thoughts, from the porch…

thoughts, from the porch…

(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)

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‘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
.

thoughts, from the porch…

thoughts, from the porch…

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the moon is in league

and so it descends, frozen invisible prison bars, a brisk cold, hints dropped like falling petals scattered earlier in these past weeks, the crisp bite of fall I called such, but now, full teeth bared gleaming white, the ring leader, the pied piper, reverse reflecting the sun’s light to dominate the sky of night, the stark dearth star, a cold dead desert hypnotizing our hemisphere into submission, sleep… a full moon, of course, conjured up’for hallow’s eve, just as the leaves have been stripped from many trees, that inescapable gaze blazes down on this landscape, no clouds, no shroud to hide in, no, open resistance, a brazen demonstration of barren isolation, Winter; that which slows life like a vice twisting in a thimble, at barely – a – pace, the feel has a beacon, a symbol, a scion, the brightest object in the sky as the world turns cold and colder, twist once more, snow, yes, snow, this morning there was snow, not the type to warm your heart on a christmas morning viewed from a cheery warm window sipping hot cocoa, no, dead falling, falling heavy wet white wolf pelts slapping on the windshield, letting you know the summer you once knew is quite gone, and certainly I did not outfit myself in the proper jacket to deal with this early assault, but no matter, I will not linger here, being stared at, examined, scrutinized, by that dead eye hanging in the sky, the cold isolation, the green of the world has peeled back in reflex, but I was watching, I swear I was watching this time, how did I miss this, the coming loud tide of the cold wave, my breath rises out up into space, drawn up by that nocturnal beaming thief, as I walk I feel the presence of being followed, stalked, tracked across the sky behind my shoulder, just over my shoulder, footstep by footstep by footstep, I notice my feet, the fallen, the fallen leaves are a patchwork quilt, in the day a beautiful sight, but night, now, wet and soaked, dank slippery wetness, the kind where you want to rush inside and peel off your drenched clothes, sit wrapped blanket by a fire, the brand of cold that turns skin blue, the body shrinks back into a shell, yes, the chills, run, run up the spine and through the teeth, chatter, I must devine that my ancestors were not of alpine stock, not if this is my evolved shock, even now, years worn down, years documented on my paycheck to this universe, still, some nights, the moon is a sinister beast, dead reveling in an earthly feast. (and so I retreat, cuddle up with my dog, and sleep)

snap thought/write…

snap thought/write…

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tonight the temp is just right
cold enough to be colder than
I can just smell
the sweet leaves that fell wet
so many more to go
but this line between
seasons in change
I lament the summer
but feel ready for fall
prepared by all the signals
my mind is made ready
standing-waiting in a train station stop
waiting to board the transition on

notes… just walked outside, my windows are open but I am not getting inside this lovely wave of fall air, refreshment indeed in some sense, not reprieve from a scorching day, more like comfort in a perfect blanket zone, comfortable, soothing, but yet hints of fall, the slightly sweet smell of rotting leaves, dying leaves, the intoxicating sweet smell of decay, hinted, and the cricket choir is still living, and loud, but not as much or so much, some what subdued, like the temperature, a bull tamed, a wild horse tamed but yet will fade away into the cold, but right now that feels OK, no, it feels fantastic, relief… sweet belief. oh yeah, and this was something I just wrote in my head when I stepped outside, so, that is what it is, kind of haiku feel…

thoughts… from the porch…

thoughts… from the porch…

green leaf on black concrete surface
Photo by Izabella Bedő on Pexels.com

the balance has not quite yet shifted, but surely as the days flash on by, the ground is more littered, bathed in various shades of red and yellow, all over my car window, stuck there spread eagle by autumn rain, always the maple leaf, I suppose, being a creature of the northeast I am having a singular experience, for maple is mostly the way here, quilt patch blankets of wet leaves all around, the ground, the lawn, lining the street except in the spots with the constant pounding foot traffic of cars, all these leaves have come to an end, spent the spring and summer, gathering what sunlight and shade they can, or could, depending on where they were born and placed, all in an effort to save the root cause and see through another winter’s pause, moving on into detached certainty, so the next generation might have a start and the life of the host moves on, the buds of the next generation may never know unless nutrients flow past that newly formed ring and pay attention, that anniversary, the subtle reminder that can only be truly read when cut down a thread and laid out, counted, because everything is numbers, everything is time, always right in front of us, dead fast in front of us where we can never truly reach, like a reflection in a pool, we see everything exactly as is but we can not touch the image by any means, because in a moment that exactness is gone, all these leaves, upon closer inspection, different markings, colors, spots, holes from insects or time, slight variations in size, slight variations in tribe, all in all all fall down, all in all blanket the moist autumn ground, and I may take a moment to remember, them all…

(part of my porch collection, still rolling on…)

and I walked outside this morning…

and I walked outside this morning…

orange leaf on white surface
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a
maple leaf
landed
upon
my windshield
one,
proof
that the autumn
is still
young,
wildflowers still
in bloom
along
the roadway
as the sun
slowly dips
into
the sinking horizon

notes… to me this is about rhythm… but it came to me as thus, this morning, as I approached my car, my aim is to look up and out to see the world for a few seconds, and take it in, before engaging in the useless rat race in which I’m in

thoughts from the porch…

thoughts from the porch…

beautiful bloom blur bright
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‘the lone dandelion’
as I look all about my yard, thinking of something clever to say, or some universal truth to transmit, I have to remind myself, the whole purpose of sitting out here, is, none of these things, to let the world flow, and go from there, I suppose that is my humanity tugging at my strings, sometimes I feel like I could pen a novel in an afternoon, or other times I struggle to write a simple line, maybe this is one of those times, so I pay more attention to the dog, perhaps as slavish as I to routine, yet I know her senses are much keener than mine, or at least more overt, maybe mine are buried by human arrogance, I look at all the leaves scattered on the lawn, a chill I know but since left long ago has snuck back into this room, alas, where did the summer go? I suppose that sentiment loses some significance as we get older and are saddled with work, the days of youth – the summer was this singular freedom, long days, beach days, peeling skin, neon colored buckets, hiking in the catskills, scraped knees, everything seemed possible, now, just the nicer drive to work, waking up with sunlight and coming home with same, a delight on it’s own, and it is coming to a close, as everything does, I suppose, I look off to one of my bamboo bushes, and oddly, totally out of season, there is a single dandelion, no, not even in the flower phase, in the hair is white spread the seeds phase, how odd, and how quite late, I want to tell the little guy he is a bit out of sorts, but why cut short the singular joy this little weed might be channeling, a single dandelion spreading it’s wings, futile, I know, but the singular notion of it is in a way inspiring, a singular bloom out of season, but a bloom just the same, for a second, there is spring even in the face of the fading shadow of summer.

(part of my ongoing series, oddly called The Porch Project, ok, maybe not so oddly)

musical accompaniment: Warrior Soul – Children of the Winter