under the slight eye
of a crescent moon
an aspiring father
wonders-
for he knows
as soon as spring is here
so too- summer is already gone,
to know he is tasked to teach-
this among other truths-
but one can only prepare, one
for the wilderness ahead,
protect and incubate
in just time-
for the father is only-
human as well,
travelling through
his own time-
(looking skyward now)
of all the wisdom
of a sun enlightened moon
can not impart the tale
of a billion years
or even, just, one.
the passage of time is sometimes a blur, sometimes an accumulation, sometimes sudden, so here I am, well was, having dinner last night with my mom and my brother, at a familiar place, one I actually saw open back in the day, and man… that almost hurts to say “back in the day”, when I was in college, in new brunswick, almost, no, really a different lifetime back then (different person but the same?), but then here I am, back in the same place, that was once new and fresh, the toast of the town, a home run, a hit, and now sadly seemingly on the down slope of things, and my instincts scream “how can this be?”, but honestly? how often have I been, back here, I mean except now and again, what was once an upstart revolution is now an institution, I love new and exciting places but sometimes want to hold others to their past pillars, to remain the same, nothing does, nothing can, the world changes, menus have to rotate and evolve like the world, this place once had a beautiful-bound-book like menu, practically, worth reading on it’s own, the charm, the feel in my hands, the smell, the strangeness of having the vast dessert menu up front page one, and now, just a single sheet and a qr code, I understand the why, but somehow still pine for the then, even if that holding on might contribute to the end of said…
‘a monday in a college town in the summer’, I tell myself, as if I fail to recognize the lack of parking spots as other places have filled up all around, or perhaps don’t notice that every other place I remember from those years has changed hands half a dozen times or so, no, I guess, somehow, in my wiring, I expect the comfort of certain things to just retain or remain, no, they can not, this goes against the nature of everything, of time itself, so that is how we become a relic, relying on the infrastructure of the familiar, yes, this makes us easy to digest time as time is literally passing without notice to us, but how do we maintain the balance, new and old, what is new is not always better, nor is that which is old, better is better, so better to have the taste buds sharp, eyes of a hawk, and figure out which is superior – now, in the moment, for that is the only measure of time we can savor, if only for an instant, the flavor.
the dinner- my birthday, one more than 49, some milestone, I wonder what will change, if anything, or is this just another day in the chain, or will I learn something, from this refrain.
“straight ahead half luna shines”
as if to remind us
the pull and ways of tide
the constant wax and wane
how sunlight plays with shade
and in all angles exist
where your eyes are fixed
in the moment.
I wish I could close my eyes and see the entire world, but could I? could I handle such vision? we have such a limited view master but feel like we know so much but yet we literally, by design, see so little, our field of vision, is just a sliver, our reality is so filtered, through our two little single k-cup filters, even when we look out upon a vast space it measures nothing in terms of real distance, so do we just find our happiness in this space, or like emotional colonizers do we venture out into manifest destiny, to expand our borders are far as met? to what end? does it matter if you find a home now or then – or just find one with happiness in the hearth, and be content. (I am asking, because I sure as hell do not know the answer)
beads of rain, gathered
from the night before
hanging on
the under window
ledge
waiting
to evaporate-
(and with that, some time later
I noticed, all were gone)
notes: to me, this is what Haiku means to do… form or not…
best face forward-
“So may I present to you…”
on the prow, my lorelei-
extrovertial journey
so I may huddle inside
hunkered down, for the storm,
with my mirror, clutched, in my arms
with- cloistered eyes
an anchored self.
Notes… I am not broken down, to the level I should be, the honesty, no, I still wear a mask, I still play the play even if I am not me every day, and most people consider me the most open mouth honest fuck they ever met, but yet, I have my doubts, my fears, my regrets, like a cart of goods I carry around, I know I should shred all my shroud and so should everyone, but we are not babes in the woods… and somehow we let the world wear us down.
there does not always have to be a sunset…
sure, the postcard is nice, the dream, what we are told is the model, the perfection, but, the feeling is the same, sitting here on my porch with my brandy new torch (well, it is a lantern but that didn’t rhyme with porch – actual photo), so… just watching the world wind down, the day sounds mold into the night ones, with the occasional interloper, a cardinal that seems frantic for some reason bounding around the little branches of my japanese maple, but then the heavy humidity of the cricket chorus starts to chime in, the sun’s minions, arms, tentacles, tabernacles of light, slowly melting behind the neighbor’s house, not as spectacular a sight as a celestial glowing ball lighting up the sky with all manners of hue, but this will suffice, almost like a slow bleed, a slow retreat, inch by inch by feet, allowing the heat to escape up into the coming night, knowing in my head this is really just the world spinning in a certain direction does not distract me from the sensation of my ethereal reaction, because such things are defined and so well blueprinted out does not make them any less amazing, so it back, and listen, observe, there is wonder even in a hidden sunset.
let not the cloud of imposition blind you from the world, the worlds, the little bindings to this world, even with the most dire daggers aimed squarely upon your eyes, look past such knives, for there is always a glimmer, something amazing, something astonishing, because at once, at one time, there was nothing, nothing to experience, nothing tactile to touch, no warmth, no breath, no grass to sway in the warm summer breeze, no leaves to shade, no trees to breach, the abundance that surrounds, is always there to astound, no rose colored glasses need apply, just open your eyes… and look around.
for the sun, is not one color, but a spectrum, even in plain sight, but when split with the prism the colors bend to unveil themselves into the horizon, the rainbow, the instant joy, but, remember, the rainbow is always there, even in drops of rain, ask them how far they have traveled, and marvel how this might be a traveler from another continent, or just around the corner, a neighbor, you just met for the very first time, alive, the whole world sighs as winds tour the globe, and then stroke your ear with stories of foreign lands, because they have been there – a thousand times, so remember, open your eyes, your ears, your nose – and your mind, everything and all things – are right there.
infinity on her side,
the house of eight rules the sky, tonight
of all the cycle of life
of sex of death of rebirth
under the brightest light of sirius
and the wise guise of leo;
as we peak into the sun
at least on this upper side
the downturn will come
and the cycle stays alive
in the eight of spades-
possibility thrives.
the approach of summer rain, the scout, the sentry comes first, the breeze, testing the landscape or warning same like a sliding war drum, the beat of the maelstrom to come, there is palpable anticipation, clouds racing to get away, or ahead, I can not tell which, as I do not speak to them, at least not yet, the distant rumble, lurking there, hiding somewhere off in the not so distance, not sure of the direction- but close, even the street lights seem quiet and hunkered down, and me? I have a love for thunderstorms- perhaps more than I should, the first drops are now on this page as I write, soon I will be forced back inside, but- until then, a sharp flash, the first real one of the night, lights up the entire yard, the drops come closer together now, and then the call and response, yes, the low rumble of ready thunder, as if snarling on the next block, the only natural sound now, above the breeze, is the hum of crickets, and then the drops start to ping on the metal railing by my front door, the wind does not come in waves now, a steady-steady beat if one, a second flash and he growl is sooner and longer- more immediate, closer, and the drops are nearly becoming rain, I can hear the heard approaching, marching, now the wind stands up grown – gusting, last warning, many storms are fair in this manner, a flash again, and now the voice shakes the ground under me, what sounds like an approaching car is actually the tract of wind carrying rain down, moving up the street, in full breech, there are barely any breaks in the racing clouds now, one more giant flash followed by a ten second slow rolling rumble, my lesser trees bend and dance, that is all it can do my precious bamboo, for there is no standing up to this, but rather bend and pray to make it through, am I being teased? this wait? the anticipation, will this just flit on by in the other lane?… Well, no there goes that thought, here it comes -the rain, and there I go, to watch from a window now.
Shades of My Garden 
