I wish I could forget you
like a color
magenta purple or red
my world might be a bit dimmer
but already is
notes… simple.. that is all… something that just appeared in my head to the pen.
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?).
impressions.
first. breakthrough. last. lasting. millennial to millions.
a fresh boot mark imprinted in the thick mud, or a bigfoot track revealed perhaps? impressions. a silhouette of a shadow boot mark on a pristine white floor, all the ridges, all the flaws, all the all, a step in time, that footprint on the moon, frozen in time (for our now), the fulcrum tips on the balance of an impression, or so we are told, but what about the hold, is that not more important than the toe dipped, the first impression can be the last, or a quick forgotten past, when it passes, how much is effort? how much is luck? as to what is stuck or what sticks permanently, all that we pack in to those moments, the anxiety, the hiding, the projection of what we want that footstep to be, crafting the stamp before the ink, a perception, a link to our own frailties, a created construct to the best of our abilities, sometimes the arrow will even pierce the mark, a bullseye hit out of the park, but to what end, the circus may come to town but not all will be amused, the pageantry, the showmanship, the acrobats fluid moves, but in the end maybe all that remains are the clown’s shoes, and I think of paleontology…
a dinosaur’s footprint, left in the mud, on some seemingly normal every day creek or waterway, here now, encased in a forever millions of years later, how can I compete with that? or should I even bother? the mundane echo of an every day to stop and drink some water has lasted longer than mankind has even pondered… my life moments pass without so much wonder… or will I leave a footprint fossil of some kind… ? we all want to leave our mark, but look at what has actually survived… by chance…
arboreal dreams.
for in the spring
I dared to dream
unfolded to soaking in
the light that fuels the green
the daring leaf
for I could be a ballerina
toe to tip pirouette a spin
a dizzying mood
the ardent explorer
a ship riding the tide
the temporary waterways
of august thundershowers
the lazy slouch
content to not much else
sunbathe all the hours on
sleep till noon or dawn the day star
and once a tempest passed
I remember well, the fear, shaking
such force upon my lap
and others fled or ripped, and gone
visited by birds
maybe I might fly among them
carried by the wind
onto some mysterious foreign lands
I can feel the drying in my veins
the light remains but how the warmth has faded
for all these I might have been
my last grasp, to grass, browned and spent
notes… just something that popped into my head today, I could have expanded it I suppose, worked the clay, worked the mold, but it is not my way, ole ‘one draft dave’ they call me, well, ok, no one calls me that, in fact that is a terrible nickname, forget I mentioned it, let’s just keep that between us, shall we? anyway, can’t a leaf dream? who knows? why not? this work was about that thought and the weird cadence in my mind today (do you grab it?), maybe it works, maybe not, either way here it is…
.the inevitability of sand.
often, ok, probably nightly I like to put on ocean sounds, not as good as the real thing but I not quite gotten to the point where I can afford an on the beach locale of my own for escape, so I take the next best thing, youtube that is, why the sea is a lullaby for me is a mystery, but it is, and I am not alone apparently if I look at clicks and hits, sorry, “views” in the youtube vernacular, so my mind was drifting, listening to a true recording translated into a faux ocean tide…
…and I began to think of my hands, inside, trying to see the actual cells connected, to realize everything to scale, how I am truly a sum of parts, miniscule bits, all working as one, might I rival an ant farm, but hopefully not sitting on someone’s dresser for amusement or curiosity, to contemplate that there is actually space in between everything even our skin, although we do not perceive it, at some level it would be like looking at the solar system and-or our galaxy, so much space in between bodies and stars depending on from where you are observing, things are passing through me right now, yet I don’t feel violated, I wonder if I could ever perceive the situation or did we not develop this unneeded sensation for survival, I imagine the intersections, the traffic controls of flow, the plethora of little car wrecks that must go on in the millions, all the while I might be doing something utterly useless like playing a game on my phone, as the mini universe inside my hands explodes with activity, a boiling cauldron of possibility oddly – out of reach but certainly there, and then I think of the future, or the past, really the same in this case, one day the great tide of god will break me down to just molecules, and I will just become part of the shore once more, sand scattered on a line or in a form, until such time as I am gathered up again by the will of the same, my unique consciousness summoned again, the trillions of combinations that came before, all tallied up into this particular form, and soon, way sooner than I may like, broken back down to transform into other life as life will go on – without me.
about observing aging of those you love.
“the exodus of light”
for I am forced to observe
my future, my fortune unfold, to post
age-ed vessel
in rush grey and white
all colors have faded
the exodus of light
as the source grows dimmer
a once blazing beacon now meagerly flickers
cracks, wrinkles, crooked bent
words repeated, forgotten,
thoughts at a loss.
to the memory of my dear mother
or what is left
I dare not to grasp too hard
to break what remains to ash
and yet a memory
is all I will soon there have
with love, and thank you mom, your son.
notes… this was totally and utterly inspired by this post @ another blog, it was instant, it was done, it made sense, and also cut like a gun. age is a wonderful thing, time is a bastard robbing everything, do not confuse them as twins, understand them as best you can…
a quick morning thought.
I must admit, I find a touch of solace (or wonder?) watching the milk bloom in my morning coffee, almost like experiencing the genesis of clouds in my own privately owned weather globe, until of course it becomes amorphous, which is only merely a few moments, but then stage two, caffeine kicks in… the phone is ringing, there goes the moment, back to ‘important‘ matters… (sigh)
thoughts from the porch…
escaping the indoor sounds
for I am not truly escaping all human sounds, there is the occasional car, or neighbor walking their dog yammering on their phone, but much better than the din within the walls, of TVs with sports, a washing machine sanitizing dishes already clean, a dryer tumbling more coins than clothes, a phone ringing out loud with scams, for some reason, just tonight, an avalanche fell on the roadside of my mind, it all just became too much, too loud, maybe salvation resides in the mundane, taking out the sunday night garbage to the curb for pickup, a ritual that keeps you in line in your time frame prescribed, that even keel, how after days and nights of pouring 90s, how 70 degrees feels, so slight, the night crickets are not as loud as on those humid horrors, the swarming mosquito lions of this savanna are not as blood-thirsty, they even ask for reservations to dine, or so I imagine their disposition, there is a steady silent breeze, everything, everything is in motion, but calm, subtle undulation, as if receiving a gentle neck massage from ethereal unseen fingers, this is one of those moments I wish I could wrap up and hide, save for a more dire time, is this perfection? surely not, but much closer in that direction than the bulk of my days so far…
this scene, a trigger, to make me breathe in deeper to capacity and past, to smell and taste and tap the very essence of now, all the plants seem relaxed in this bath, a return from a desert to a meadow, from far pendulum swing to the middle, I wish I could transfer all humanity into my now, the sweeping deep calm of this moment, like being held afloat by a warm loving ocean without any worry, worldly concerns left at the door behind me, just listening, listening, escaping the indoor sounds, for now.
part of my porch series that will continue as long as I do…
and superman is dead…
a hand written note found on scene:
“for have I traded honor in for fame
even an ounce
what I thought was binding my life was actually blinding
for have I renounced honor for fame
the adulation
the kiss
the instant opinion on the lips of those who do not know me
the adoration
the adulation
a drug, the addiction
but a tool I might have used
to carve a statue
instead of a tomb.
(and so I leave you, gifted all of a life’s single bounty, cashed in – with regret, so I leave you early now without that kiss)“
notes… I will be tight lipped on this one, there is a lot going on and a lot of inferences (catch them? show me)… but the original thrust was just the crown of fame be that as it may… who among us is better than the highest or the lowest?
lost.love.letters.
the lady in waiting, trade in a life for the dream, so clear, a portrayal of all love inside a movie scene, i always thought it would be you, a quiet painted green wooden porch, the type of porch that encompasses all around the house, peeling paint on all the edges of door and window frames, buckled from years of the seasons beatings, a backdrop to all the reasons, the creaking rocker swing, and there we are, looking out at a long field of green grasses, something like a farm, harmonized by the subtle magic of the grass swaying, for a jersey boy a strange thought perhaps, maybe this is some sort of rockwell archetype (or hummel) etched in me somewhere at my core, a typical apple pie american bucolic scene, and my mind shifts…
maybe the shore, the ocean, the beach with no one else around, the gulls sounds across the dunes, I suppose miles of swaying grass resembles the sea after all, the same calming feeling ensues, wind waves undulating on, perhaps she waits there for me, or am I waiting for her to arrive, here at, the sunset of our lives, a sun sinks below into the depths, seagulls become just black angle angels hovering against the glow, tired and quiet now, there is just the sound of the waves break, the pulse, the true deep heartbeat of the earth herself, and your hand, I can feel the warmth from what blood is left, our eyes locked out to the seascape, as if we are one, and we are, because that is what I wish this to be, my lady in waiting, my love, I will come for thee, if I have to cross the face of god or the scour the body of the universe – for you, I will, I will come, to spend those last moments with you – as one, I will walk barefoot across the surface of the sun, burn all that remains save my soul for the return, for I will journey on, until, I am once more with you, my love, my lady in waiting.
always there. (a poem)
reliable light switch,
always in reach
on and off,
like the sun’s daily ride,
always in reach
on and off,
one day the bulb flickers
causes a moment pause,
always in reach
on and off,
some years later flickers again
and then just off,
reliable light switch
forever gone.
notes: I was on my exercise bike and this came to me as one of my basement lights went out, sure, it was flickering, it was on for so many years, and flickered on occasion, and then was out completely… you do the math, if you know what I mean, there is more to this poem internally as well if you unpack it visually…
Shades of My Garden 