Resisting the Poison (a return from the land of lucid dreaming) (@)}(@)

November 24, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

is it possible? I feel different today (and yes my coffee has settled in), I mean, I always feel different after a few days off, but something, something has shifted, I feel it, I swear it from the bottom up, toes up spine down, is it days of optimism (ahem, and rest) welled up? perhaps, has not the usual office grime whiped off on me enough, yet? the dreary drive through driving rain (check), am I different from just a few days ago? what has changed? not much, really, something about perception versus reality I suppose, but … I just don’t know, I feel different, hopeful, even downhill among these moguls thrown out in front of me like field mines in all our lives these days, all is well, hell, not anything has changed really but a sunrise in my mind, I spent a few days dreaming, now, you might think I am joshing, no, I literally spent a few days involved in lucid dreaming, an experiment, to the best I could manage, or drive, I visited Hawaii I tell you, certainly not but my mind touched that spot, surely, I can not describe how I did thrive in that environ, especially since it was the whole cloth creation of my imagination, never been to the real place, regardless of the weather outside, the actual weather, there I resided, for a time, snuggly warm inside the real, closed my eyes with a purpose, guidebook in hand mind, as to where I might go, my own ship to steer, and so I did, some of this was mundane, arguments over meals, details about rooms, the usual insane things in our normal day to day even on vacay, but other times, I was indulged, to see friends and former, others and lovers, the never hads and the used to be familiars, it was all there at the fingertips of instant writing memory, as I went and experienced, and so real, what makes it less real? I woke from excitement, anger, passion, and rolled over for more, as the hours went, a day spent, in another world, somewhere I had not been before but could populate so easily with my mind, a charm, the shore, the breeze, the personal interactions, conversations happened, all of the recall, I could quote chapter and verse although, I wrote this journey as I went and came in REM worlds, as real as spent, and today, back in that chair, that desk, that office, I look out my window, birds traveling from rooftop to rooftop… (as have I)

“…in pieces slide, pieces slide out, we are a puzzle with nothing to solve but ourselves.” – some guy aka me

I stand at the gate and the song my heart sings is of the moonlight
I stand and I wait
for the grace of your hand
to cover the moon
the roses are blushing, a moonlight seranade

the stars, how they glow,
and tonight how their light guides my dreaming,
to you, my love,
do you know? of course you know,
my whispers in your ear streaming,
like the meteor shower above
this earth, and these heavens combined,
has brought this;
a moonlight serenade

let us stay here, as long as time
in this place of mind,
a valley of shared dreams
you and I,
our hands the circle of space and mind
all else remains frozen but our waltzing eyes

so let me not wait to drift to sleep,
come to me in that tender dream
meet me at the gate,
so to sing a sweet lullaby,
a moonlight serenade
the song of my love,
as dreams are only life as made
my darling, my love;
a moonlight serenade.

(now you tell me, how and where I went, and I might flash you a postcard, if only you can see it)

the black swan {{_p_}}

November 19, 2020November 19, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 3 Comments

rara avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno

in the hall of the black swan
fooled by randomness
comforted by circumstance
a guild filled fat with this chance of history
a horseshoe
a polaroid
for I can tell you the sky is blue
and the world is round
might the faint death cries of gallileo haunt
for fate’s rope tightly bound
around your eyes –
for you see:
this blindfold is a master thief
not seen, not felt, a diabolical minion of stealth
a night shifting from darkness
shadow slide shadow in
a black hole to consume all
in regal fold and ornate dress
to change the bend a prism lens
a desire
the cosmic wave background pulses
an echo
a pebble placed pond ripples
skips in loops of perfect eight align
and then-
the elegant black swan –
at last will mate
and pair to sequence – the cosmos at large.

Notes… I am being pointed here, not obscure. We’ll see who gets my meanings, any takers?

yes, the winter ”

November 18, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

from minute to minute, I suppose, I can not track my mind to the finish line, I do enjoy the comfort of snuggling burying into bed, fetal form, to gather warmth, or throw on that old cape may sweatshirt, the elastics at the sleeves have seen better days flapping loose like old flagpole lines @ the shore, but of course this sweatshirt comes equipped with a joey pouch for my hands, I walk out to take out the trash to the assigned bins, ‘hello, mr. winter‘
for I feel his breath on any and all exposed flesh, after last night’s raging gale, there is really little doubt, perhaps a spring like day might mount here or there, but not for long, the trees are close to bare, the town has come and picked up all the leaves left out, the wind meets little resistance now, across this land, I pause, the late afternoon sun now matches what colors there are left around, a snapshot, it will seem like hours and all will be gone, barren, the steady march into soft sleep, hunker down, the days grow short as the sun is just that more out of reach, other sources of warmth become the key, hunker down, soon, the white age of morning captures the dew, clothing and rituals will change, a trade for hot soup from lemonade, the shore becomes still, silent, empty, how things seem so much more empty when the crowds are gone, I wonder what the gulls think, they vote with their feet and beaks, they have moved into the suburbs and the towns, I wonder if those strip mall birds think lowly of their beachbound herds, trading a parking lot for the roar of the sea, I suppose survival is the more preferred aesthetic, but what do I know of birds, only what I observe, tonight in tongues comes a frost, a blanket, an incantation, a charm of making, that white beard that conceals the color green until what is left of the sun warms just enough, you can never plug all the holes of inevitable, surely, all comes falling down if you try to stem the tide by self as a boy, better to gradually be seduced than to outright drown, I dream of the beach in winter, so here my dream walks.

thoughts… from the porch. ” ” ” “

November 16, 2020November 17, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

the howling winds
yes, the cliché, like a freight train, but I must say, whoever coined that phrase, was quite correct, I saw the line coming in on radar, somewhere over Dingman’s Ferry just an hour ago, now, as predicted quite sitting, over my homestead, I sat out for a bit, enjoying the sheer raw power wind, found a spot not quite so wet to take it all in, seeing my newly planted bamboo bent and flailing about surely gave me pause, but things and trees have to learn after-all, I did however batten down whatever hatches I could, the reports of 60 miles per hour received and understood – and felt, what few leaves survived the autumn culling will surely not survive the night, and thirties temp in the forecast later certainly have snuffed out any oxygen left in hopeful lungs of summer, or spring, or whenever this began, the holidays and days that never were, the stalking virus seemingly an eraser of time (where did easter, 4th of july or halloween go?), things changed in a blink, kind of standardized but never slowed down, for children I suppose it might be worse, a stolen summer, a time in life never to be realized, how important things like 9th grade or 8th grade seemed, a prom missed, and there were, no second chances there, children have such strict avenues until they are out in the world embarking in their own canoes down that river… the roaring continues, but now rain has come to play, no place safe, well, no place dry to stay, save indoors, so I retreat, still, I open my window just enough, to invite a piece of the tempest thus, the TV is out, all the better, I have power, tough life I have no doubt, I can only imagine the spectacle such a whip coming through caused in a frontier house of old, wind finding every little crevice and racing through infiltrating, gas lit lamps flickering, threatening to go out and bring the dark veil, huddled in a patchwork waiting for the wind to die down, I romanticize this scene, only because secretly I know my modern convenience provides me the protection to watch the beast thrash about like I am watching some show, the sound though, the sound, my eyes deceive me as I watch a car drive down the street with no sound, I am sure the sound is in there, somewhere, in the blender, but damn if I can make it out, all there is, is nature’s voice, a roar, a throaty steady bellow racing through the leaves fallen at varying pace, stalks touching toes, why does this enthrall me so? maybe I am jealous, I can not conjure such magnificence, I only get to be a witness, but such things are better than not being here at all.

some-time; a captain’s log [—]

November 15, 2020November 24, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

a friend, a co-worker (whom I always meant to hang out with more), is sailing off to another port, quite literally, a foreign shore, her departure has deposited me in a destination of regret, I must admit, for time always disappears when you operate under the easy assumption of unending days, days that run into days and into months… which breeds and feeds the beast inside known as complacency, ‘tommorow, the sun will…’ ah you know, no, time can not be tidied up and put back in the tube, we all know this intrinsically but do not put this in practice most days, we get lost in the germane no-name insane idiosyncrasies of the every-day, a moment gone is spent, and then there is nothing left, nothing left that is – but a side dish of regret, I could blame covid, I could blame a thousand things more, or I could just look in the mirror, I used to believe in fate, maybe I will never be the type to go full-tempt with such a fire, but a little push now and again might help… moments not had, are just utterly gone, out of grasp, we hear the advice “live like there is no tomorrow”… but how many of us really do, and how do I move my consciousness into that space, permanently, that is, not a rental, on the outside I seem like the most confident person you may have seen, a peacock head about, and I am to some extent on the common grid, but only on that little patch of known I call my own, my island, my temperate comfort time zone, a boat tied to the dock that dare strides outward into the water, right there, right there in reach, seaworthy, for I am always over prepared, enough rations for ten men, water supply for twenty, let alone enough for a simple tour on the bay for a day, to check out the other sights and lands so familiar on the periphery, perhaps, or I can step-back-nap further, into my hammock, in this space, my cut out paradise, alone but not lonely, this becomes a self-fulfilling mantra after-all, and the more you whisper in your own ear or to your own heart, like breathing air that contagion spreads and takes over the essential blood in your veins, reinforcing domains, self set fences, like an attraction at the zoo, exotic at a distance, but at the base level, nothing more this world has not seen before, I wear the coat of confidence, so well these days, so well none can tell at times that the material might be cut from hole cloth, sometimes I feel like a 3 sided house, hoping no one will peek in the backyard – and what they might find there, I feel like Truman in the storm, without the fortitude, or the script deciding my destination in the right direction, but worse yet, I am the man in the moon pulling the strings, I have the keys, hell, I made the locks, the doors, the walls, all of it, but still some part of me remains institutionalized to myself, I can not fly, I don’t have wings, but I can break free, not just try, to go forth and walk out on that dock, untie my own creation, have faith in my preparation, I can always return here, or retreat here, but I am tired of just dwelling here. Surely, I will miss her, no doubt, she will never know, or maybe she does. The internet allows interaction, to be sure, crosses oceans, but nothing is like the experience of face to face with the instant reaction, there is energy there, an exchange from one life form of now to another, so now there will be one less patron @ my local bar, just a soon dusty photo on the wall, of the gone by that have passed through, pleasant memories, but not of now, the most important of time, lost, the now. so, with that, bon voyage…

notes: sometimes I get personal, this is my blog right ? I am not some mysterious artist, I am not trying to fake you or trick you, this is me, bleeding me, blind me, dumb me, flawed me… just me, but still this was all stream of c, duly noted in c.

Sound of bow against the sky }}—> ~0~

November 11, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

against the setting, purple rippling sky
reminds,
in countenance shadow doth reflect
I dream of your form with empty hands out-stretched;
my body swells with starvation
in the famine of the death of sensation (your touch),
illusion bores and marks the eyes
falling on to moon lit-skin,
an ache born upon the conscience of time.

in distant mind voice reflects
to listen with my eyes
the song of your words upon my ear
(as I admire how they escape from the supple valley of your lips).
the many places of daily travel
warm (and light) with the presence of your candle’s glow
and yet
cold as the lands that separate live souls;
with hands entwine and walk the path
upon fantasy rides the thoughts of man,
Upon that gallant-fanciful steed might glide
the miles in memory; -but yet
what warmth does this night-shadow bring?
The song to sing in faintest past
and yet
all is owed, on to the future.

palm upon palm, (might I flourish for a moment in your scent)
falling hapless rather than to this lament
I drift to sleep amongst the fear of dreaming-
and do I deny what my mind decrees?
The ancient charm of dreams pulls so heartily at my ropes and binds,
dancing and prancing
logic and delirium
In all the cotillion-; embraced,
and all the body waits for the texture of her naked skin
baring against the dew that forms;
contours are the guide of hands
instinct as the guide of minds,
And sweet sufferance is this
bliss un-achieved in the day-light hours,
finds the night to write a script of wish,
a castle from which to survey and capture
lands beyond and afar from worldly reach,
and yet
lucid as the life
a picture framed in the eye of mind
a committed memory, in a curved line.

Notes… generally speaking my works I post are 96.2% off the cuff (a totally arbitrary number made up for this post, but you get my drift), this post is certainly not, this is something old, pre-me being the blog hound dog that I am these days, if I had to guess this is in the neighborhood of 15 years old, something I wrote and stowed in a box, with other poems, which I might reveal, given the feel, if I feel like it, and I might, I had this typed out and folded up stuck in an old book, it was always one of those I ‘liked’ straight away, the title, the whole darn thing, I am sure my fellow fellowship of writers/artists out there get that, there is always those that you just ‘love’ right off the bat, and this is such a dove, I did alter it a bit, given my modern taste and flair, or whatever I am doing these days. So, hope you enjoy it… As always your thoughts, likes, and adulating praise is always appreciated… any good non obvious habanero chili recipes are also warranted… (damn I love the hot chilis)

thoughts, from the porch…

November 9, 2020November 9, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

(note to any new readers: this particular series is all stream of consciousness that I write off the cuff in one take, so take it as thus)

‘raking’
sometimes the old way of doing something is therapeutic, or am I being the old man where balls disappear because the kids are afraid to go near his yard, is that even a thing anymore? kids can explore whole alien worlds without leaving their room, has the simple joy of a bat and a ball been lost or diminished? not a moral judgement, it is a silly thing to try and drag the past into the now, things change, some for better, some for worse, some for we have no clue, but raking- something so ancient, well, as old as we are on this truly aged world that is, there is something about raking leaves, the rustle, the sweetly slight decay scent in the air from the bottom layers as you peel them away, thrush- thrush- thrush-, like a rolling airy-loose wave into a pile they flush as you go, the subtle vibration of the rake in your hands as it scrapes the scape, in this case, the old thin style, only good for raking things lightly, the head of the thing has seen better days, held in place by crooked bent nails, but this base technology still works fine, a stick with some tines, and there is satisfaction in the chore, there is just enough chill in the air to block any sweat from forming, there is just enough sun to warrant short sleeves and feel the waning warmth on your skin for at least one more day, a leaf blower is just not as satisfying (even if gratifying and practical), plus, they are loud whining machines of arcing crescendos, even the electric ones, maybe it is because I am raking on a sunday, the off day, I want to hear and feel the very pulse of fall not some infernal machine… rake… let the memories seep in, huge piles of leaves to dive in and feel the crinkle… thrush- thrush- thrush-, the satisfaction of building up a huge bunch, gazing up @ the trees to estimate the next delivery, fall is generally very quiet, except the squirrels, they are too easy to track racing through the downed leaves, most birds have gone south already, so here I am, just table setting for the coming winter, cleaning up the lost purveyors of shade, for their job is done now, I’m sure parts of me will ache tomorrow, but in a good way, in a good fashion, doing things the old way, connection to the simple, to the past, and there is satisfaction there, in something like this, raking.

the kingdom effect… [-]=[-]

November 6, 2020November 6, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 1 Comment

I do not know
if I believe in a kingdom
without a king
or a monarchy
without a queen
or a fiefdom
without a thief.
a puppet’s head propped on a spike, proper
from towers to tillers
lest the hands forget;
the rise of a river
from up on the mountain slides
fed deep from the mother
underground wells ripen fruit
spent before, spent on high
to grace life on down the line, by line, the line
but drains out into a bog
a stinking cess of rot
quicksand kills, I’m told
but the bog is a python
squeeze and swallow charm
coils wrap, breath is shallow
and all the while
glaring down from gilded hill
the sound of glassware ringing
singing songs borne on broken backs
from where all bones wash white
so this, I tell, is civilized life

Happiness is… .>.

November 2, 2020November 2, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

walking the dog up the street tonight, sure, colder than I might like (she could care less, tallying tail wags as yes votes that is), the leaves make the landscape strange and interesting, the ground is all shades and shapes, mostly maple outlines (what is this, canada, eh?), lawn and sidewalk are alike, just one canvas laid out, soon this will just be leaf litter, but now? a world of cut out paper stars that have fallen to the ground, the dog’s paws create audible pitter patter on them due to the moisture left from the days weather, and there are puddles, black lakes, hard to see by the intermittent street lamps, like I am playing pitfall back in the day, I avoid most but, PLUNK, not all, as I feel the cold water sink slowly into my walking shoes I feel some angst, I laugh to myself for making such a big deal over it for a second there, ‘just some minor unpleasantness ya dope, get over it’, maybe I should be more like the dog, taking this all in stride, the temp is just cold enough to warrant a sweat shirt, one of those heavy hoodies you break out when you don’t want the formality of a jacket (and damn those broken in sweats are like a cozy familiar blanket), the cold has chased everyone away, so, just me, the dog, the leaves and the occasional car driving past, but mostly what I notice is the crisp air, so enjoyable to inhale, refreshing like a splash to the lungs, near intoxicating, of course I can not linger to long, someone, ahem, dog, is pulling on the leash in anticipation, there is always another patch to sniff, after all, there is a campaign sign on that lawn at the top of the street, good placement I think, and I remember the world feels like it wants to explode in a couple of days, I feel the proto-anxiety seeping in, but out here, just me and the dog, things seem like they will be alright. unplug. unplug.

the first of frost..*.

November 1, 2020 by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

so last night was not a dream (damn), this morning the wet sheen from the previous was quite white, well, opaque maybe, the lawn glossed over with a uniform one coat of ice, for once the lawn is one color, not a patchwork of the various greens of invasive grasses mated with the varieties I actually planted over these odd years, the uniformity and reflectivity of light is a sight to hold onto, if I didn’t have to get to work that is, so I soak in what I can for a minute, and hop in my car, that same loveliness adorning my lawn you ask? well, not so lovely anymore hanging on the windows of the car, damn I didn’t think of using the remote start thing on my phone, mantra: you don’t have a tube TV anymore, you don’t have a tube TV anymore, maybe that dates me… you don’t have a 56k modem anymore, you don’t have a 56k modem anymore, say it with me now folks, anyway, you get the gist, so, I flip on the heated seat (if you have the means, I highly recommend them), and the defroster, could life be any easier? I do find some amazement that time bends in these situations, I mean, not actually, but our perception might like a geller spoon, or is it the mind that bends, et tu neo? how easily my perfectly laid plans are thrown askew by a bit of frozen dew, inch by inch up from the bottom of the windshield retreating like ice sheets after an ice age, majestic too some, less majestic in this form, but much the same process, sans the boulders dragging out lake beds and the like, every inch is an eternity, I flick my wipers to hasten the process, why does the back window defrost so damn fast? I suppose I could drive backwards to work, maybe if I was a movie star, but I’m not (yet…), my stress is amp-ing up a touch (or two), I must admit, I hate being late even when it is of no consequence, this resides, in my wiring, in the code, the programming base, and then I chance look out to my right, my bum all warm and cozy now, look out the passenger window, and see that beautiful blanket on my lawn, stretching like a treaty across all my neighbors as well, and calm, I feel calm.

Shades of My Garden

a window into a life, a conversation with a soul, a gateway to a heart