we are, in the air…

we are, in the air…

on the air’e

nary a worry
bare’ing on the cloud countenance
fair recompense
for seasons spent –
in blankets
distant time
now in slumber
in the gloaming
a solid azure temple looms
testament to that coming soon
if joy had a soul and a mate
written ‘cross this beaming sky
even up on the skin of suns
doth sing, doth rejoice
hymns of the life of promise
for even death’s dark heart, is warm’d
I would not foretell a gospel of such emancipation-
the atmosphere, she is in courtship
with every breath drawn in
on the air’e –
rides sensations
eyes that have had this common pause
this common cause down unto a leaf
the beauty say keep
from within my hand
into the very ground
reflecting back, our wonders
spin-spinning faster
the sunlight slides
out across the landscape
flat shadows stretch long
they affirm my existence
for now, at least – for now.

rain dance…

rain dance…

Photo by Binyamin Mellish on Pexels.com

I wish the whimsical
I pray, I dance
on the drum skins of the old gods
lying forgotten in the thunderlands
I shout out, in trance
to transform this grassy prairie
into the bounty of lush forestlands
may brooks break the backs of the deep plates
and carve-cut out the roadways
for life to venture out upon
quench the sponge until overflow
from bird to bee, proliferation
all manner of life, let this be

notes… one of those that snuck into my skull, I found myself in ancient america at the foot of the grasslands, and wondered what it would have looked like if forest had extended outward coast to coast.. so this is that work…

thoughts from the porch, early spring edition…

thoughts from the porch, early spring edition…

demeanor
how it all can turn on a dime, either way I suppose, for once I actually dragged one my laptops out here, usually I am scribbling in one of my journals like a manic chipmunk on speed, which is nice but if you have seen my handwriting transcribing those notes is not what most would term a good time, immediately I am distracted by my background in my foreground, maybe bringing a modern device into this is a distraction I did not count on, I suppose I might, but for some reason I feel the urgent thundering impulse to empty my recycle bin, why? no logic, call it a clean slate for my mind…
so yes, my little corner of the world is not so impressive (pictured above), it’s not awful by any means, there is plenty of nature to comfort, more than you might think for an outlier of new york city, a well developed and trafficked area, consumed by human activity except for the ‘green areas’ so designated as parks and the like, but you have to take what you can to unwind from the pace, literally think about giving your mind some space, get lost in the little jigs various birds make as they go about their goings, wafts of barbecue fill the near night air, now I know that must seem as blasphemy to some, I am quite aware, here, in these northern exposures, the q is more a general catch all term for grilling, not the art form ritual performed in other states, however, the smell is the smell is the smell, and it is one of those things that rings of spring, and even more so summers, all I need to hear is the ice cream truck and I am delivered, but that is a ways off, and far between anyway these days, those trucks were almost mythical, peter piper had nothing on a truck that could draw forth hordes of children like sirens to the rocks, gladly flailing ourselves down the street in pursuit, the mad hatter dash, push pops, bomb pops, or a nutty buddy, like frozen christmas stocking stuffers delivered in the middle of the staunchest heat, on the hottest days of course you had to employ strategy, from what your ordered to how you attacked said treat with you mouth, always on the borderline of brain freeze, and often over, but better that fate than dripping down your arms…
there is the value in just sitting still for a moment, letting thoughts just flow through, I was transported there, I could practically feel myself in pursuit of the ice cream truck and that magical jingle, and suddenly the day has washed off my back, until that bracing alarm in really mere hours for now, the unfulfilling temptation of the snooze bar, like a morning moment opiate, and the whole cycle starts again, but here in my little corner, I can listen, neighbors making small talk about lawns and the coming invasion, the ever distant tatters of light shading different hues to the cloud bellies, the bird chatter seems to be spiraling down by the minute, almost a contest to see who gets in the last word chirp as a matter of pride, I wonder if they know I am listening.

find your place, a nook, an escape, if even for a moment…

find your place, a nook, an escape, if even for a moment…

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

on calming waters
the ripples freeze-frame slide and hypnotize
a gull, on a rock, outcrop
two swans act as ostriches of the loch
the simplicity; the serenity;
moves me, sways me, fades me
on calming waters
distorted reflections like impressionist paintings
another world lies, there a-waiting,
to dive in and cleanse my soul,
shed my common clothes-
for a-while,
the hands of the mother, curved earth basin
cupped vessel filled with the universal
for water is life revealed in a mirror
from which we walked, from which we waked
from which we came; yes
on calming waters
a goose and child forage grass-ed edge
unaware of politics or the foibles of men
for this sense ties not to clocks
but perhaps to ancient sun dials,
sweeping ripples, eyes to follow
one by one, out to the horizons
gone, like my words- fallen to the shore
how many have whispered, the worship here before
and let their depths be drowned
for spirit rise, to be cleansed
for the return, to the dominion of men.

only to fall back, into the mud brick laying
the paving, straw and mud, and the modern spoke turning
the drudgery of construct- a yoke
until again
those calming waters call
until then, until that baptismal pause
shall bring renewal, from mother’s hand

notes… so I wrote this in the parking lot of a church, it was raining so I didn’t get out of the car, but this is my spot, right on the franklin lakes reservoir, it is my spring, my fountain, a spot I can go to and escape the every day right under the thumb of the every day, so I recommend you find one… or better two… or nine, sanctuary to let nature drain the stain of normal life off your pelt… it helps…

all roads lead to… wherever I may…

all roads lead to… wherever I may…

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Rome was not built in a day…
So why am I trying to finish it all today?

So is the way we are, eyes on the prize, the charge of momentum stirring in our skin, when we are set out on the path to what we want to reach we want to sprint, when walking (or at least a decent jog) is in order, but that gleaming trophy is all encompassing, enticing, enchanting, you can feel it manifesting in your hands, so you rush toward that horizon, and maybe stumble because you are not paying attention to the rubble in the road, because rarely is there a road of pure paved perfection, trust me, I have travelled many, and many a mirage of such perfection has seduced my seeking soul, I’m not one to proclaim new year’s resolutions, but mid year ones? OK, color me guilty, but just the same, the fever, the fervor burn you feel in those first hours and first days completing those tasks that propel your mind to dream of the end of the toil, as if a field of crops to chop is all laid out before you in a flash mob instant, but- the real field, just to bare the blazing sun, the heavy sweat, breaking hands from the engage-reset equation, and you want to get it all done – in an instant, but that is the trick, the false deity at wit, you must deny your own temptation, conflagration, intoxication, for the feeling of progress truly can be a trance, so you must learn to slow this dance, to a waltz, to a halt, or even a rest, a breath, a step, a realization that a yard is full of inches, a mile full of yards laid foot by shadow, you did not arrive at the where you are in one day’s travel, nor will you get to the over there you want in just a moon shot’s sojourn travel, plodding might seem downright like… well, plodding, and so it is, focus on the steps, a one, a two, a four, but not more, soon enough you will arrive at the prized station of the horizon, your destination, it may just take some time more, so ponder in that direction, write yourself a note of discretion, goals, with morsels and meals between, so that penultimate banquet will that be much better received, when, and you will, have built your Rome, your home, in a time that suits your will – and the satisfaction will.

notes… for those in the know, well, stop reading, for those not this is stream of consciousness, me riffing on a topic in one take… of course your thoughts and comments are always appreciated, as well as any tips on growing hot peppers in my climate… and when I mean hot I am talking habanero plus… and if anyone wants bamboo tips for northern climates… I have 6 types currently on my property – and I am expanding… I love the stuff, bamboo is an evergreen and there are many varieties that can survive here in north new jersey, lawns are boring… go exotic and more natural.

the grudge anchor…

the grudge anchor…

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

the grudge anchor

man I was burning, a little tiff @ the homestead this morning, and it was crawling about my skull all commute, no, scrambling, rambling, rumbling, an out of control locomotive, consuming all voraciously like a black hole drilled and dropped into the center of my being, screaming, swirling inward, I suppose when things happen in the earliest of hours, pre-dawn, pre-coffee, pre-civilization they are just that raw, primitive, to the bone, no time to waste at these hours, every minute planned out until, well, that first punch of life hits and your plan splits, a swing and a hit from your blind spot, which is decidedly big at that point, and all the worse… you are right, not that it matters, does it?

I understand holding a grudge, the temptation, the salivation, the ability to relent to base animal instincts and bare your inner fangs wide, and in the moment, the adrenaline does provide the sensation, but we are not mere animals, well, at least I hope so, or strive so, the more I thought about it, the whole situation, without even needing or providing details, the more I saw my machinations for another later in the day confrontation – as wholly shallow, an unending conflagration over… nothing, nothing more than two egos like continent plates crashing into one another, regardless of motive, stance, civility or morality, this seething, pulsing seed of anger I was fertilizing all morning – for an afternoon reunion with parties injurious to the situation, ‘boy will I get them’, which turned in time, no, ‘what is the damn point you fool?’ I ask myself, as if talking myself off a cliff edge from oblivion, a hotline to my well being, ‘what is the actual point of continuing this?!’, I confess, almost a blush of embarrassment, how easily wound around an obvious finger outstretched I had become, I was in the right (most mostly), a tip of my toe in the wrong, but what did it matter either way, in the long run…

the grudge anchor, for we all have one, or maybe a dozen, and we have all thrown them deep, for various reasons (some with more merit ballast than others), I was sure as can be ready and my righteous anchor was already half an ocean fathom’s down, and plunging faster as my mind delved, then clarity of thought, the nature of an anchor is intransigence, and then your entire voyage is going nowhere, good, bad, trade winds to and fro – a no go, a stalemate, or a stale mate at home, perhaps a circle winding round the anchor point down, and there is comfort in this fort, this port, this stance, this standing still and marching about your own land, for perhaps that anchor is true and decent (even worse if it was constructed with just an alloy of ego and pure pride), no perhaps I will just apologize for my slight even if the greater slight was a mountain to my little trail hiked, I can have right on my side but not let that collide with my progress across the ocean’s wide, a sacrifice, for the sake of shipmates, for running into those lost at sea, raise the anchor and be on my way, cognizant of the history, logged in a captain’s book for keep not conflict, rather extend the laurel leaf to see what comes about, maybe nothing, maybe spite spout, so be it, let them cast anchors, let them allow their blood to boil at the behest of base instinct in the cauldron of grudge, let my path be free, let them cast anchors, not me.

(notes: this was written in one swath, stream of conscious thought…)

thoughts… from the porch…

thoughts… from the porch…

Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.com

(a stream of consciousness experiment going on four years now…)

this is, well was, the first truly day of spring, no, not the first nice day, but one that seems to announce the semi-permanent arrival, I’d love to paint you some ethereal picture of beautiful perfections, but that is not to be today turning into night, the air, is a soothing temperature though, a soft flow, however, in one direction I pick up the heavy scent of lawn chemicals like a teen with too much drakar doused on, I almost feel for the pests and grubs that must absorb that cruel gruel, I used to think a wonderous sparkling lawn was a wonderous thing, no more, I loathe such a faux carpet as more of a waste of resources these days, and a desert of imagination, not half as alluring as a mix of exotic and native plants that change like chameleons with the seasons, the pandemic must be slowing a bit, just from the sounds of the world, or the ones drowned now out, for there is a not so subtle undertow roar of cars in the distance, emanating from the local four lane road, oak tree road – as if that name imparts some gravitas of nature to course pavement and the sounds thereof, of course, there is the delightful, occasional throttle mash dash, a bugle call for ego small down our town’s little famous stretch, a couple of robins are chattering, not some euphony as you might think, the sound more like a cantankerous old married couple arguing, knowing there is no point in this dos-e-doe, knowing they have an audience’s ear for their nonsense, besides their own (and they are the only ones enjoying this show), robins are not songbirds I tell you, at least not those of this local herd, well… at least my various bamboo plants are blooming, in actuality shooting up new spikes left and right – which does not sound as nice or flowery, but a new generation looking to take a place in the some-day-ending parade, this past winter was very harsh on my crop, they look like a blonde wig that has been tossed about the mall parking lot floor for a few weeks or more, you can clearly see the glory that once was, like an outline, or a memory, but you surely would not pick it up to wear it; a commercial airliner is roaring out there somewhere, horizon-ish, hidden by the darkened clouds, not quite dark enough to see the beacons blinking indicating and exact location, a lone goose passes by, one honk, no formation to amaze by, this only confirms the underwhelming litany of this night, yet… even with all this, and that damn dog barking it’s head off some blocks away, the people walking by yapping loudly on their important calls, the last blasts of the mating calls of leaf-blowers in landscaper hands, somewhere, even in this, this imperfection, my eye is taken, to a small broken branch, barely more than a mere twig, I watch as it swings back and forth like some hypnotic pendulum, am I getting sleepy? no, just the back and forth and the back and forth, breathing in… and breathing out… and I am found, all of time, all of history, have brought me right here, the enemies of my revelation send various types of gas chariots down the street to distract me, but they only make me realize, and crack a wry smile, I found peace in place, the subtle trick, the wave, a fractured stick, sometimes… is all it takes.

notes… I wanted something dissonant… and probably something you never heard, I have eclectic tastes to be sure… but this evening felt like an immersion and birthing all in one…

the onus of shame

the onus of shame

Photo by Kristina Paukshtite on Pexels.com

the trees, their looks bear down upon me
a whole row of judges bent the same forward
their stoic state confirms
they feast rightfully on my shame -;
peddlers of the rain-
the rumblings resonate in the scrum of my ancestors,
a small-broken bird lies, in a puddle, flat mirrored frame
surrounded by lily pads of cherry blossoms fallen
a bloodless crime-
not drowned but that of a twisted neck
captured now placed unto that final nest,
I contemplate the darkening-looming
and attempt to tabulate the celestial math
but I have no means to the master
for I am locked in the strands of man-
for- I am.

notes… this is one of those more cryptic ones that just came to me as is… so, this is how it is… the inspiration was a bunch of trees planted in a semi circle, they looked down at me, or so I felt/thought, and so it was….