driving to work observation (an addendum to my last post) …

driving to work observation (an addendum to my last post) …

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and for all my bluster, and flowery language, inevitably the world reverses course, something about a bloom on a rose I suppose or colored glasses in the same pose, for today the world turned (as it always does), I guess I would call it a ‘heavy rain’, for it is, with weight, there is probably some technical term but I am certainly not a meteorologist, at least not in this life mix, the once lovely pure-‘gelic snow of a day or so ago is now reduced to sludge, and choppy dirty flotillas of mini-icebergs worthy of a titanic miniature collision, stark white has turned dull grey in best case, and worst case near chimney-innards-soot black, stained by the dirt of roads and travelers by of all ilk spilt upon the canvas, once gingerbread perfection has now fled, from roofs – swiped swaths of vanilla icing missing, stolen by wayward fingers of solar and wind, a receded white hairline revealing flaws and spent youth or the truth of time reality, the shelf life of pristine is a delicate phrase, and the rain, local buckets of spots, the kind of rain that always winds up with a huge lumbering drop in your eye socket as you walk out the door, because, because it just does, or a big slap of wet right on your bangs that bend and drips that branch forward down your face before you manage the escape scramble to the car, then the inaccurate art of getting the wipers at the right speed to match the pace of rain, they never are, so you settle some where in-between, such is life, the dance of compromise rather than the exact right, which makes perfection or sheer beauty that much more of a delight, since the visual has left the dream maybe my ears are more attuned, not the sweet soft calming silence mid storm swoon, now I hear every little thing, every drop, as I park to embark to my office confines, I hear the world siphon into the sewer drain, drain, I should not let the drab drain me of drive, for I am alive, just muddled in the middle of snow becoming dishwater soup in a cafe serving up grey, there will be better days, for there always are, and if not, memory serves, serves them up warm… if I just close my eyes, think on the sun, two dollar neon pail and tiny shovel in hand, molding castles to serve this little lord of the sand land, waves gently lapping at a moat’s door, far away from this, and I can feel the sun, I know I can feel the sun.

notes… as I go so mind my goes, dig it… dig it…

musings from the window… (dreaming of gingerbread houses)

musings from the window… (dreaming of gingerbread houses)

I might see the allure now, everything capped and framed in blankets of pure white, the tempest has gone out to sea, the world has settled teetering towards normalcy, the grit and dirt of the pace has not had a chance to corrupt the scene, the cold freezes the world or slows this down as much at least, enough to breathe and watch like chimneys slowly blowing smoke into the sky ceiling, there is a palpable silence to grip when the landscape has been dressed like this, when the local habitat endures the blunt instrument of winter, even the plowed remains, piled up against the curb seem like majestic sculpted berms, foot prints are deep and mark the paths, a distinct record of those who have passed just before you, you size up your shoe against theirs, like a game, filling the gaps with your own gate as you go, gingerbread houses, just make sense to me now, in this moment, covering flaws, making uniform the houses on the street regardless of style and year, I suppose I am dreaming, streaming in the land of rockwell, of sleds and mittens, of hot cocoa, piles of boots scattered in the front hall, sure, the world bounces back swift and the race is back on, shortly, but for a moment, transformed, a neighborhood of warm gingerbread houses is mine to adore…

notes… hey, we got 18 inches of snow here give or take, Edison NJ proper, well, at least to me, north Edison, just outside the donut that is Metuchen, just left of Iselin the Asian Indian capital of the region (damn I am spoiled food wise you can’t imagine, pizza and vindaloo to die for within 10 blocks)

rebirth. a dream? a thought?

rebirth. a dream? a thought?

into the bosom of warmth
might I curl up
drawn in
like a new born
fern leaf,
sleep gently in that calm sea
amniotic womb
echo heartbeat in tune,
for a time-
escape the looming specter,
floating-
drifting in the dreamspace before rebirth,
may I forget the world, for a time,
inevitability to deliver me again
into the world fraught
fraught with perils
from the separation
into a single core
vulnerable as one
separate from the mother,
for a time
until I return to her
once more.

Notes… I often think of the end of life and what may happen (or not), I imagine making a bargain for reincarnation but I can not have my current conscience… sometimes I take solace in that nothing (matter) is really created or destroyed, there is a finite amount (which contains me), and other times I find comfort in knowing I DID (and you) exist, for I surely am, and my final fantasy has my soul released into the universe (or a parallel one) for we are electric beings at some level… maybe that lives on… This is something on my mind often, the unsolvable question, but I must admit, since my father has passed, I have had some calm, I feel like I can still speak to him, and he hears me, and I know the answers but feel his hand guiding me. I can not explain it rationally but I feel it. So the logic side of me shuns but the emotional tugs… and so it doesn’t matter in the end, but I grapple with it anyway…. your thoughts and comments are always appreciated my friends.

phrase… (or phase) a moon enchantment…

phrase… (or phase) a moon enchantment…

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under the glance of the wax for I
sentinel of grace, in this- frozen- field,
a garden they say,
whispers of the fruit- hang
all this from the gate that did pour out
filling the mother burst with life
and all that adorns,
“choose, choose the light”
whispers on shade flight in the ancient tongue
woven,
in dna, in instinct, into cells as pathway ancestral lines
even on this cold stark barren plain
a sign, a scion of the daystar stands
for generations of man
for the furthermore
a fellow that travels, bags unpacked
a beacon, the only celestial within our reach
I pray,
give me warmth on this coldest of the nights of this life
make my hearth dance in joy and with fire’s delight,
whirling smoke swirls, a tribute
in chimney speak, rise up- spiral into the night,
let my dreams ride such a caravan
and visit with you- for but a moment
to press your shoulder- in a tender embrace
bask in the presence of long far and such past
eyes that have seen countless spin
a night, and day again, over
I wish to listen to your chorus
and lay
ear to, listen to, your chorus
as I become a phrase.

note…to those who don’t know, and a nod to those who do… most of my work is off the cuff, meaning instant, and so I do, I am experimenting lately with form and type, just feeling out the world with words, that is my hands molding the clay of the world around me… so, that’s it… and I thank you for the visit, all comments are appreciated, and I do mean all…

willingness…

willingness…

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in a whirlwind of praise
a cauldron of caresses
bathing in sweet sophistry
there in lies
seethes the demon
where ’tis born
“nothing to fear my dear, nothing to fear”
a seduction laced on ear drops
for those we know
pass through our doors
those we know best
haunt these corridors, of ours
a voice, a whisper, a soft homily lands
the pied lullaby follows
to ply open fortifications
the notion, of a nation –
invasion, through the front door.

Notes… words pop in my mind, the opening line of this piece has been bouncing around my head for a few days, and today found a way out, this was typed in one sitting, five minutes really, I’m not even 100% sure of everything I mean, but so there… I post these for anyone to review and feel the flow (or not, that’s cool too). All likes, eyes, reads, diatribes and recipes that include turmeric are appreciated… (this also had me thinking of one of my previous posts)

lost.love.letters.

lost.love.letters.

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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)

a perfect winter morning…

a perfect winter morning…

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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…

window musings (part 2)…

window musings (part 2)…

“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