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?).
a distilled thought…
every inch of my body says yes
every instinct of my mind says no
and yet,
there you are…
is this love or addiction?
notes… file this under simplicity posts… mine mostly, driving to work these words just popped into my head (and I had to repeat them over and over to myself until I got to work), I do find I am more inspired… or more prone to write depending on the songs playing, maybe that is why sometimes I feel like I am writing lyrics to a song, sometimes… the muse is fickle, but I am glad I have a ticket for the ride… thanks universe, I owe you one (+1Up sound here)
traffic; release-fly
a loose caravan
of common black-birds
races across the near-still canvas
colors of the autumn setting sun
off, towards the quarter-crescent blue moon
they pay no notice
to the bustling parkway below
and for a moment
I. am with them
notes… I should wire my go pro to capture what I actually see, maybe, would that diminish or enhance? either way I feel the need to do so… which means it will help, two nights later the same stretch of road was the same, but darker, and two planes were crossing the same path as the birds, it was like some sort of sequel…
a quip from a leprechaun…
‘leprechaun sure-
as far as I know
been called a ‘lesserchaun’
perhaps I’m lesser than some;
I have my enchanted coin
but it’s not minted of any gold
but my luck runs just the same
on the hot side of cold‘
I almost imagined this one as a conversation, one sided, of what a leprechaun might say to someone in passing, the ‘little people’ but yet they are magical and the pride of rainbows, so, I was trying to weave in playful nature and also deception in a little ditty… I can not explain what compels me to write such things, I just do…
sometimes a glance to the sky, materializes in thought…
the nervous ones
perhaps the influence
of the gray-
amorphous
an endless ceiling of fog
a oneness
concealing unknowns,
outline angles shadows dart
to and through
to and fro
back and forth
more chaos than dance
less grace than chance
the lack of pattern
the lack of calm
in this suffocating dome of visual dissonance-
for even a tornado has form,
the world
all very still now
save- for the nervous birds
panic set to erratic
their movements
eat at my will
gnaw the ends of my bones
as they prattle back and forth
notes… just looking out of my window at work, one of those rainy days well, that does not rain, sort of dreary, and in between, I would rather have rain, and it was a weird day anyway, I got home @ 3am from work, I was converting a supermarket computer system in Hempstead NY… I do enjoy learning all the little nooks and crannies of the tri state area but those hours you always run into all sorts of construction, it is a bit disheartening when you are trying to cross the verrazanno at 3 am and you have to navigate all sorts of orange cones and what not… it is a bit surreal… most of the world is asleep (at least locally) but you are chugging along trying to get home, and still pacing $13 tolls on the EZ pass… and as usual this is something I wrote off the cuff, a few adjustments here and there but mostly as I jotted it down today…
lights…
lights in the tunnel
by chance
by circumstance
the nexus of all history in a fleeting glance
through one doorway that led to a singular path
so two lights – became a pair
to navigate the darkness – as a binary star
long straight and winding foot on bare
a litter of babes with which to bear
and so once the road came dark fork
a separation aimed to dim such spark (for a time)
for even death will not restrain (for all time)
the pair once ordained to be as one
reunited now somewhere gone
from this world – somewhere beyond
these lights in the tunnel
at once-more one
notes… this poem is dedicated to my late aunt and uncle, they died apart in some ways, but in some ways together… nothing was the same since my uncle passed, not just in my house I might guess, I hear things come in threes, maybe this was three, my uncle, my father, my aunt, more of a trio that might be a tornado for my mother, I wonder, she knew them all longer, and closer, and the family has not recovered, covid has sapped whatever ‘together’ was left it seems, I hope I am wrong, but I have more faith in being right on this one (but I still hope), it doesn’t seem worth the fight if you are the only one fighting the dam breaking, especially since you are not the one who built it, you are just downstream from the cemented choices others made.. and the guilt and grime… the weight of that, unable to shed, even after death… the past can never be won, sure, you can fight it all you want, but you can never win, we all do it, myself included, but looking out a window out onto the broken meadows of others makes it so easy to see…
the music, this is always about timelessness to me, orbital was ahead of their time, intelligent and evocative in a genre not always known for such things, they were different, an amalgamation and inspiration… one of those bands that I found at the right time and also a glaring reminder of my failures, they came around in Miami at their peak and I was pissed at the missus, I opted not to go, in principal, and being a stubborn moron, willing to die on my cross of principles rather than give in for an evening, and they were really good tickets seat wise, but I had my pride, my dumb pride, now I have a great memory of not going, with the one I loved more than anything, just out of spite, a dumb fight, and yes, retrospect is so easy, but so is level headed thinking, I could have a hall of fame of regret…
I also wonder how many people even read this far, these are my true thoughts, not just my art, I just hope with all my babbling I have helped a person or two to realize their own foibles, maybe then this is all worth it, until then I will keep shooting spitballs into the universe…
fault, and reconciliation…
;fault bucket-
I wonder what brigade
might save
as I pass
hand to hand
so I might learn
to trust
again
for at the end
may empty
my burdens;
notes…. form in a way here, flow, like water rhythm wise, and also I meant this to look like a tipped bucket if you can see my visual clues (punctuation and it leans to one side if weighed on a scale perhaps)… sometimes I do things such as this… the funny thing is that the genesis of this thought, this poem ? researching an error in windows… seriously what more of a dork could I be… but always the muse she is guiding me, on a shoulder, in a vein… who knows? maybe I am insane… all the same, we all are to some degree, depends on the influences we listen to I suppose, I will stick by the mystery of the muse, I will… especially if it really is Selma Hayek...
the flounder…
of course there is always the cliché, the interview question, the ponder, whether a serious psychological expedition or some tactic to make you sweat, or a silly distraction…
if you could be an animal, what would it be and why?
I don’t know if it was the mood, or the food, or the passing breeze that deposited the idea in my mind this time, for some reason the thought gave me a modicum of comfort, for I, want to be a flounder, starting life looking like any other, but changing over time, eye migrating across the line, near perfect camouflage to allow for rest, I love the ocean as well, so that fits… but most importantly as this thought struck down in my head, I would always be looking up, and perhaps I should… this is no fluke !
I think I could make a series of children’s books on this theme “wouldn’t you like to be”… I never really considered writing a children’s book, I always liked the idea of penning a novel, but that has not exactly ever come to pass as yet, this seems natural in this case, I can picture this to be laced with positive psychological undertones now that I really think about it…
a lesson in math rock…
so no, this is not a music blog, but sometimes it sort of is… this struck me, so I post..
this satisfies me in so many ways, technical ability, and melody, and that is what makes this special, the technical meets the ephemeral… it moves your soul but strokes your mind, that, my friends is elevation… this wants to make me create, to elevate, to make art, to write… but now? just to sit back and listen, to be a bit lazy and let someone else make a definition, but that is ok, like admiring a sunset, not on a beach, to perfect, admiring that sunset wherever your sight may reach, because a sunset can transcend… everything… remember that, there is always a place, in your place, that transcends, may it be the light off dew on a rose, or your pose, near asphalt that shines just right from even a common street light, there is magic and miracles there, in every day sight…
the house on the cliffs…
and so there I was, another year, another week, my fortress of solitude, or at least a rental for a time, a log cabin up on Calvert cliffs, overlooking the Chesapeake bay, I come here on vacation once a year, I wind up contemplating life, and death, no, not a suicide thing, I have never had thoughts like that (thankfully), just looking down at my pile of chips and seeing where I am in the game, this is not reality, heck, it is escapism at it’s best (or worst), I suppose it is easy to take the yoke off, work, family, the daily routine I fall into, immediately I am relieved, within a day, just walking along the beach, my preoccupation of looking for, fossils in the surf (as this place is known for), perhaps just a metaphor, as I wander looking for perfect pieces of my past washed up on the ‘beach’, walking with no direction, no time slot, no time schedule, no idea of time unless I care to look at my phone, the cliffs block the sun in a way that shadows roam and invade nearly at half a day, and the beach, in most parts is dark by two in the afternoon, while the residents are out and about with work and life, and there I wander, no destination except not being able to walk further, the broken shells rip at my feet, so I put on my water shoes, then they rub my ankle damn raw so I take them off, barefoot again, sinking into the shore, the usual chatter of a busy subway platform in my mind subsides, washed away by every lap of tide, even on days when the water was a mirror, still the soft heart beat slight roar as the waves sink into the shore, at times I just stare at the water, or the birds, cormorants preening, their black shadows standing out against the water, and the gulls, their stark white standing out against the bluest of sky, even the occasional clouds can not ruin this scene, a Chesapeake scene painted on the fly just for me, as no where else in the world is anyone else seeing through my eyes right at this time, the wonder, this patch of time to never happen again and yet will a million times more – with wrinkles, the stress I brought in, seemed bound tightly in chains to my being, melts away without any resistance, effortless, regardless of my advancing age I feel young again, full of possibilities, everything seems right, but of course this is not real life, and the mornings, as I sit in place, coffee mug to face, watching the sun come up out over the bay, I wonder instead of leaving a part of me here, can I bring this slice with me instead…
but admittedly on the exit day, it all starts creeping in again, deadlines, ‘have to’s, things to do, bills to pay… all seems to crowd out hope, but I must remember this, the view, from the house on the cliffs, and the clarity it brings me, maybe this is distillation of the soul, and maybe I should pay more attention to the unraveling of my coil…
Shades of My Garden 