our world, in the end, is bones…

our world, in the end, is bones…

delivered from the ether
birthed onto this blessed vessel
celestial gestation,
my ordained time
to grow
seed to sapling
in this world- of- bones;
the very light of the only heaven

we know
projected onto our sacred ground
the giver of life
our only sun
so might I have this chance
this moment
a miracle –
in this- world of bones.

notes: revelation today… the words popped into my head for the past few days “this world of bones”… because that is all that is left, it is not a good record of the amazing life that has spread here, just in my short lifetime, or any time, the earth will be just a graveyard one day, even more than it already is with the dinosaurs and previous life forms… but for us… the bones will not just be our bodies but our buildings and thrivings, it will all end, and that is OK, that is the way of things, I fear for myself, of course, I don’t know how to square that peg, but I am not alone, we all have to meet that end, and so we will, I fear I will be lost to the ether, absorbed back into the universe that has no need for the meaning of me, and I will never know, I will just be gone, I hope, and pray that my spirit finds a place, but even the universe must end, and maybe that is what death is about, even the oldest thing, the only thing, must have a start and an end, this existence, my life, is no exception, but that does not make it easier to comprehend…the end.

thoughts… from the porch…

thoughts… from the porch…

wow…this has been awhile, seems like years since I had the simple pleasure of just sitting out here on my porch, listening to the world’s stories, observing them play out in motion, just letting my brain untangle and stretch out after these months of confinement that define the winter’s constriction, I concentrate on my breathing, a rhythm, a meaning, imagining I could slow my heart down and time itself in the process, so I might sample this, this moment, this all looks like silence, or would should be silence, but no, anything but, while in summer there is the constant harangue of nature, the buzzing of insects, crickets, birds chattering at late hours, ‘munks and squirrels pattering about, no, this is a wonderfully insect free time, and the animals seem subdued by their winter schedule, not yet born free into the renewal of spring, so you would think this would be a quiet time, no, not tonight, tonight is burdened with the sound of humanity, sure, not big city cacophony, but enough to disturb the peace, wind and me, just when I think there will be a break there is one, of the wrong variety, from cars shuttling home, to others seemingly racing to the moon, then, an almost horse hoof click clock sound, in this neighborhood ? Can’t be, but as my ears deceive I might imagine somehow an amish person is quite lost, at least they would be on the right coast, just a state over from lancaster proper, but no, the sound (as I found) was that of a kid on rollerblades, struggling to grind up the hill, it makes sense that there would be a rhythmic gate but I was amazed at how close a resemblance the click and spin of this human mechanism had to the trot of a horse on pavement, which I do hear once a year, down in cape may, and occasionally if I am in the city, so, at least for a moment I was distracted by other sounds, other than humanity, there is probably a lesson in there somewhere… but for now, I am just enjoying being outside without having to hurry inside, how 60 degrees seems like the tropics when just a few days ago there was ice and snow, so I know, to savor the moment, until just enough cold reminds me, a clock jumps back, the sun lingers, soon spring will burst forth and I will forget the dire season.

notes… for the unfamiliar (and judging by numbers that is at least a few million people…) this is a stream of consciousness experiment where I literally sit my ass down on the porch and write whatever comes to mind, sometimes it is profound, sometimes amusing, sometimes maybe not so much… but it is raw and whatever the world reports to me as a conduit…

the flounder…

the flounder…

of course there is always the cliché, the interview question, the ponder, whether a serious psychological expedition or some tactic to make you sweat, or a silly distraction…

if you could be an animal, what would it be and why?

I don’t know if it was the mood, or the food, or the passing breeze that deposited the idea in my mind this time, for some reason the thought gave me a modicum of comfort, for I, want to be a flounder, starting life looking like any other, but changing over time, eye migrating across the line, near perfect camouflage to allow for rest, I love the ocean as well, so that fits… but most importantly as this thought struck down in my head, I would always be looking up, and perhaps I should… this is no fluke !

I think I could make a series of children’s books on this theme “wouldn’t you like to be”… I never really considered writing a children’s book, I always liked the idea of penning a novel, but that has not exactly ever come to pass as yet, this seems natural in this case, I can picture this to be laced with positive psychological undertones now that I really think about it…

the house on the cliffs…

the house on the cliffs…

and so there I was, another year, another week, my fortress of solitude, or at least a rental for a time, a log cabin up on Calvert cliffs, overlooking the Chesapeake bay, I come here on vacation once a year, I wind up contemplating life, and death, no, not a suicide thing, I have never had thoughts like that (thankfully), just looking down at my pile of chips and seeing where I am in the game, this is not reality, heck, it is escapism at it’s best (or worst), I suppose it is easy to take the yoke off, work, family, the daily routine I fall into, immediately I am relieved, within a day, just walking along the beach, my preoccupation of looking for, fossils in the surf (as this place is known for), perhaps just a metaphor, as I wander looking for perfect pieces of my past washed up on the ‘beach’, walking with no direction, no time slot, no time schedule, no idea of time unless I care to look at my phone, the cliffs block the sun in a way that shadows roam and invade nearly at half a day, and the beach, in most parts is dark by two in the afternoon, while the residents are out and about with work and life, and there I wander, no destination except not being able to walk further, the broken shells rip at my feet, so I put on my water shoes, then they rub my ankle damn raw so I take them off, barefoot again, sinking into the shore, the usual chatter of a busy subway platform in my mind subsides, washed away by every lap of tide, even on days when the water was a mirror, still the soft heart beat slight roar as the waves sink into the shore, at times I just stare at the water, or the birds, cormorants preening, their black shadows standing out against the water, and the gulls, their stark white standing out against the bluest of sky, even the occasional clouds can not ruin this scene, a Chesapeake scene painted on the fly just for me, as no where else in the world is anyone else seeing through my eyes right at this time, the wonder, this patch of time to never happen again and yet will a million times more – with wrinkles, the stress I brought in, seemed bound tightly in chains to my being, melts away without any resistance, effortless, regardless of my advancing age I feel young again, full of possibilities, everything seems right, but of course this is not real life, and the mornings, as I sit in place, coffee mug to face, watching the sun come up out over the bay, I wonder instead of leaving a part of me here, can I bring this slice with me instead…

but admittedly on the exit day, it all starts creeping in again, deadlines, ‘have to’s, things to do, bills to pay… all seems to crowd out hope, but I must remember this, the view, from the house on the cliffs, and the clarity it brings me, maybe this is distillation of the soul, and maybe I should pay more attention to the unraveling of my coil…

thoughts… from the porch “coming thunder rain”

thoughts… from the porch “coming thunder rain”

Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.com

There is something romantic about an approaching summer-esque storm, ok, maybe romantic is not the right word, maybe a marriage, a marriage of awe, anticipation and relief, relief in breaking the yoke of humidity descended down upon my neck, a little yard work after work has me dripping condensation down the sides like a cold bottle of water sitting in a hot car, even at this late hour – near sunset, I think, but I can not know from the cloud cover pulled over my sight eyes, a photo flash of distant lightning, a gentle rumble-roll dash of far off thunder, and I wait, will this be a furious tempest pitching a fit or a methodic super-soaker waterfall event, or maybe the red-headed unpredictable step child of both, who knows, as many of these as I have seen this world has seen far more, but she is not taking questions from the press pool at the moment, the battle seems on between good and evil, darkness and light, day and night, cats and dogs, all this painted with portions of perfection upon the sky, or is this just simply symbiosis in plain disguise, the give and take of the land, for I can almost hear the mutters of exhaustion from the plants holding steady tall (but suppressing inner rumors of the will to wilt under the weight of a soaked heavy-hot blanket of a ninety degree day), or maybe that is me projecting, cells vibrating, pacing in circles inside my skin, just as anxious to feel nature’s faucet turned on to unleash a sweet-cool torrent pour, how utterly amazing the whole process really is, sometimes travelling on this bullet train we don’t stop at the familiar stops anymore to admire the old sights, take the time to take a natural inventory of what we know and the startling nature of well, everything, everything we are granted is often taken for granted, all the dressing: electricity, carpeting, TV, internet, down to our very breath, a ladder rungs so high we climb until the ground becomes a tale we were once told, the sky lurks darker, moves closer, a slight cool breeze walks over, introduces itself and has a seat next to me, I guess to also enjoy the festivities and fireworks just as me, and I might thought to have this moment alone, not so, there is so much around, we just do not speak the same tongue (but perhaps share the same thoughts and experience in moments like this), from mole to mammal to avian residents, we will all feel the initial droplets bombarding fall, and huddle in our homes, wherever they are until all is done, some masters of the planet we are, the breeze is a bit restless now as his friends from out of town are arriving, a constant shuffle now of leaves tremble-shaking, and like a slow-motion scripted movie scene thhttps://youtu.be/liwZrALrwBMat first drop smacks me dead center in my brow (could be because I was looking straight up), the ground flexes and sighs as the pores of the landscape gape open to accept the gilded prize, and as the pace quickens, the wind thickens, too many drops to get an accurate count now, this is refreshing though… so I linger, for a few seconds, and now I am fetching to duck inside, after all, I don’t want to get soaked…

notes… for those in the know (thanks), for those not, this is total stream of consciousness from my, um, porch silly ! real life, real prose, no pose… just me, and if you get me… awesome, if not, well.. somehow I will get over it and wish you well anyway…

the unexpected but gladly accepted injection of love into the everyday junction…

the unexpected but gladly accepted injection of love into the everyday junction…

(stream of consciousness type post, I generally call it free form, call it what you will.. just call it!)

the injection of love
(no, not some bad romcom or adult movie)
reminders, life flicking your ear lobe so you pay attention, a moment, as the feeling wells up you are reminded of other times, those eyes, I forgot her eyes, of course that is all you see these days with mask mandates and the like, the old saying, gateway to the soul and all that, overacted, but like many things scooped from some basin of truth, with some people you just have a gaze, there is something more there, an instant lock, indeed, almost a ghost-physical embrace, at some level, you feel it, you know the other person does as well, you can just tell, by the feeling in your bones, or wherever this emanated from, but there is no denying the fact, the attraction, the familiarity, the instant comfort yet butterfly fragility, we see so many eyes over so many days, a glaze, a haze, a zombie trance as we walk through, enough that the fog becomes the norm, partial blindness to the remarkable form, and then, every now and again, we encounter someone who orbits our star, becomes our moon, even if for a moment lost too soon, that instant bond, love at first sight at some level I suppose, or just a knowing, a simpatico, a fellow traveler in this world with some strange unspoken bond, yes, I forgot her eyes, not the color – but the light, all the time spent floods back in an instant, her laugh, her smile, how she destroys all my ramparts instantly, I used to be so oblivious to all this, and maybe now, as I grow longer in years, I appreciate these awakenings of time, and there is a boost in my step, a pep in my smile, an inner warmth that I can recall like a memory translated into injected elation, an elevation of the spirit just because of her presence, of course this reminds me to be both jealous and happy for those who have found their true love, and have nurtured the same into an enduring relationship, I can only imagine, or dream, or reach but I know this fate exists for me in these moments, even if I trip over the realization or miss the signs, perhaps my mind is best set looking, or perhaps my heart should lead the line.

notes… couldn’t help myself here, Hall and Oates were a staple in my household growing up, so I hated them naturally, but in retrospect they really were better than the average pop band of the day, catchy tunes and Daryl Hall is a good dude who hosts all sorts of musicians these days at his website/venue… check it out.

coil.

coil.

in that the coil of my bed, so I recoiled, like an infant, but not one of course, curled up like a ball they say, but more like a fetus to be sure, that comfort, that curl, so natural, so alone in a sense as an adult, but still, the warmth, the comfort, must be inherent, not a fake, that is sure, in these days I curl up more and more, wishing for a campfire, and company, and none come, and I expect that to be, that way, but still, the form comforts me in this cold time of our humanity, spent, indoors, during this storm.

phases…

phases…

Photo by Kasuma on Pexels.com

(a stream of consciousness post)

Is this really me, completely? I feel like a pilot, in a suit, in pursuit of… I’m not so sure anymore, more days, more time, for what? I speak of, I think of, lives past, no, not in the reincarnation sense, although it would seem I have had my cycles passed, I am in my current life, or phase, not defined by decades, no, more or less my surround, what is around, my circumstance, a stanza in time, in a sense, not clearly defined by lines, at least not as strict as haiku, but definitely with form, I have not learned, or grown to, or allowed myself to be myself completely without the forms of norm, does anyone? there were the early years, the carefree, the cage-free, the free range days, certainly, but, my memory is so sparse, was the freedom just a way to breeze through those times, not wanting to sit down in my mind and record such things? I barely remember anything prior to the age of ten, or maybe even twelve, a dozen or so things that stand the time, like perfect ruins, snapshots really, I recall my teens more well, but such a twisting-morphing-growing age, from day camp to college all in a daze, no… college was the third phase, maybe I am getting ahead of myself, that short span at rutgers, was definitely it’s own thing, as I remember those dorm days better than most prior, coed dorms the norm, cohosts at late night soirees, the grease trucks (specifically Mr C’s) near dawn, slapping together forty page papers in a storm of no-doze and jolt cola, one friend in particular whom I wished I maintained contact all these years, that was it’s own time, separate from the rest as I recall those moments best, even now, strangely, and then phase three, my florida years, the pinnacle of hope, early twenties when everything is there, so much fruit flowing that one could never imagine an orchard bare, or even such a place in winter, there was always sun, like some bad analogy or pun, christmas lights on palm trees, and her, my love, the anchor on my heart all these years, but also the picture of a perfect flower, smiling – undeterred by the cracked earth of a dessert planted, no, that much has not faded, a dualogy that haunts me to this day, some would say, don’t let it, for yes I have tried to travel that forgetful path, I have, but it has done me no good or lifted the cargo, now phase five, in life, just seems as if I am on a ride, just riding out the time, pushing forward in a circle, all advice on paper, print and speech says move on, and I have, as much as I can, but I can not shake the past, no matter what I do, sometimes I think why bother, and accept the way, I can refurnish the room, paint the walls, change the carpet, but the room remains, I just have to see if in the next phase things will change, I’m not so sure as this has been the longest phase to date, but one never knows, will I find the providence to lead me to elysian pastures, and they might just be around the next corner bend, so I go, so I go.

thoughts… from the porch.

thoughts… from the porch.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

hello my old friend, been awhile since we spent some time…
the relentless tide of cold has relented, and the world seems to be stirring from her slumber, some number of months now since I sat here, for this simple pleasure, inhaling and sampling the entirety of my immediate native surroundings, to sit and unpack my thoughts, a bird burst from a box, here I am again, alone, outside, starry night, full moon bright stained with a wisp of haze, a furrowed cloud line struck at a twenty degree angle beneath the face from right to left, as if to add an underline to the moon itself, “what a silly thing to do” I quip to myself, in a voice only I have ever heard, yes though, sound has slowly found a way back in to this since empty hall, as the blanket of snow retreats, lawns revealed peeking groggy gates, “ten more minutes mom”, “well, you have ’til march” (which is coming soon, certainly the next number to come up at the deli counter for order), what a strange year this has been, could I have prophesied such an entangled ride? no, for surely not, but here we are, on the promising precipice of another spring, as my family still mourns the king, and there is no natural ascension to the throne known, no writ of delegation, time will take care of that coronation, I suppose, so I wait, I have learned to have more patience these days but time still seems to roll over at break-neck pace, I can feel the itch and twitch of the hand moving, listening closely I can hear the gears turning in ever-forward motion, there is no pause, no rest, save that- one, there is no pause, just little valleys like these moments, like these when I sit among the trees pretending to be, waiting for them to bloom again, to show me the way, as ever seasons to better days – ahead. and this brings the calms of psalms, to the house of my residing soul.

mundane… … …

mundane… … …

Photo by Brooke Lewis on Pexels.com

new year drive

up that same stretch
the same pavement
different constructions signs perhaps
the same general perception
some time has passed
enough to grow a beard, maybe
slightly longer than that
there is a different feel
yet the birds still sway
back and forth over the meadowlands
over the roadway
like giant hollow swings
billboards, toll booths
wet with new year rain
the same
the same as last year’s rain
as far as I can tell –
I await for a thread of sunshine

notes: this is a feel thing, this was my first day back at the office in a month, since I had covid and since my father passed, you almost expect the world to be different, you feel different, you look at things differently, but everything else, feels the same or acts that way, so I wanted this work to be… mundane…