1.
how time flows
how time goes
and we know-
but still.
2.
the songs of our youth
keep us young
but remind us of our age
and they age
as do we along.
love snippets
1.
look into my eyes
I can not imagine
life without you
but here I am
without you.
2.
the adoration of men
is fleeting
intoxicating
but as all
does not last
what does?
love.
on birds and bonfires.
I think my bones miss
sitting by the fire
the crackling conversation
the desire to inch closer
like sun on cheek
but down from heavenly domain
man’s built, until sunrise maybe
but comfort given in the dancing streams
I imagine a bard weaving
amongst the trees
the accompanying wind
is a friend now and again
causing light arms to throw embers
into the night sky
maybe-
one day to become stars themselves
for they are perhaps lost seeds, themselves
simpler times then
though the lens, is still there
to travel back barren bare
stripped back to bark
in the crisp evening air
and might I transform myself
or forget myself better yet
to spend a mile in front of a fire
with friends and the like
dancing lights in eyes alight
like we have done since the dawn
and in shielded ways will continue on
a bard’s song
leads to dreams
a bird’s song
opens the morning sun.
this was totally off the cuff (one take), as usual, inspired by this music, it all just popped into my head, the scene, the feel, the words, the simple notion of just being in front of a fire once again… for those who have never camped out there is something magical about sitting in front a of a fire you made up on a mountain top you climbed, watching the embers float up into the night… it ahs been awhile…
tired flight
the sweet sweet nectar
of sleep
to bathe in dreams
afloat on, unsinking tide
crave the reprieve
from daily plight
the precipice of this piece, working late every day mostly, not a complaint… um, ok a little one, but I am not totally burnt like I was 2 weeks ago, I think my boss knew I was legit ready to quit, even after a 20 year stint, seriously it was that bad, my boss loves to fly by the seat of his pants, and it got him where he is… but there is not always a one size fits all man, sometimes a left turn is required, but when you are wired and found the goose with that golden egg? I get it is hard to deviate from that especially at his age (75)… anyway, this was like a little fever dream, I was not exhausted, just dreaming of curling up in my bougie bed setup, duvet, comforter, thousand thread pillows the size of a Vdoubleu, the kind of pillow you can melt into in a fancy hotel, it’s worth the investment to sleep on such butter, trust me on that note, but the posture, the thought washed over me, good sleep, when you are a little older, is a commodity worth more than a thousand coins of pure gold, even though you would take the gold most days, there are times an armada of treasure laden ships could sink in a hurricane while you drift off in your domain – worth the price to see the prize disappear into the tides…
the moths.
the moths of the dead man
have infested
my pantry-
for I let them
over time
too many boxes left open
too many items not quite rotten
left to fester to foster
an inviting nest
even in the arms
of winter upon winter
they persist.
more often than not things just come to me, in this instance the impetus was literally moths infesting the pantry at my mother’s house, my father passed over three years ago now so the house is quite empty and my mom never did the day to day things to upkeep the place, imagine living in your way for 50 years with no change (not that my dad was one to inspire change, not his strong point, old school dude, product of his generation), imagine the shift in your world when the administration is gone and not only that, all your friends and contemporaries are dead or dying, we all will get there, well, hopefully, if you live long enough you are out living many people you know and love, so anyways… long story short, there was a moth invasion in my mother’s house and the line popped into my head “the moths of the dead man”… not father or dad, that exact line, so I wrote it down and the rest, well, that is how it went.
observational
clouds
above a house
standing still
but this can not be true
trust in eyes
the fool’s divine
all perception
the highway, to the mind
how much we trust our eyes, but they are only as good as our mind, I am terrified of being blind, as most people probably are, I can not even imagine it, less than being deaf, as deafening as that would be, the prospect of blindness would cut me more I think, I hope to never know either. but just sitting in my office, looking out the window, how our mind sees things, clouds standing still… but they are surely not, in fact, we are spinning at untold speeds, held on to this globe by gravity… but we do not perceive it. Are the clouds moving… or are we?
sly
the choreograph
the slap
slow motion
damn, I deserved that
with a glint
a split
look
the lock of eyes in a sprint, stopped.
we both smile inside
with that sly sumptuous style
j’amour
the beat of the drum
I wish I could possess you
so the world would never know;
my secret angel-
perhaps better this perfection would be
left alone
in the elysian fantasies of my heart
without the corruption
of the daily barriers
an afront to the purity
of my affections;
there-in the coffin for which I come
to leave the light alone
or never rise to one;
my love.
random.
3 snippets, stuff that popped in my head and I just wrote… not connected, or maybe… just the way I write sometimes, I endeavor to not question the method because I want this to be as pure as possible… I am getting there I think but we all let the shadows of ego in every once in a while, just a matter of training ourselves to be the pure thing, as best as possible, and just be honest with your audience, they will know it when you are not so…
I pine for the days of yore
your love, your hand
in all, a plot from some lost movie
or one familiar into which I now project
to be a hero
or the common man
just once more
to hold your hand
and look
into your eyes
grace that smile
all to mine-
a memory so pure
yes, distilled by time
like stone smoothed by a rivers run rough
I wonder what has become
worn down to just round
my past has
become
just that
-common.
on a wooden post
dangles
a chain
to witness
a breeze
where once was
a man
ruins;
once were
tombs;
once stirred
sooth-say
god has graced us
with such endeavor
that even in moments
of crushing weakness
I can feel strength
if I so chose
it’s funny, it is all right there, all the time, we choose not to do the right thing, thinking we have time, we have precious little, I know this, you know this, do we live it moment to moment? Even with awareness does not come grace, this takes effort, the cycle is easy, too easy, a seductive loop, and I am no prophet of truth, we all know what is true… but what do we do with it daily? (and this is also my feel for haiku, not pure to form but who cares, it is about feel, I think haiku really is a great endeavor in theory, in my head this is haiku, much like an American I am not conforming to the form, yep, that is correct.)
Shades of My Garden 