“don’t speak dead of the ill.”
note… just me playing with words, these things pop into my head from time to time, so, I will post them sometimes, not everything has to be a novel you know… and this little line is a little deeper than you may know on the surface, if you ponder such, think about what I am saying here by flipping the usual translation…
“ginger gold“
for such as the ocean hath reached the land
and scorched with tide by god’s own hand
for fierce camille stormed in from the coast
and brought forthwith the entire gulf
through these valleys that became the sea
countless washed past these winesap trees,
but amidst this rip in nelson county tract
from this ripe new wound so would emerge
a fruit pure golden and brightly new
so forever we are reminded true
of dear old clyde and his wife
this plot of earth, the loss of life
for from the mud and roots up torn
that golden apple took up form,
to you, I raise my ginger gold
to you rise! from that dire stance
this fruit of hope, so behold –
so began, the ginger gold.
notes… so this has a lot of footnotes, or links as they are these days, in short I am fascinated by hurricanes and dorian is no exception (I called it floyd 2.0 days ago), I took a look back at the 1969 hurricane season which is a historical one, it produced camille which devastated the gulf coast with a 27 foot (confirmed, probably higher) storm surge, this is a mirror for what happened in the bahamas, so one of the things the storm (camille) produced, outside of the devastation, was the discovery of a new (since popular) varietal of apples, survivors of the massive flooding that killed over 150 people discovered it in the wake of all that tragedy. The rest, well, that should be obvious I hope, and all power to the muse as I wrote this all today in almost one stroke…
“the drive“
birds crossing cross
against the misty mountain fog
a flag draped over an overpass
yes, the fourth is certainly approaching
all the vague forms in the distance
seem like hypnotic suggestions
to my subconscious
or active lucid imagination
outlines, fragments, geometry
for me to fill in
“looks like rain” I think
as thought becomes motion
the drops, large by standards
thud ka-thud thud on my windshield
intermittent wipers, pause
they will do for now
the miles all seem the twins
only the signs tell me the state I’m in
numbers… 156, 152, 145
plotted on a graph, asphalt, cracks
mile markers like minutes on by
patches to cover the ravages of age
and seasons
the constant beating, the humming
of rubber drones on roads, spinning, humming
at various rates of speed
some under, some over
I pass the state police
with no appointment met today
I look for license plates
from other states
to plot a trip, or remember one taken
destinations
local geography
the occasional one from west of the mississippi
holds my attention, interest
for that fleeting second
on my drive
home.
notes… something I wrote back @ the end of June, totally forgot about it, one of those I wrote that I liked immediately, in fact this has no alterations from my original scribbling, usually I squabble over a word here or there, maybe some punctuation for meter or something, but nah, this is exactly as I wrote it
Music ? sort of a guilty 90’s pleasure but they were really a great band (for a flash in time)
and I would be remiss, a fool, or a dope if not to thank you for your looks, likes, hates, spit filled takes, it’s all good (I just waved to you in a gracious manner, I swear)
“a prayer for a young child
may your innocence remain intact
let not that shell be pierced or broken still
until your wisdom
has gathered age
so that you shall emerge
matured and able
to take flight”
notes.. I say this, or post this, as a hope, which I know does not always happen, but no harm in asking, I am not a non realist, but I am an optimist, and always will be…
labor day, the traditional death of summer, everyone rushes in like an orgy of decadence to have the last hurrah, the last dance, on the last day, school begins next week, so seemingly the season of play is gasping for breath, the last stand of the ph warriors who battled chemical balance in their pools all summer long, for this payoff, as the door is closing, I know, in my mind, or in my rational side, that time has a singular pace but I will still swear on my grave there are times when time speeds up or down, always the contrast of what we feel is true up against what we ‘know’ as truth, there are already early casualties of the seasonal war, leaves already yellowed, scattered about my lawn, how quickly the summer is gone, like the rest of everything else around me I will cling to every bit of the warm sun, and absorb every last of molecule of heat, from which I can…
this is not a quiet night, in fact my immediate neighbors, to my right, are throwing quite the party, like they should need a permit loud party, the street is lined with parked cars I do not recognize, my neighbors have white balloons tied to their mailbox, to mark the spot even though everyone has GPS today, on their phones, or otherwise devices, I think to myself, such is the cycle, the cycle of life, a celebration of life just next door, and yet literally three houses down they continue in mourning of passing, and me here, dwelling, veritably in the middle of both, I suppose that is a midlife crisis? being between birth and death equally, seeing so clearly both wherever I may roam? I do not know… and I suppose no one does.
I am not certain what type of party this is, somewhat formal, guests dressed in sunday best as far as I can tell, bottles of wine and platters of food in tow, they have a live band, so I imagine it is an occasion of some importance, the band seems to be playing the standards, I am guessing, it is all in vietnamese, but I thought I heard a rendition of “daddy’s little girl” in there, maybe it’s a wedding, white balloons and all… there is a little cadre of the neighbor’s friends or relatives on the front porch, away from the party, grabbing a smoke, some drinks, probably talking shit about the ones in the main gathering out back, I know this group well, I’m usually one of those self righteous rebellious comrades, too cool for the main room, or backyard, in this instance, but I must realize and admit, it is my own inadequacies and lack of comfortable self that makes me break off, as I do, into the smaller group, where I can exert more control, avoid my own failures and flaws instead of accepting them whole cloth, and wearing them proudly back into the fold, proclaiming me, but maybe sometimes I also think, I do not truly belong, both truths can be true, a married couple of ineptitude in my soul…
as more guest arrive, their long shadows almost stretch and touch me from the sidewalk, these last lights of the day, bending into a celebration, I notice myself in the moment, I am uplifted, I do not know any of the words to any of these songs, not even the language, but somehow, there is translation in the sentiment, perhaps this is latent memory taking the wheel, I have been to many affairs and parties over the years, just not my own, so maybe this is why I know the feelings so well, I guess that is why I feel so relaxed and comfortable now, sitting here alone, on my porch, enjoying a celebration of life, quite outside my own, knowing this is all life, the cycle of loved ones and dear friends, come and gone, celebrations, gatherings, moments, come and gone, these we hold on to, we need to hold on to, each other while we are still here because even within my block, all the reminders of life’s start and end, stay very near.
Notes… this is endemic of my Porch series, I was out there tonight, observing, and writing, and enjoying the world…
“a prayer for belief
so I might find
the strength I already possess
may you guide me
to that inner sanctum
that mountain pass
to my own tibet
to find that temple
already built
from your hands,
so I might feel refuge
in that reservoir
and walk out on to the other side
cleansed, and reborn
enlightened
and in my palms carrying
purpose,
let that spark rise
into burning fire
with endless light,
as I lay me down to sleep
let this belief
guide my dreams
in to this, closing night
so all these days, will open to me”
notes… I am considering adding my ‘prayer’ poems to my collections page, (I have updated it this week) I suppose I will, especially since I just floated the idea, and I love organizing things as if I have power over them, well, I do, at least in my little corner,
music… Cellar Darling – Water (acoustic with amazing vocals, Anna Murphy rules… all)
there are these moments, tiny flakes of time space, hours of days, one of these, these times when I feel like I am living in past tense, moments that have happened before seem intensely ‘now’, or directly directing the now, overwhelmingly, a feeling floods me as if I have been running in place for years waiting for the past to change, or worse yet sitting in place as the world spins around me, past me, passing by, waiting for something, something that will never come, and the ability to rewrite – a wrong…
the day started out so nicely, with the starch definitely taken out of summer, a cool morning, barely 70 degrees, mail order blue sky, someone must have paid to have all the clouds removed for there are none, at least for now, the sun is warming instead of broiling, a barely noticeable ball playing hide and seek in between the full taller trees behind the house, everything is green, with a little tired at the edges brown, I take a moment to look around, take it all in as it were, mornings like these, makes you want to be rich beyond your wildest dreams so you could just stop, stay in place and experience every ounce, then, with your hands squeeze-twist the very confines of time to get every last drop out, but, like most of us, most of any who have ever walked this earth, I have to take what I can take, in this fleeting passing moment, with a shallow deep breath I take in what I can, trying to commit to memory this little slice of near perfection for later recall, knowing soon enough I will be back in the reality of the race, the pace, cars lining up like ants in an artery, all with our destinations and routines, all under the umbrella of such a perfect day, bills to pay, obligations to meet.
so I am driving, the traffic is a bit lighter today, you never know when a holiday approaches how said holiday will encroach on your day, so perhaps my mind is off in another place, not distracted by the constant foot race to my brakes and then go stop go stop base routine, I wonder about things, the circumstances of a life, if they would have changed, would I be right here now wondering the same? these are times I wish my memories were not so vivid or clear, or perhaps to be so vapid as to not care, maybe ignorance is bliss, but I can not know of this, I wish for amnesia, will I be happy… or just unaware? I try and tell myself, comfort myself, convince myself, that I would rather have full awareness, to have clarion clarity, but at once I might still want to be an ostrich, and bury my head in the sands of time, how my life might have been different if this or that, the mental exercise, the gymnastics of a foolish mind and lost heart, and her, would we have changed our opinion on having children, and where has all the time gone as that decision now seems past any comprehension or contemplation… from where I am situated I do not remember the sand escaping my palms, slipping from my grasp if I grasped at all, blown scattered by the winds to the four corners of no recompense, and my hands feel empty, youth is fullness, youth is an overgrown garden of possibility inculcated with weeds, and as the years go, some flowers die, others are planted, some bushes manicured, others upgraded to fancier exotics, and not so suddenly the once wild jungle of opportunity has been whittled down quite nicely, quite on purpose, with purpose, at least at the time, no longer allowed to grow wild, everything has order now, the paving stones, the path all neatly appointed, and I look back, am I satisfied with what I have? or who I am? but there is no magic elixir in the face of time, no amount of thought or determination can catch even a second in a bottle, or snare a minute in a net, my thoughts seem shackled by the past, tension on the chains, my own doing, but there is no instructions how to steer this ship, how to set the sails of life into the headwinds of success, for as I cross the trade-routes and circumnavigate, like the great explorers, I come to know, to sail around, this earthly globe, I arrive back here, in past tense, all the same, but years now spent.
Music to read by… (when will you just trust me and click the links?)
>>> Paradise Lost – Ordinary Days
how do you fix something so broken
start at the beginning
and forget about the rest
the clouds are like a perfectly aligned photograph of a still fire bloom set upon the dazzling supreme aqua of a pristine tropical ocean, maybe a cliche, maybe not, I’ll take it any day of the week, and three times today or tonight as the sun is slipping under the horizon, even though this is really just the earth’s rotation, such a large but understood concept, but do we stand here and admire that fact? or feel the spin, feel the ground whipping around at dizzying speeds, all with our terra firma feet planted well on this ground, the dirt, the thin skin layer of the molten apple we call earth, a seething ocean of fire just a few miles, under where we feel so safe, a thin layer of air all that separates us from space, how precarious we are, but do we perceive it, we worry more about the local buzzing about, unaware of some outer calamity that could end our little love affair with ourselves, the action of every breath of every being, an orchestra of the absurd chances of just being, being here, writing this, or reading these words, I am truly amazed in moments like this, I think nature is sneaky, or wise, or both quite combined, to show us glimpses, here and there, drops of reminders, breath taking visions, thundering falls, tiny bugs of imaginable stripe and scope, unimaginable combinations of dna in humans alone, the colors, of eyes, of hair, heights, and smiles, the buffet of laughter shared across global realms, all revealed in an evening sky, the signs are all there, they describe locations, the mile markers, more subtle than neon flashing colors but no less informative, all around, so train the mind, use your eyes, take in that precious breath, hold a loved one for just a moment to feel that warmth, that is the miracle of life, this is bounty, this is our corner of the universe, the only one we can possibly know but we are here in the face of impossibility, that rare bloom of existence, for a short while, stars have formed your very core, for once twilight is now your veins, once heavenly bodies are your precious thoughts, take a moment, absorb the world’s wonder, feel the universe in your bones as we are one, we all come from the most basic of elements, a recipe of those touched by a spark, and here you are.
sitting at a light, a familiar one, a common one, route one and nine, or maybe just route one at this point, a typical late summer afternoon, the sky bragging and flashing an amazing spectrum of colors, if you care to stop by, and I do, for a moment, collect up my consciousness off the floor, and look up to that sky, something I hope I never tire of, or at least remind myself to remember the sky by, on days that are more or mere gray, or perhaps when my outlook is under the weather, to remember, days such as this, windows down, sounds of my choosing caressing my ears, staring out into that sky, getting lost but not enough to piss off, those in traffic with me, waiting to make a left, and then – a burst across that sky, a flock of geese, candian probably, some other type, your guess, immediately I think to myself, for who else am I going to think to, that I enjoy geese more than other flocks, the lines, the patterns, the organization, the ultimate arrow point, perhaps this says more about me, on a psychological level, than I might care to admit, but in flight, the precision, the dynamic of coordination, the collaboration of individuals, appeals to me, at some base level, my base level, rather than the flocks that look like schools of fish darting in swirls back and forth like a whirlwind, no, I much prefer the geese, and there is a honk, not from them, for the light has turned green…
Shades of My Garden 