like illuminated ants in file
this nightly dance
a ritual bath in the sense of sameness
the commute –
blurring lane lines bow
bright red flashing ants marching
single files
for miles
seasons pass
frames change drapes
seasons pass
the way remains the same
morphing into a sense
of lost time
and time spent
where did I even begin?
(stream of consciousness type post, I generally call it free form, call it what you will.. just call it!)
the injection of love
(no, not some bad romcom or adult movie)
reminders, life flicking your ear lobe so you pay attention, a moment, as the feeling wells up you are reminded of other times, those eyes, I forgot her eyes, of course that is all you see these days with mask mandates and the like, the old saying, gateway to the soul and all that, overacted, but like many things scooped from some basin of truth, with some people you just have a gaze, there is something more there, an instant lock, indeed, almost a ghost-physical embrace, at some level, you feel it, you know the other person does as well, you can just tell, by the feeling in your bones, or wherever this emanated from, but there is no denying the fact, the attraction, the familiarity, the instant comfort yet butterfly fragility, we see so many eyes over so many days, a glaze, a haze, a zombie trance as we walk through, enough that the fog becomes the norm, partial blindness to the remarkable form, and then, every now and again, we encounter someone who orbits our star, becomes our moon, even if for a moment lost too soon, that instant bond, love at first sight at some level I suppose, or just a knowing, a simpatico, a fellow traveler in this world with some strange unspoken bond, yes, I forgot her eyes, not the color – but the light, all the time spent floods back in an instant, her laugh, her smile, how she destroys all my ramparts instantly, I used to be so oblivious to all this, and maybe now, as I grow longer in years, I appreciate these awakenings of time, and there is a boost in my step, a pep in my smile, an inner warmth that I can recall like a memory translated into injected elation, an elevation of the spirit just because of her presence, of course this reminds me to be both jealous and happy for those who have found their true love, and have nurtured the same into an enduring relationship, I can only imagine, or dream, or reach but I know this fate exists for me in these moments, even if I trip over the realization or miss the signs, perhaps my mind is best set looking, or perhaps my heart should lead the line.
notes… couldn’t help myself here, Hall and Oates were a staple in my household growing up, so I hated them naturally, but in retrospect they really were better than the average pop band of the day, catchy tunes and Daryl Hall is a good dude who hosts all sorts of musicians these days at his website/venue… check it out.
forsythia,
my dear, my consort
cast out upon the land
a golden plume
a golden mane
the stirring locks of ostara herself
harbinger of spring
message received
for you are truly born of the stars
from your roots rise sunrise up upon this earth-
rejoice!
spring’s sweet songs do awaken.
for spring is a procession of progression–
cherry blossoms bathe the path in white to lavender and all manners up to purple, urban planning has them lining the streets in rows like a royal parade celebrating victory over the great winter – for at least a time, and short lived they will fall like confetti littering the street on the day after, the daffodils, holding golden cups sky-upward ready to brim with the coming rains, those same rains will flatten them as they nourish the rest of the surely coming green flourish, the ramps, onion cousins, or maybe garlic uncles, no, more like tiny onions, their chive clump headdress pokes through looking like unruly fits of grass, spring onions – yes, they are known to check in with such a name in certain establishments, the arcs of forsythia, golden arches with no drive thru, inspired in such golden rod as to make midas blush, the mornings are filling with song and sun, Ostara winks as her womb births the dawn of hope, and so I do, spring is hope, hope is spring, and then the worn hot complacency of summer sets in, burns out all the green, and then the world must sleep once more to regain, to regenerate, to be born once again – better to enjoy this now, the colors, the procession, the daily progress of life bursting to be seen, yes, take in the scene.
sunrise-
for surely
you realize
I have waited up for you
all night,
like a train that arrives at the station,
yes, I have the brochure
the times and destinations listed-
but still,
the vanguard on the shadow loom
prompts fear on the loose
as time drips slowly down
fears bread and brood
rampaging now – out of sight
slightest sounds reflect
until- that morning light –
a morsel of salvation
as mana from heaven.
notes… restless night, waiting for the birdsong, waiting for the sun, anticipation causing anxiety tapping insomnia, not my usual gig, not my usual thing, but every once in a while the night is long, longer than others, at least in thought, at least in my craw, so it was…
april fool’s day
should be my birthday
for I may wish
to restrict
being only a fool
for one day
not the whole year.
notes… I started this little project a few years ago on April Fools Day.. that was not an accident, for I have been a fool, and still am, no matter how far ahead I get I know I am handled by my own limitations, trying to breach them is my mission, I fail, I stumble, but I move on anyway, head held high with foolish pride, because… well, I’m human you know. And the poem… this is meant as an exercise in diction/pace, sometimes they just come to me that way.. so here it is in simple terms… enjoy… and thanks to all who have ever taken a pause here to view my work.
(a spur of the moment / freeform post)
snow, -the weight, snow had broken the back of a tree, an old pine, not tall, but stout, the kind you could make a teapot song about, covered the view to the boring side of the neighbor’s house, taken for granted until now, now split in two from the sheer weight of snow more than a few weeks ago, so, even though the hour is late for such things, evening, the air is crisp, borderline cold, but just enough, enough to be a refreshing refreshment rather than an impediment to work, no breeze tonight, no breeze to chill the hairs on my arms to stand at arms, just the sharp clean air as an infusion and invitation to engage the evening, and then the pine, pine has such a distinct smell, how could I forget, as I clipped off the branches outward in, with large hand clippers, with almost bonsai-like detail, such a divine smell, one of those things a memory never forgets, a transportation to the first time in a forest, or touching the sap on cones thrown like footballs as a child, or cones laced with peanut butter and nuts strung up for a squirrels delight, pine, one of the only green statues to stand up to winter, even now as the season is changing, forsythia has shone golden light on the dulled lands, ramps have burst through like tufts of rebellious hair forts, here and there, daffodils round out the crew, even here, at night, trimming the branches down of this broken pine, soon will come the giving rains, and the explosion of life, the glory of spring, but now this sits a time, somewhere between dawn and full sunrise, ah, the smell of pine, as I trim and opine...
in search of rain
or perhaps some wine
promise to sing
whichever lends me the time
to dance the whirl
to let go of the world
a hop, a skip, a jump from a curb
fly for an instant
downward splash
forget all troubles
blank-in the past
ignore the future
tunnel-in-to now
take a deep sip
take a bow,
take this all in-
for this is now
soak up the time
for your time is now.
(with joyous intent)
fallen
the skylight is round, I’m not sure how long I have been down here, seems like a lifetime, and I’m told by the suit behind the booth that is all I am allotted anyway, choice or by chance? I’m not sure frankly, these parts are not friendly, not deadly, just keep to your personal space sort of place, a pale place, there is enough light to survive, thrive? perhaps not, when moving about you lose sight of planes of existence, this all seems normal until you catch a beam for a dream to ride up on, what is beyond? and why do they look at me with such disdain, shadow faces sneer, canines glean, do they not see? the up there? monochromatic shirts, brown shoes, unisex doors and signs adorn the shoals of this box, everything is a box if you are contained, only if you see the walls, why did I have to look up? what evil impulse and seven years bad luck cause me to break the mirror in pieces so willfully, on the floor, there has to be one, a floor, but just a blurred mist where my feet should be, with a solid form, I am walking on something I pronounce, a dervish whirling, spinning about, the dos-si-do I do with my fellow captives, although they seem to have the arrogance of freedom about them (they never look up, really upward), and I do not have shackles per se, where did this seed of thought sprout, instantaneous? subcutaneous? every thing has an origin, that much I am almost mostly sure, did this come from out there? or in here? and how will I ever know?
sincerely,
searching for meaning
(unknown who found this note or who may have written it)
notes… one of those that just popped in my head, as if I was thrown down a hole and muddling about with fellow unawares but yet I was aware of whence I came, sort of a vision, faceless faces except for the mouths, rounded features, almost like animated stick figures but more like mannequins… that was what was rattling around my brow in this piece… as usual, all comments, thoughts, eyes and what not are appreciated. you could be watching law and order or something instead of browsing my page (because somewhere, at all times law and order is on… I tell you…)
so timing,
why then did you shoot me
for you are my princess-
or this a self inflicted wound
so I ask circumstance
who happens to be, to my left
after some contemplation
circumstance says ‘yes’
(wings are not always feathers)
for might I – fly?
even then-
imagine, a butterfly in flight
is an exercise
the so-delicate the so-soft the ballet pirouette
yet effort lies root the rouse;
to my friend, the hummingbird
a dervish of the common earth
a-wings a-blur
hand a scepter to the nectar queen
move forward from that pounding heart,
I might rather be a simple gull and glide
on above ocean tides, falls and rise
suspended as with silken threads, drawn a puppets ride
swaying forth like a child’s swing
as someone else pushes-
perhaps… even that… the hands of god.
Shades of My Garden 