
they pull longer

notes: do shadows influence us? subconsciously? I was driving to work and this revelation sort of washed over me… I mean I had the time to think about it being stuck in traffic.. but noticed how the shadows have been creeping one way, it all seems so sudden if you pay attention, the pavement is nearly a mirror, the earth does what the earth does… shadows are like anything else of matter, they want more, or is that our own protection, a backup drive for our bodies from the sun ?

open my eyes.

open my eyes.

the sun bends down behind the tree
across the street
the framed art of a human hand
the manufactured flags of man
how quickly they retreat,
oh my sweet september,
as the summer drawn down
the pure magic spent on children’s time
the rise of the spent in the basking of souls
as all things, as all close-
so to another summer fades
behind the tree, bowing
across the way there
a wish to catch each ray,
close my eyes
catch the glow under lid
feel the warmth as long as been
and a smile
and a sigh
contentment in the passing
a few deep breaths to utter thanks
and then, I move on, that is the way of time.

the arrival…

the arrival…

the arrival, the wind passing through the catacombs of the trees, dark shimmering waves in night, this really seems as if I should have some understanding, the sound does not seem random, but not quite planned but? is there a voice in there, language, some message? no. a song, played on the leaves as they are now, past the zenith of the beaming sun, soon to be done, a cold wind, not the refreshing one that cools in the beating sun, a chill pervades, not a warning, a harbinger for what must be, for yes, fall is coming if not already here, but my nature app does not alert me, I just have the senses given to me and the years of my own personal observation to inform me, this is one of those nights, there will be spikes, exceptions, last blazes of glory worthy of dragging all the accoutrements of peak summer out for one more time, one more shake of the sand out of pockets and crevices, maybe two, maybe three, the warm ocean water like a welcome memory, holding on to that energy quite literally in the bones of salt, and the breeze again passes, I struggle to listen, to the song, a hymn? no, a funeral dirge, but not one unexpected, not one of melancholy, no, just what must be in the natural order of things, my urge, the immediate surge is to want to fight this, the boy with his finger in the dike, the impossible odds, the romance of it, the lack of reason, but surrender feels so unnatural even when circumstance dictates that you sit back and allow the tidal wave to wash right over you.

worth: only in time

worth: only in time

to close my eyes, and bathe in the myths of my age, walk through the rows, the pillars of truth that hold, arise this sweet tent, with pinholes to the sky, pathways to stories, just a passer by am I, or through, I will not know until destination met, how confident and prideful we are, the content of common knowledge, the hubris of assumption, ten or twenty or one hundred million pass, and where is the meaning written, species reigned for millions, the remains of king’s of various ages, just vestiges, baubles, curiosities, collectibles, will our mass be the same, bones in the mass grave that is this land, the fairest arbiter of all, to produce all life and then swallow said whole, to endure another run, I wonder what is worth more, a recipe for perfect chicken soup or the entire lexicon of the english language.

a coruscant dawn

a coruscant dawn

coruscant

kə-rŭs′kənt

once we are untethered from this land, this earth, this gentle crust that has so cradled us, bound not by laws of man and nature, released from the bonds of gravity, perhaps only privy to the forces that guide energy, there is only the all night, daunting, no, the canvas on which, for there is no sunset there, out there, beyond our protective dome, in the complete dead calm sea of everything, space, space unto space into never ending expansion, and we shall go, maybe there are shepherds there as well, certainly paths to go, but no, there are no sun sets there, and no true to us eyes to see them, there is only dawns, perpetual on different spectrums, distance means nothing when time means nothing, and there we will be, drifting in a sparkling sea, a divine conjuring of a coruscant dawn