in just a few days time the limbs of trees have grown fat with seed pods, dipping down ever so slightly, and I thought I might never utter, how beautiful the reflection in my car hood of one particular overhanging, the reflection reminds me of a japanese painting, maybe the resemblance to cherry blossoms is a trigger, I filled one particular bird feeder for the first time in quite some time, packed with actual seed, I usually just throw my old stale bread bits in there, ‘bird feeder’ is certainly a misnomer, for the squirrels certainly think the buffet presented is for their benefit, I do not mind, I know there is whole industries at war with the squirrels and bird feeders, not here, not for my time though, I try to figure out the sign language of their tails flailing instead, a man is walking with his son, across the street, playing a game where he counts his steps trying to step as far as his much taller father, the kid is laughing it up and having a blast, truly the simple things, the world has fallen away, how fast to shed the human skin, so might I just concentrate on the warming sun of coming days as so I hope they are…
upon the entrance of coventry dawn
forced to march single file toe
asked to be masked identities known
filed past great strong walls silent
such walls with no signs, but stained with mandate
while on the outside the great thousands die
the weak, the old, the ill –
those who can not pay up the price,
and there on massed in great coventry hall
those huddled with luck, a buck and more
for all the protection this frail fort proceeds
all but will with a tiny breach
to crash down with vicious might
a wave, a break, the weight of blight
in that previous moment of told hope
within the seed of doom a fire took
for this dragon has teeth we’ve seen
the world has turned time into a stretch on lean
the privilege of life has but one catch
survival has born down to just one match
notes… to show you how strange inspiration is… the first line of this poem literally just ‘came to me’, I had no idea what it meant, and then I googled “Coventry“, yeah, strange, it all made sense in my head after that, and as I always say my poetry is what it is, I have always gravitated towards the classical models (shelley, lord Byron etc.)… so for whatever reason, if there is one I write this way, why fight it? There is no right way to do art, just produce your art from within, listen to yourself, you are literally billions of years in the making, might as well make your mark, my friends…
I imagine this is the sound of mining, of the pounding chatter of a quarry at peak, for here we are ensconced in the throes of an information age, wrapped quite tightly in our digital holy blanket, and yet, along comes a spider of a plague, or just today (literally today), the sweep of a stronger than most storm system, rolling through these parts with purpose, an agenda, like a horizon long bullet train, tearing at trees, throwing undulating wave-walls of rain, trees, inevitably, bear the brunt of the break, groaning and retching tossed in the gale’s wake, rarely do storms rally for an entire day such as this, consuming hours like candy, tossing tinder like trinkets… oddly, though, I do not fear the roaring of this early spring lion, I fear consequences, but the wind itself is somehow comforting, as all else noise is cancelled thoroughly, no cars, no traffic, no horns or radios thumping, nor animal sign or sound, just the wailing pendulum thrush of the wind testing the mettle of every item in bounds, the purposeful fury of nature, is calming, as the hours pass, then… and there is the thumping, the pounding into the ground, now that all the weather drama has subsided, I always like to take a walk along the lawn after a storm has passed, to see what did and did not last the lash, nothing of sort to note this day, the usual litter of elder limbs that were on their way anyway, nothing too big, nothing threatening certainly my life or limbs, this hardly seems like the same day now, the sun is daring to breakthrough now, bathing the backs of the remnant cruising clouds, the backlit clouds flowing by like milky orange blossom tea blooming, as I continue to listen to the metered pounding, rhythmic sound – my neighbor’s mailbox was a casualty of the day, well, not mortally wounded, but down for a spell, and his was, well is, a so much nicer mailbox than mine ever was, so as I write, letting the cleansing wind surround (as the tempest is quite tame now), he pounds, to open the ground, for a new post, a stronger root, digging a hole, digging a hole has not changed much these thousands of years, of that I can be quite sure, and before I realize the time gone, he is done, the mailbox is back up.
one of the surer signs of spring, in these parts, as endemic as the tides of fireflies on a summer’s night, is the buds of certain maples, that magically (or quite naturally) turn into winged machines of flight, the helicopters… only if Leonardo could have seen you in action, I imagine his inspiration would be confirmation, only nature in all revelation could make such an amazing creation, spinning perfectly in the winds, seed pods, more like wings, but in our local tongue and lore, all I can recall is that they always were… helicopters… you could swim in a storm of them if you tapped a branch just right, spinning around with them until the ground halts the dance, a whirling dervish of birth, when done you could simply scoop up a handful and rejoice them into the air, and all again little spinning tops are dropping all around, maybe this was a first lesson in gravity and design, and yes, the brilliant crafty nature of life itself, but there was none of that awareness when I was a child watching them rain down like conjuration, just the open wonder, every spring, the helicopters would arrive, a play thing provided by the earth and land to a child’s delighted eyes, a miracle of design heralded by millions of dizzied wings whizzing by, and they are still not just some common explained plain seed pod, from time to
time, I will pick one up, toss, and watch them fly, taking me back and reminding me of days gone by…
a prayer for those in the face of disease
for they are the faces we see
when life is most precarious
or stretched out on a bare thread
we look, to them
an army of the courageous
stewards of duty bound
to put aside the self
for the betterment of we
a prayer for you
for strength
for purpose
for divine providence
in these times of great need.
notes… my thanks to those I know in the field, and those I do not. Sports, a multibillion dollar industry has gone silently and quickly into hibernation, that might be all you need to know about what is important to all nations…
I suppose there are those that might call this a daily meditation, and that’s fine, to me it is more of just unscrambling my mind for a time, opening up as best I can to the world, to listen for the voice, a sound, a thought, whatever the universe deems on dropping off at my front porch…
watching the clouds lazily cruise by, much like those lazy river rides that surround and about in waterparks, there is something about just letting yourself drift with no care about destination, time, purpose, just the being of nothing, hand dangling in the water, spinning slowly in the sun, that is what these clouds remind me of tonight, and maybe that’s the point, there doesn’t always have to be some profound reason to be, sometimes, just be…
I suppose this is my cathedral of sorts, the trees across the landscape like spires climbing into the night, upwards higher than I could ever reach but tethered to the ground, quite like myself, everything is bound to this ground in some way, the clouds, the birds, we are all cradled by an invisible umbilical created around this humble earth, a protective layer encases us in the most inprobable of manners, and for us, is just a matter of fact, when even reminders are right there, an almost full moon spies down on the scene, and surely does not look like the actuality of it’s domain, cold, breathless, battered and barren, from here just a cheerful companion reflecting the light of the sun in various phases, so close, so close to us in cosmic terms but so far outside the miracle of our atmosphere that allows us to look up and wonder…
I think there is a tangible perception, unconscious, about walls, I think our mind somehow knows and can perceive walls, think of a cold day when you finally get inside and shut the door, it is almost as if the cold is gone in an instant, and conversely I think our minds know when walls have been keeping us in, cabin fever, or whatever you might like to call it, even if you are perfectly content I think we are meant to be outside, at least part of the time, after days of dreary weather the prospect of just the simple kiss of fresh air on my brow is intoxicating, no walls, I actually find myself able to expand my mind out, open up the floor plan as it were, as I look again and watch the clouds draw my breath and slow attentions.
notes… usually my train of thought stays on the lines, tonight, not so much, but that’s fine, I am not defined, I have no idea what I am, I just am, this site let’s me be that more so than I can be in person, in every day life, I would love to say I am this internal sprite all the time, no, more or less, or less, I am trying to marry the two, we all have to dance, we know what we do well, we know what works, and we work it like a performance at times, to be yourself completely, yes, that is the goal, I am swimming toward that buoy, I hope not to drown before I get there.
my index finger and thumb stained with the yellow of slain dandelion heads, how visceral my hatred is for these little beasts, I can not say the origin or recall, I’ve just known these are the bane of all lawns since the dawn of the great suburbia, invaders, interlopers, never to question that they must be rooted out like cancer cells that threaten the purity of the host, staring down at my yellow fingers I realize all this silliness and history stored within me, items we have just taken, absorbed, whole and then compartmentalized for a lifetime, how foolish, but how human, how me.
instead, these lions should be seen as more, they are heralds, bright harbingers of the spring, even with edible leaves, and then there is the transformation, from a golden disc that sings then sleeps, then without even the cocoon of a butterfly, up rises the perfect disco ball of cotton spires, delicate sphere loaded with airships to transport the future to all corners the imagination or wind or beast can reach, a lottery which odds are obviously good, a simple engine of design, probably will outlast all our technology, the simple dandelion, to be admired, truly.
notes… listen up and listen good, I was there in that audience in 1994 about 20 rows back left of the stage, listen all the way through, you’ll thank me… just listen… this footage was cut from the official release… but trust me, in person it was electric… and when they did Manic Depression, they brought the house down…
there is something about that first drop of true spring rain landing upon your bottom lip, strangely, the top lip impact is just not the same, kind of a drop hanging off a rooftop edge, or sliding off an umbrella’s side like a slug, there is something mystical about that one first kiss on the lower lip drop serenaded by the conversations of the spring birds that abound, such an up-swell of renewal that even ponce would be jealous of, this is not even proper rain, more like a hard drizzle, and then the inevitable patter of cloud siblings as they hit your outer wear, that distinct acoustic sound, a singular drum tone you know so well, no tune you can recall but a beat and rhythm you know so, so well, and then to the eyes, you can see the physical drops racing by, more like bolts and lines than drops really, the word ‘drop’ has such a specific look to the conjuration, rarely do you see actual drops of rain if you care to think about it, I desperately want this to be a pure baptism of spring, wash away the winter and all the dire darkness shrouding the world in the now, the subtle reminder, the tap on the shoulder, the realization, this is April, a gateway, there is a corridor and an ending lest we lose view of it at times, there is a spring, be it a metaphor or a tangible fruit to bear and then pick for sustinence forward, be sure, spring is there, pushing ever up against the dam of this damn winter, gathering such weight behind the barrier until winter can only relent and burst, this is the way of things, regardless of our cares, cars, cities, quibbles, arguments, tv shows, sports teams, skyscrapers, all of it, just window dressing against the never ending machine of this small earth confined to the laws of the expanding universe, size and scope is all perspective, and sometimes the little details need to realign your vision or perception, to bring you back to actual reality, the way of the world and as it will be, when the winter is undone as it always will be.
notes… inspiration is a tease, a master, a slave, all these, I am trying my best to bend to the wind in those sails and write everything as it is… to me, that is, if you expect someone else, well, that’s silly, I am just trying to be the me, feeling better these days amongst the forest of deadly disease that has surrounded my whole existence, today was not my day to go, hopefully not soon either, but you never know, I am trying to encapsulate my thoughts here… on this little blog, and I would be remiss, without thanks, to whatever god there is or not, but I would lean towards “is” because why do all this if there is nothing, there could be nothing, yes, there could be, but there could be more, so I would rather plant my flag in that land without colors on that flag, just the flag that says I am here, I was here, I am…
lose your mind in the last wash of sunshine, this is certainly not a warm night, according to the local weather acolyte a storm is approaching, that certainly explains the wind, sometimes wind has a sinister character, sometimes not, this would be the former, I can not adequately explain in reason that I feel no malice in this wind, maybe I can not tell by the expressions through the trees, for there are certainly gusts and gales, and roars tails spiriting through me and all around, this just feels like wind doing what it was meant to do regardless of my observation or being here, nature’s clock hands ticking, rattling bamboo stalks against the house, rousing the evergreens like fluffing an old comfy couch, there, watching the last bits of amber drain fade into purples dark, branches are still like charcoal sketches now, shadow sticks, mostly hiding nothing, just red hanging buds shaking on the ends like abandoned naked christmas trees, various birds crisscross and pay me no mind, they have their lives as I have mine, a little one lands about twelve fifteen o’clock out front, displayed in the last waves of the day, a framed silhouette in amber, riding the branch as it slides up and down in the wind, such a little compact thing, not bothered at all by the gathering breeze…
Photo by Snapwire on Pexels.com
I try to project myself onto that line, calmly, calmly bobbing up and down in tidal drafts, none of these human concerns bound, for there is value to become lost in a destination, now and again, to separate yourself from the every-thing, the whole-thing, the no-thing, I’ll never truly understand what it is to be that little bird perched on that tree, but perhaps, in some simple cosmic way, we were both admiring the very same things…
notes… part of my porch series, all thoughts, comments and your time in stopping by are all immensely appreciated…
sitting outside on a conference call on my iphone about the state of work, my job, still on going, I think, I was doing remote support all day and never noticed the sun or how nice it was…
the spring sun is beaming down, I endeavor to absorb it all on every surface of skin, I don’t want to leave an inch, I close my eyes so the sun can cover my face, my eye sockets even, flood them warm, such reassurance, such a familiar song in this very strange time to bring me calm, even if for just these instants strung together, there is a rock, on my lawn near the sidewalk, not just a rock, one large enough to sit on quite comfortably for two, they had to remove it when laying the foundation, it has naturally two stations, one where I child could sit, one for those older, so I sit, I remember watching my neighbors from here, now they all keep a safe distance, the landscape roar in the background, leaf blowers, lawn mowers, this sounds like a spring sunday even if for a thursday, robins in little gangs state their marks, seemingly keeping their social distance as well, although they were ahead of the curve, I want to cherish each bit of the sun, for months the light has not brought this warmth that has arrived now, the trees, at a glance, still bare, but on the ends, the sparks of life bear buds, but still strange silent the scene seems, no children arriving home from school at the prescribed times, this could be any day of the week now, I think I can open a window, or two, air out the house, clean out the mood, perhaps clean out the stiffness of sheltering in place for days, the odor of stillness, of sameness, of watching history channel for 12 hours clean, life has slowed to a no pace, every moment seems like counting the time between dawn and dark, my symptoms are vague, for a few days now, kind of a general tightness in my chest, no cough, no fever, I am not sick enough to be tested, and I should revel in that really, but honestly at times it eats at your walls, especially since I know respiratory distress well, not in many years, but in my youth, asthma nearly took me twice, I was actually literally blue, I have had lifelong nightmares of drowning, so this is something that has always been in the back of my mind even if I have not been sick like that in years, a co-worker has the exact same symptoms I do, not sure if that is comforting, clarifying, or terrifying… this is literally one moment at a time, which makes this sun, so much more than just a bit of warmth, I want to feel the sun reach through me, into my cells, give that gift of life for as long as it will, and so I wait, as the sun once goes down again, I wait for the dawn and what transpires tomorrow.
notes… haven’t felt much like writing as of late, maybe I should, but circumstances dictate my mind has been elsewhere, I do not watch the news anymore, I don’t need a body count or a scoreboard, or scareboard, I know what is happening, I check the news sites once a day, no use or function in listening to doom all day long, we will come through, not all of us, this is true, but we can only do what we can do… and I am doing what I can to be good to fellow man, saying a little prayer for us all… (thoughts from the porch is a series, kind of my reaction part of my blog, kind of not)
Shades of My Garden 