the binding profundity of the dark; a governor’s call rings grants a stay from decay pretense/ see-saw \reprieve this puppetry of light until that dire hour from which no noble or vile traveler has been seen or heard from since.
.one of those that just popped into my mind… the profound coming of the dark, the unknown, I know how to hope, I know how to dream, but… how am I to battle that, to survive that, the prospect of never being is natural, yes, but it is almost worse than the alternative, I try to wrap my head around, the universe made me exist, all history united in this, me and you, but yet, given my chance, it will be all over in a glance, it is maddening, it shakes me to my core, there is a time past fear, and this is it, which makes me question everything. and then I fall back and wonder if it is better to question or just live on every breath, even if that makes no difference it makes a difference now, even if that is all we ever will have, I hope, I pray, not… but as my poem says we have not heard from those who have moved on regardless of who they are… and I will be much the same…
voices are distinct, such as we, think about how much goes into a particular voice at any particular time, time, yes, time, genetics, body type, the evolution of ears that are around for the voice to enter, the endless amount of variables that makes a voice unique, because they all are, and then suddenly, like all things, there is silence, that distinction, that amalgamation of so many things… is gone. Never replaced by the same, there is no way to duplicate the recipe, sure, one can try, and maybe even bake something close or near a clone, but never, never to be exactly the same, so that voice has gone out, like a snuffed flame, once a life consumed, a remnant only in memory of a distinct sound, a singular voice, gone out, a golden disc, destined to roam the stars…
voices disappear voices go out like lights- once guided, gilded gilded lighthouse that surveyed the shore gone, swallowed by the surf of years and perhaps not all are lights but some are we come to trust to guide lessons learned beards grow long, and grey salt in the air whether calm or fray a beam we rely on even when we know the way, so well a voice gone taken back into the sea a light out never replaced to be
notes… in tribute to my father, been a year now, he was not perfect, so neither am I. But his voice, the noise, the frequency… there is silence in that space since, his sound’s occupation is absent there… and is missed.
waiting room, there is a window (always a window) stopping to admire the view ever-changing molecules ever-flowing change even on this calm day or nights, the light lets pass a signal to our brain the waiting room with the window and once more no, once only we find a door (the exit … or?)
notes… written at the car dealership (I know, how romantic)… but isn’t this all a waiting room? at times… we are in our little existence, our building, our world, looking out, from a window or the sky-light that caps our ceiling on earth, something is out there beyond, and I don’t just mean the ancient alien guy, there is a door we all go through, what’s on the other side? I wish I knew… I sort of hang my hat on the ole “matter is not created or destroyed” but what if my consciousness is set aside? what then? I admit, it terrifies me, even if I won’t be aware, I will just be… “gone”.. but I did exist so… at some point in time, I was there… but that does not quell the rumors ruminating in my fear…
the commonality of dust the fragility of man but my soul longs for the coast even though I rose from the land my heart yearns to be part of the sea if eternity so blesses, this transformation may I slip into that deep my blood to water forever as my keep
so then, I am of so many leaves when my winter makes the call even me, a summer’s child, after all I am so, just a grain of sand lost in great swaths moved by airs and seas; I am just a lost fingerprint- in the generations of humanity a molecule of a mind once mine destined to rise again but never to this form myself, this again so then, will I travel the universe as a particle burst out when our sun’s end sets to coalesce, perhaps to exist, perhaps once again so then, I wish to become I wish to become then – a dream.
notes… I think often, and I admit I have a semi panic attack, about, you know… the end… I try to rationalize it as we all do, and all those before have, and all after will… it is a hard one to fathom, I can convince you that in some physical way we all are perpetual, but as an individual is my life some 100 year span in the countless billions a lost ship in the vastness of an ocean we can not even comprehend… ? I have hope, that this vastness provides a vessel for my existence. I can argue that I did exist.. I am… but what happens when this existence ends for me, am I gone … forever ? I did / do exist but the prospect of not having consciousness is frightening at times… the pure lack of control over, well, anything… all I can do is hope and pray there is something out there that created me and you for a purpose… what that is? I can not say for sure, I don’t know, I don’t have the answers… and I struggle with it…. but also the idea that no matter what I do the inevitable is the inevitable.. that is impossible to square at times…. but I try, I try.
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.
in this house of seven gables my crown I wear three pair one from these windows, these portals there stares the observer, the owner, the visitor contemplating the street the sun, the trees sidewalks buckled under root curbs so artfully formed like molded cliffs assessing the neighbors all locked behind doors dwellers in dwellings seeking more but just that fatal one step one move the other side, of that front door to leave the confines into only what was seen and filtered not heard, tasted or felt from within these membranes these walls that contain, and protect one specific flavor one specific intellect
notes… we are in our own prison, we have freedoms but at some point there is freedom from this form, and none of us know what that will be…
“origins cruel perception the trick of life am I the culmination of thought of dream my parents decision cosmic reconciliation into being”
sometimes I have a strange view on life. is this all a dream? how would I know, how would I really perceive it, and conversely are dreams real, are they reality, we think of something so it does and did exist because of that thought, it did happen, at least somewhere, in some space, in our mind, but yet we may dismiss this as not reality, what is reality, what brought us forth, a thought? perhaps, it is all a circular firing squad from there, a never ending loop, are we in the act of creating merely by imagination, or is imagination the cauldron of truth, of life, all determined by perception, a house looks much different from the inside than from the out, a mountain looks different when staring at the base than when peering from the summit, and that is a matter of feet, not a cosmic mile like looking at earth from the moon or taking a ride on neptune’s 165 year orbit to look around the solar system from another view, these are the things swirling around my brain this day…
Preamble… yes, I know this post is out of order (this was written mostly on day 2 of my recent vacation) but I finally got all my notes together and transcribed, if you want to read up on Cape May (GO HERE), but in short let me just say, this is a place I have been coming to my entire life, it is an old shore resort town, full of history, hundreds of years old in parts… that said.. here goes….
new towns or cities just do not have the between your fingers feel, the weight, the very taste of history itself spinning slowly in the fog in the air, apparitions in plain sight, hollow sounds floating on the voice of the wind and the ever present, sometimes distant, but ever sounding crash of the waves off in the darkness, even on a night like this, dreary, drizzle hanging over or hitting your face depending on which way you turn, even on a night like this, some might shy miserable, yet, I feel drawn to walk the town, there is both something equally eerie and calming in a nearly deserted resort town, as if the buildings are exhaling from all the commotion of the summer season, homes and buildings that have literally seen and been witness to hundreds of such seasons, taking in the winter to rest their old bones, throw on some new clothes of paint, perhaps replace a beam or two, to encounter again the coming crowds and blazing sun, but that is all rear mirror now, the sun falls short in the day and never quite reaches room temperature or above, just enough light to inform and know you are awake, but in the night, the buildings can sigh, a collective hum across these old streets, this time of year is far creepier than true winter, every scrape of leaf means you are being followed, you look, and see a leaf, but are convinced otherwise, so I understand the phrase now better than I had previously, “the dead of winter”, yes, winter is more desolate, the leaves are all gone, the moon light invades and penetrates around within every inch, guardians, the trees, bare, but not tonight, a slight breeze bends the light, conjuring shadows and forms, unpredictable sights, sounds like shallow words breathed upon your neck, spirits nipping up at your legs, a cold bone finger reaches gently glances against your ear lobe, just out of your periphery but somehow felt, in these moments, strolling through this old town, as the town observes me when I think I am the observer and not just the interloper, I am unsure if I wish to find a ghostly anomaly, some proof of haunting, of life understood as after or in some other dimension, so sure would be belief if I perceived such a thing, or would the fright be more than I could bear, or the disbelief as logic might kick in and overwhelm the sense sold of my eyes, all of these things boil up inside my cauldron mind, the curiosity makes possibility lurk around every corner, surely if there were lost souls they would be here, here in this old shore town, shipwrecks, lover’s jilted, homicide guilted, accidental dispatch, all captured within the memories of these victorian walls, somewhere in a window, I am sure, I would see a form, or a passing glance, a glow, an orb, would I trust my sober nature or lay favor to my rampaging imagination, for I do not know, for I never found out, this evening, as all the creeping I perceive is the autumn playing out final tricks, before the time of the dead of has conspired, to slow down life to the point, of silence, except for the ever dull roar of the ocean waves, just over the dunes, just out of sight.