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?).
as I might contemplate that last moment before I leave this plane and wonder my last thought will I see you oh lord will I see my love once more
on a beam of light so singular in this life left bereft of completion longing to be whole again the separation and we pray to write, unite a fabled ending
and I must confess my faith wavers doubt simmers for I am just a man but I look to the sky to the sun to the stars to you oh lord will I see my love once more.
notes... been awhile since I opined for my love (her), other things, life going on, I suppose, but it is always there, isn’t it? just under the surface, always there like a shadow beat to my heartbeat, like an echo to my every thought reverb, my love I hope you are well and content, wherever you are these days… (from a poem perspective this was me being deliberate and staccato, something I do sometimes to hear the timing in my mind)
what else is there? this struck my mind like lightning and rumbled like thunder… so I posted it… so be it.. sometimes the simplest thought is the best thought, live life.
the silk spun of a winter morn a slight of grey weighs – up on over the land a sheer coat of form from that of man across earth herself a pause- the luster of slumber frost
notes… woke up this morning (seems obvious), grabbed my cup of joe from the kcup kiosk installed in my kitchen (starbucks columbia in my uber fancy yeti travel mug – sheesh I’m a coffee dork), throwing my stuff in the car, the phone, the clipboard with all my nonesuch, and I notice it, that perfect coating, that sprayed on amazing coating of frost across the lawn and all the eyes (barely open) can take in, such perfection, sure, it’s damn cold, twenty degrees ain’t no joke, but even in the grip of all this, the little shimmering reflections all around, so I reflected on it for a moment, and this is what I found…
“for if this is all I have ’tis more than some will ever know”
a window into the world defined by frames defined by shape much like our own
words try to clarify a picture quantify a fraction symbols drawn together and agreed upon among others language – like an ancient tree the high branches so far removed from root reaching up as if to escape or grasp the stars – themselves for we know to well not bound to this earth for we know not long – enough as the spirit thrives to live on
outside the norm, or the deca-box, a beginning step over such, just higher than the range of given usual merit, a singular number, a backwards forwards road, twins, towers bold by bold, the power of one number can equal two, so unassuming in elegance, not the first or last of the calendar, nor a remarkable time of any days to remember, outside of america, that is, the essence of being outside, the one, or twin ones, in the major arcana ruled by the sun, a lion’s pride, an ego’s ride, the enchantress begs the gifts, and quells the lion’s maw with her own paw, allowing for the spring of heaven to emerge and flow forth, an elven spring, even a broken clock chimes the gateway twice a day – so what call’s us to notice, and delve into eleven and the eleven realms… who knows?
my photo… my view from my desk… on a good day
file this under things you write as they hit you, sitting in my office (photo) peering through the blinds, the soft parade of bright red underbellies like child drawn crayon whales, of clouds passing just over the house across the street, providing a stark contrast to the black-barren limbs of a tree, to the left of me, from here I can not see the asphalt, or debris strewn about on the street, not even the empty bus stop or garbage drop, no my mind is free for a moment to flee to meander within the clouds slowly so slowly sliding south, darker now, darker still, the red has faded to a purple gray, in this space, I could dream to be as free from the every day, one day, floating in the resonance of silence, or so I imagine this to be.
Notes… I am playing with numbers here, look up 11, I am not going to link to everything this time out that I was riffing on, just go to your fave search engine and search “meaning of 11” you might be surprised, or not, or maybe learn a thing or 12….
the sky unfolded above me out toward the horizon ‘I have had dreams like this’ -thought crossed; unfurled cotton waves extended into the burnt orange just an ordinary man in an ordinary lot the world transformed into living art
notes… even on a rough day, I felt ground down to a stump, back was barking a bit, I was no where special, no where besides this miracle marble, more locally New Jersey south, in an asphalt parking lot, outside a supermarket in a semi-beach town in winter, something inside me said “pause”, the cosmos? god? an ancient ancestor giving a nod? maybe all those… for like our ancient past, I looked to the sky… and was amazed (that photo is what I saw above the usual fray I was mired in)… so, like I always say, take a pause, take it in, you might be dazzled every now and again when the norm is hanging over your head…
we are the masters of our own domain, we raise the walls, we setup the defenses, and yet we may be betrayed by our own voices and impulses, maybe this tale is true, men lying in wait inside a glorious now notorious gift, or perhaps it is one of the greatest metaphors of all, troy did not welcome the horse with open arms, so I’m told, or so is written, there were voices of dissent, and those who chose not to listen, so we are troy, perhaps easily repelling an overt invasion, but persuasion, the soft penetration of sophistry, seduction, the art of deception so you hang on your own noose, sounds preposterous, and so it is, on the face, but how many of our proclivities may overrun, maybe they do not open the gates all at once and let the enemy pounce on sudden corpse, but more like insipid poison, gladly taken in with wine filled glass-fulls, glad gulps of our own demise, all in the name of feast and compromise, for are we not beasts that reside in the cultivated fields of temptation, so far removed from plains and migrations, somewhere that lurks, we are not a patchwork of circuits, flesh and blood, no matter what we may think or elevate above the other species, flesh and blood begets the same, as virgil says (or so quoted) “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes” translated to: ‘I fear greeks, even those bearing gifts’, for greeks are merely the name of that day for the malady lying at their own feet, for many years I have always thought of the story as a great tale of war and beware, but more these days I fear I may have written this chapter on my own lair many a time, eager to hold up a trophy minor victory or none, hold my name up to the sun, or worse boast to fly closer like an icarus run, this all seems so clear, so obvious now, how fallible and foolable this form can be, me, how can I be my brother’s keeper with my own loose gate, so maybe that is the avatar, the symbol, the meme to remind me of fate, a hollow horse or not so hollow horse, to keep me on course and remember that I control the comings and goings of my castle, there is the one enemy out there that will surely flatten my walls, pierce my defenses, steal, no silence my last breath, witness as death plows this whole effort under the ground, but until then, I shall think of the trojan horse and question what I let happen within my own domain as to maximize the health of my inner hearth, heart, sanctum and mind.
notes… and you thought there wasn’t a thrash version of the Beatles classic “Eleanor Rigby”, silly rabbit, thrash is for kids…
into the dying sun for there will go I even the sun must, all sons will die I turn to hope, to retain
the well is running dry for mother is recalling her precious resource reclamation to imbue the cosmic womb with the life of another death and incubation are stages, gemini the well runs deep now the well is running dry so I will dig deeper the work is harder, but familiar hands harden like wood, with age nails rotten with dirt – under, itches as long as there is the energy the breath to drift in a beating heart within this chest
a raven stands over a puddle and for a moment catches a reflection
I sure love me a cup of joe, or three, but I mostly begrudgingly hold the urge down to two daily, my preferred coffee of convenience is Bustelo, in the K cup (because you know, making a cup of coffee is such a chore), columbian roast is good, espresso roast – a little better, if I am out and about I do like Starbucks, whatever dark roast they have on tap for the day, one stevia, skim, just a dash, for color I think, or maybe I like the cool bloom the milk makes as it mushrooms up from the bottom of the cup, I have little stops by some of my accounts around the NYC/NJ area, gorilla in brooklyn(ok, a bit pretentious but great brew – the maple latte slays), joe coffee in manhattan, haylee’s in wayne nj (RIP), red pipe in forest hills, cafe grumpy in greenpoint (their turmeric lemonade in the summer… oy…), and all sorts of other spots in between, sometimes I get kona from this little stand in hawaii, got turned on to it years ago, kona is the best smelling coffee (just not as strong as some caffeine wise, and heck, sometimes, OK, most of the time I want that kick as well as the robust waves of flavor to savor), reminds me of which, my cup, sitting there on my desk, quite empty, screaming for a fill, or is that my internal coffee fiend prowling the dark sidewalk corners looking for a score, no matter, quarter after 4, time for one last more, of that liquid happiness in a tin cup, my coffee. Things I recommend (not sponsors or pay links, you get my advice for free…)
notes… hey ! I like your thoughts, your comments, your mind, your eyes… heck, all of it… so thanks for the look the read, the moment, I am like that chocolate box Forest Gump was obsessed with… you never know…. and that is what you should expect…. internet gurus be damned, this is me, deal.
Shades of My Garden 