the approach of summer rain, the scout, the sentry comes first, the breeze, testing the landscape or warning same like a sliding war drum, the beat of the maelstrom to come, there is palpable anticipation, clouds racing to get away, or ahead, I can not tell which, as I do not speak to them, at least not yet, the distant rumble, lurking there, hiding somewhere off in the not so distance, not sure of the direction- but close, even the street lights seem quiet and hunkered down, and me? I have a love for thunderstorms- perhaps more than I should, the first drops are now on this page as I write, soon I will be forced back inside, but- until then, a sharp flash, the first real one of the night, lights up the entire yard, the drops come closer together now, and then the call and response, yes, the low rumble of ready thunder, as if snarling on the next block, the only natural sound now, above the breeze, is the hum of crickets, and then the drops start to ping on the metal railing by my front door, the wind does not come in waves now, a steady-steady beat if one, a second flash and he growl is sooner and longer- more immediate, closer, and the drops are nearly becoming rain, I can hear the heard approaching, marching, now the wind stands up grown – gusting, last warning, many storms are fair in this manner, a flash again, and now the voice shakes the ground under me, what sounds like an approaching car is actually the tract of wind carrying rain down, moving up the street, in full breech, there are barely any breaks in the racing clouds now, one more giant flash followed by a ten second slow rolling rumble, my lesser trees bend and dance, that is all it can do my precious bamboo, for there is no standing up to this, but rather bend and pray to make it through, am I being teased? this wait? the anticipation, will this just flit on by in the other lane?… Well, no there goes that thought, here it comes -the rain, and there I go, to watch from a window now.
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?).
float…
I often dream of having the psychic ability to float, or detach from gravity with my mind, the sensation seems- as real as falling, as we have all had that dream to then wake in fright, not having mover more than an inch, I wonder what the underlying root is for all this, for there has to be some impetus, especially in mass consciousness, yet we remain quite tethered to this spinning disc, gravity, not gravity boots like in stories or movies, if only we could uncouple from laces and roam freely, what is this desire? I do not think this is an urge to fly likey a bird… but perhaps, from a common ancestor, when our hair was wings, or nails as feathers, could that ancient memory still be a story in a book of our DNA library? float… but then of course comes the other fear… besides falling, of floating off into nowhere, of course logical rationale is not concerned in dreaming realm, well, at least not for me, surely we could not just float out past the various stages of atmosphere into space where nothingness reigns, well, at least the nothingness that would deprive us of life in a very short instance, thus revealing our fragility, no matter how hardy, from the frailest among us, to the strongest that ever was, neither David nor Goliath would stand a chance in that space of space, we were not designed for such a place, just here, terra firma, good old Earth, how many billions of years in the soup to get this mix, how cosmic a recipe for us just to exist, but yet, we seem to want more- at times, not all the time, but we have dreams- and mine is to float, above the ground, to feel untehtered but yet safe, perhaps orbiting a star, maybe our dreams are a conduit? into the very soft conciousness of the planet -herself?
so… what are your dreams? what do they tell you? pay attention… they are real… because, what separates that from reality? really? your mind has created things, so they are… created, how do you think books are written? or screen plays? a mind devises and births them into existence… so why not… gather in the fields of dreams… ?
the flag of land.
the flag of land- I can only imagine a voyage on the sea, when the maps had no end just rumor and conjecture, months of sway, the up and down, the only landscape that changes would be the clouds and the sun herself-
the flag of land- the source of all hope and all despair, the romance initially, the salty air, the detachment from the doldrums and table crumbs of polite society, but this is this own civil entity indeed, another womb that can breed all things, depending on what shall inhabit said room and ruminate there, I can imagine that even the largest vessel, ship, at some point becomes finite and closing in, mutiny must start in the individual mind before infecting the hive at large, but we may never know the true circumstance, we can only glance at what the the probable cause and effects were in such a situation, just as many years from now, perhaps centuries, others of us will wonder how we used these, words typed by keys, instead of just pure thoughts free flowing out, so what is our voyage of discovery? what flag of land do we seek out in this vast sea?
I often pine for the pirate life, well, at least the romantic notion of it, or at least sea faring… but the reality is so much further from the fantasy…my common comforts, well, back then, not so common… and how much would it take to push a modern man… mad?
drift
an anchor-
to keep you safe,
to moor you to one place
safety, harbor,
but from the harshest of waves
but then, you spy-
out on the horizon-
and wonder.
call and response {c … r}
the illusory green
surely emerald eyes betwixt
a mask on the frame
dully noted-
winter might shame out the truth
rusted tracks with rusted roots-
and train cars, containers stacked like bricks
from high up
radio buttons of oil stored
like somber binary code
cold and alone
but the illusory green
for this spring
and some months
covers up
the urban rot.
can a mask truly mask what is seen? do we not perceive at some level what is beneath a covering? so is a mask – if we choose to believe… or not?
observation glimpse when driving home
driving home, from work,
the familiar route,
corner of, caught my eye
there, on some banal blank
white plastic fence-
the last east racing lines
of the sun’s late bent light
of this over-heated summer day
so I reached out my hand
as if to grab
the last remnant of the dawn
in my palm
to hold on-
task and trend…
is there more joy in a winning lotto ticket, a bingo call, or the instantaneous thrill –
or building that wall, brick by brick, no, I do not like that aesthetic, I prefer the old stone walls I see in various states upon these old roads and places here in the north east where I cut my teeth hiking as a kid, I might imagine there is the same in many towns, in other countries, other pastures, other chains of hills, historical lines, or just the outline of a property some time ago, I imagine that first day, looking out at seemingly impossible, wishing, that with the snap of a finger’s snap could all be done, knowing this is not the case, knowing, that some days the will not be there or the sun will bear down and melt you into your shirt, dirt, dirt invading every nook, and each little cut from a shrub, or a little sharp rock, a badger-ous root or two, stacking stones, in a line, in a groove, knowing this might outlast, even you, just the same, a quarter done, you realize that the last bit is not so straight, so you must tumble down, strip down to start once more, but not from total scratch, for now you have more experience to avoid that trap, hopefully, there is a timeline fumbling about in your head, a wondering if you are up to the task, you could just buy some prefab substitute, and most would be none the wiser, but not you, a puzzle of pieces that never quite fit, but only have to fit to sit, in the kingdom of gravity that will rule them hence, this igneous fence that will never quite keep out a soul, or a fox, or who knows, more symbol than function, more monument than form, perhaps the megalithic past is in your bones, where this all began, the plight of task, but unlike the ox under yoke, we can appreciate the tilling and rise, the harvest of effort, to behold.
and then one day the final corner stretch, I think I can now sit and marvel what time has wrought and through time we travel, but yet, might I bother you for that winning ticket, that instant… just to compare to this, for comparison’s sake…
there is something about places like these, at least to me, I have seen long lines of stones like this.. and wondered, was this a house, a fence, a fort, or? mostly in the catskills when I was a kid, but also around various parts on the outskirts of towns, I always wanted to build my own, not some neat landscape trope we see often, a rock by rock wall, something seems so primitive, but yet so human, an the endeavor itself, this wall is not blocking anything, an ant, a snake, a fox.. no… no intruder is rerouted by this simple mount, a call back to our megalithic selves, perhaps… and maybe that is the appeal, the roots, the dirt in your nails, the sun beaming down as the rocks cover ground, the delight in a lemonade in the late afternoon, after you have laid out a monument, of sorts, not for show, not for sport, for time, and maybe to inspire a generation that forgot…
so there you go… a double post, sort of, it is what it is… and on a totally different note (if you read this far) I also do movie/TV reviews.. I just finished Asteroid City, did not post about it yet… let’s just say I love the experience of the movie but the emotional aspect is lacking compared to other of his works… but anyway, that post/review will come…
fragmentation…
initially- (the broken)
like shards of glass
but time passes
as the hands raise- and fall
shadows move- across dials
shapely from tall- to none
never ending-
(when everything has an end)
at some point-
the pieces no longer fit
nor form a single picture
no matter of effort
the edges are gone
but not the interior vision;
I wish this were more like armor
but even armor bears holes- in time
with battle, or even with idle;
I wish this were more like a reel
frame upon frame in perfect sequence
but even film diminishes in the crucible of years;
then, when these spaces are full
and a purging spring does come upon-
we filter and muster that which must move on;
for a vessel- by definition
is not infinite
not in diameter, nor circumference
there is no infinity ingrained in our soul
the simple truth of being
eventually all that we kept
breaks down unto molecules
lighter than even, breath-
blue womb
the soothing blue-
sometimes, the prescription
is in plain view-
a stark blue sky-
evenly speckled, by clouds of white
even in doubt, with spots of grey
the sweeping tide-
of blue,
and those primal memories alight-
of the beach
the ocean
the tide,
feet dangle from a dock
toes tip circles
into the crystal blue
undulations under foot
magical permutations
as light bends and folds
amongst the blues
between the pose
of toes
dangling
in the night water
still lit-
by moonlight,
fading rays
racing out
to the horizon closing
peaks of blue crests rising falling
the soothing blue-
how I can reminisce
and be transported -to you.
notes… I was just thinking about the last time I was in the Keys… specifically Islamorada, at this little hotel, maybe 12 rooms, right on the water, as it turned out there was only one family staying at the same place… and they were from Jersey (what are the odds)… the place had a private dock, it did not yard far into the water, maybe 50 feet out, they had these lights that cast just enough light, because when the moon is out you can see for miles, I sat at the end of the dock, my feet dangling in the water… I can’t think of a more perfect moment, it was a dream, the water is an aqua like you can barely describe, how can water be so blue and so clear? but it was, the sheer blue vastness married with the beauty in the details… every detail… the shadows of the palms were like fingers across the dock, slowly, gently swaying in the tropical breeze… maybe I need that scene again… all these years later…
retrograde…
ah my sweet lion -!
let these be for when the stars align
might I be- in retrograde?
or witness of the same-
on a ship that sails-
school taught- navigation fails
might I tie myself in nautical nots-
lost out upon my own plot – plodding-
bobbing up and down
the tides of the ground, jester
plays tricks on me
my mind
moving backwards this seems
an elliptical illusion
as all things are as they begin.
Shades of My Garden 
