the prospect of rain.

the prospect of rain.

Photo by Sourav Mishra on Pexels.com

(a stream of consciousness post)

on the prospect of rain, and mood, and timing, I guess this is like all things, glass half empty, glass half full, deciding which side you are on, as a rule, or as the wind blows they say, ‘they’ who always remain unnamed but seem to have so much sway on the every day being referenced constantly and all, rain – rain in march calling for the coming may, of course the old glory april showers, but today, straddling the boundary between winter and neigh, I am enamored with the prospect of rain, a cleanse, not quite the divinity of a baptism, more like an old school car wash with a bucket and hose, just to wash down this last bit of snow, well, what was once snow, more like a sullied mass of garbage rolled cotton swabs swiped with black shoe polish, maybe the world is always this dirty, just we didn’t notice until the white magnet of snow stuck around on the ground for a week or more, even surviving a temperature soar into the seventies, damn snow, damn snow is stubborn indeed, a seed of the wretched winter itself, a snarling old man in the beat up house down the block by this time in it’s life cycle, without a care, in some withering chair fibers bent and spent, trying to snatch every bit of breath and air until the time has come to move out, in time for a sunny condo to sprout up into the summer dance, yes, I am wishing for rain, on this somewhat dreary day, a grey day, a nice soaking rain, a gateway to that next phase, to see a curbside tide racing toward the corner drain, somedays, most days, I might wish for sun – not today.

Sound of bow against the sky }}—> ~0~

Sound of bow against the sky }}—> ~0~

Photo by Manuela Kohl on Pexels.com

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)

staccato style.

staccato style.

Photo by Moussa Idrissi on Pexels.com

a glass of bourbon
on the hotel balcony
by the beach
a poor substitute
for a family
night prescribed
perhaps I have not tried hard enough
the way the dice fall
always a pair
and this is autumn
how many springs and summers
will I
for surely less than more
night has calling
sunset missed, I blinked
midnight scrapped, strapped, a bedouin
lies in my bed, perhaps.

notes: I am in Cape May NJ this week, one of my escape hatches, but that does not always let me free of my thoughts, as they are, and so here they are…

Thoughts from the porch…

Thoughts from the porch…

desert under yellow sunset
Photo by Fabio Partenheimer on Pexels.com

(that thing I do) …and the strange summer continues, the singular perfume of coppertone replaced with the stark drying reality of hand sanitizer, as of late the humidity and heat bear more of a resemblance to late summer, and these hazy hot days have strung together like an oppressive archipelago stretched across an ocean ring of fire’s back, all in the cast net of my immediate sight and sense seem worn down, the world knows that only needed effort be spent, anything above that red line will be savaged drowned in sweat and drained out with haste, like a sudden plug at the bottom of a lake pulled, like in a bathtub, downward down, spirals and gone, to the last drop, even sound can not bear the weight, there are a few, creatures here and there, wise asses, singing from within shadows fronting proud, but no brazen chasing from branch to branch, no courting, romance or anything other than rest and wait, the first ambassadors of summer, the fireflies have come,  admire and rejoice in their strange shows, there is no Broadway you know, I wonder what I would do if I could flash a bio-luminescent part of my body, I would hope to have control when off it went, even the pages of my journal are moist after a few minutes out this evening, paper sweat, unfortunately this does not make my words more salient or have more depth, I wish I could hear the purrs of the clouds, for surely they are doing so, sun on their backs, casually rolling through the darkening azure path, rubbing the corners of their mouths on the horizon bent, nothing on their agenda tonight, except to simply be, stretched out for miles like mountains, motion barely perceptible like dreams sleeping in the deep oceans unseen, I see leaves moving, bobbing side to side, and yet I feel no breeze, just this stifling brick cocoon of moist heat, barely evaporating off me even as an hour or more passes, not so long now I will retire back to my man made shelter, with the control of the weather at my fingertips, and then might straighten right up like a parched flower placed in a vase of purest water, and bloom again – for at least some hours.

‘triggers’ – sassafras

‘triggers’ – sassafras

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we all have them, perhaps we are aware of some, some creep up out of nowhere and make themselves known, well, of course we do really know from which they emanate, from our past, our experiences, life’s little moments or big ones or those in-between, I am always fascinated when one pops up from under the ether, today was one of those times, I was off in my social distant preserve, well, ok, even pre-pandemic this little corner was always a lone go, if I saw more than two people in a given day that would be a record, there is this space here in New Jersey, only a 15 minute drive for me, that is rather unique, a winding park where a brook (non babbling, more of a give and take conversationalist) carves through ancient rock formations and is constantly washing fossils into the stream, and it is 100% free and legal to meander through the entire thing and look/dig for said fossils, this is not a common thing, anywhere that is, so the privilege is certainly there, being alone in nature, especially on a lovely day such as this, well, that’s a bonus, so, I travel there to escape the normal world, to unwind, listen to the micro waterfalls and birds sounding all around, I go there often when the dial hits above 70 degrees, so why was today different?
Sassafras
for the uninitiated, or people not from around these parts, I will give you a moment to follow the link and get the basics… (waiting…) … …
OK, that’s enough time, but man Dave, can you get this thing back on track already? eh, you’re right, maybe I should call this blog “tangents” at times, but this post is “triggers”, so back to the matter, sassafras has such a specific meaning for me, such a direct correlation than just some random tree, if you see one (they are easy to spot once you know, three different types of leaves), if you see one rip off a leaf, rip that in half and then again, then sniff it all in, it is a singular smell, like lemon and pine adopted a beautiful child, you can even make tea from the leaves, BUT! that smell, that experience of ripping the leaves and the inhale, transports me back instantly to day camp, my first experiences in the wilderness outside the woods of my town, taking the bus up into the Watchung mountains (tame mounts by any count), tree forts, corn stalk fields to run in, bug juice (a cheap version of Kool Aid/Juicy Juice I think), hunting for salamanders under rocks, the pop of box turtles as the bus ran them over and climbed the hill to camp (not the most pleasant memory I admit but it was so distinct), day camp, the first time I was really away from the folks for any length of time, everything seems like an eternity at that age, every single day was a complete enclosed adventure, and the next day, start over, tighty-whities with your name sewed in, handed the brown paper bag lunch with the same stuff, board the bus, anticipate the winding drive up, run out like a dam burst, claim your cubbyhole, and frolic about, I even got to sheer sheep, looking back, maybe not a skill I would need, but making macaroni necklaces isn’t exactly a vocation either… so sassafras, it brings all this flooding back, in an instant, like a flash flood from my subconscious, things I have not thought of in decades, from just that simple scent, that singular scent, all wrapped up in past experience, I have a sudden hankering for bug juice…

upon Spring (and I mean listening to Vivaldi)…

upon Spring (and I mean listening to Vivaldi)…

white chrysanthemum flower on white surface
Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

joy! with joy!
the uplifting
the song of spring
played up on Vivaldi’s strings
the germination of possibility
a rebirthing machine
the seed shall touch
lead forth to harvest
then of joyous host
this is the entrance, the start
the promise of life
from a new born star

notes… I went back into my notes from last year and found this little thing, spring was certainly different last year, and I suppose this reflects that, I must admit it brings back the memory of the glory of spring, the feelings, they were so muted this year, they are slowly creeping back, with a mask of course, kind of dipping a toe in the pool before moving forward… it is easy to forget how in a short time all this will be behind us, it will.

thoughts… from the porch…

thoughts… from the porch…

silhouette photo of the ocean
Photo by Ray Bilcliff on Pexels.com

the sky is the portrait of a blaze, moments like these there are colors that are difficult to even explain, like flames of deep reds and purples blending and lurking on the horizon, I might imagine how this all looked as I look back with an ancient eye, clouds, white clouds, like angels racing off to the battle, the blaze, the hordes of the underworld that await, the unearthly glow, for what else could this site be? just some random formation of moisture, a construct of nature, weather conspiring to ignite imagination, why lose the spectacle of this all, indulge in the genesis of how stories unfold and are told in the night sky, but not every night, not every night is the show such as this, not every brilliant magenta hue is seen dancing as the curtains of night unveil,the sprites of streaking white angels dive off into the narrowing event horizon, as that lone beacon rises, only three quarters full but bright as any moon recorded, and before a moment’s breath, the clouds are gone, dipped and passed somewhere out of mortal sight, lost to the lands of kings and gods, seemingly swallowed by the ever motioning night, the grand scheme of color carousel has faded out, just the moon, with a spurious eye, casts light from up on down, a reflection of the sun upon the face, ever looking down from that lonely space, the night watcher compels… sleep.

notes… part of my porch series, the sky just had a certain look, for only a few minutes, I pulled my car over, and the muse planted a seed, and it took, and grew into … this…

A touch of whimsy…

A touch of whimsy…

person holding red and yellow fruit
Photo by John Lambeth on Pexels.com

“a peach in the park”

how thoughts ignite in flames, bullet trains and maelstroms, so where should I start, so where should I begin? oh yes, a peach in the park, how might I endeavor to discover the clever fellow who placed this fleshy fruity fellow on this spot, might I infer into the meaning, the intention of this pit full globe placed perfectly perpendicular on the corner of this wall of laid stone… Should I become the king’s protector, a sampler, for a taste of hemlock, and reap the rich rewards of a job well done, unless I am done in by dining on this course, of course… Or is this the lost remnant of unrequited love, a date never met, literally a fruit not tasted, a memento of a moment not materialized, left behind in hest with heft on heart on broken, on further review, I do not think I like this interpretation…  perhaps this is an offering to the goddess of the central, in tribute to this grand oasis laid in the land of no sleep, surrounded on all sides by city streets, taxi keeps and buildings that dare scrape the very rooftop of air itself, a thankful ode, a nod to the one who keeps this trove, a grove, in the middle of all the manic metropolitan bustle and hustle, to the power of that natural spirit that sings in trees, howls across the winds, showers clean with the rain, blankets pure with the snow, I think I like the romantic interpretation of this intention… Or perhaps this is just some cruel trick, waiting for some fool (such as this, me) to pick up said peach grenade to receive a face-full of blasted peach parts, quite humiliated as the secret camera is revealed and all the phones that know no yield, up on the net I go, famous for something I’d rather not, for at least a cycle, face covered in shame and peach cob, no, this makes my hand recoil, I look around quickly to foil this latest plot, but nothing seems amiss, but should I take the chance?

and with all this scheming, mind running, scenario scrubbing, a subtle stranger (as we have not been introduced), has quite gotten on the loose, for behind this perfect peachy day, a squirrel has stopped to eat some fruit… well, I hope the spirit of the park is not amused… but for sure I am off the hook…

Notes: I have to say, sometimes I have no idea where this stuff comes from, well, technically it is me (obvious) but these things just pop in my head, to me, this is whimsy at best, letting my mind stretch and wander into some unknown field and describe the grass there.. if that makes sense, and if you read this it probably makes sense, and for that I say…. thanks…

Contemplation from the porch.

Contemplation from the porch.

close up photo of street lamps
Photo by Muffin on Pexels.com

the lull of white suburban noise.
I contemplate the sameness of my street, for me all this has always been here, but surely this hallmark will be gone, strange to think of dinosaurs, beasts, and all manner of creatures traipsing about this space where I sit now, concrete foundation in this tamed landscape, or so for now, soft sounds amplify in space like this, a neighbor walking mistaken for some demon lurking just out of my sight’s reach, until a bright yellow breaker rolls into view, and I concentrate on their steps, how uneven they are against the lose layer of debris that resides on top of the asphalt, the non perfection of form, scrapes of humanity, I could call this a soft cool breeze tonight, but somehow it is lighter than that, almost just the subtle presence of air settling down, not enough to provoke thoughts of cold, or flight back into my hole, still waiting for the spring, patience, I know, but still it wears thin on me, the dull low roar of commercial flight reminds me I am not far from the airport, I could go anywhere right now, but where would I go? where would I be? I have trouble accurately describing the sound of passing cars driving by, I know the technical side, tires on pavement in rotation against the ground, some seem calm, others rushed, as I try to make out the muffled music during the brief encounter, or to build a story about a neighbor filling a jar full of momentary assumptions flavored by flash judgements, based on a car, driving by, in only this matter of time of my arbitrary observation, a neighbor, I only know because their house is on the same block, a stranger, in any other contextual lock, the same person walking comes back from the other direction, on the sidewalk this time, not sure why, variety I suppose or no thought to it whatsoever, my direct neighbor across the street gets delivery, no signs on the car so I can only speculate, they had a little girl, she used to play outside, I have not seen her in a few years, how little we know about those in just the next house living whole lives next to ours, I wonder what lurks in the shadows and dark spots and corners, but in all honesty, there is nothing here that can harm me for real, this tame banal suburbia, the lull of white noise, the sleepy outdoor gaze of a jersey night


illuminated city at night
Photo by Kellie Jane on Pexels.com

notes part of my Porch series, tonight spring crept in, I even heard some children plotting games from the yard in back of mine, just waiting until the spring shakes back and forth like my dog after a bath except spring is looking to shake off the cold yoke of winter, which certainly is stubborn this year.  all thoughts, comments, questions, and quiche recipes are appreciated.

and they come in pairs…

and they come in pairs…

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(this is related to my previous post, quite by accident, or circumstance, or the whimsy of the muse) Oddly enough, as I woke this morning (better than the alternative), when I walked outside to observe my ‘get in the car go to work ritual’, there was a mad amount of noise afoot… crows, in trees on both sides of my street, so this wrote itself (I suppose I can take credit, the pen was in my hand, but sometimes it feels I am just a cosmic means to an end…)

a gathering of crows
in twin mirror treetops
bookend my block
angular shadows
pasted up against naked limbs
screaming, toasting, celebrating
I think of an irish wake
and then on a wink, on a wing
unison, sync, they fly away
on to the next barker’s perch