and the presence of time, trees I know are a marker…

and the presence of time, trees I know are a marker…

the trees of lynnwood road
old photos reveal saplings – carefully planted

a family yard laid out in planning
a landscape of new houses for miles eyes,
the generation that planted them
nearly gone,
and mine, surely not many decades to go
but they will remain
the trees of lynnwood road

how time passes differently from man to tree to moon, from the near eternity to the nearer soon

notes… lynwood road is where I grew up, probably not where I will die but a good a place as any… sine my father died I have been going through his things, and old photos, seeing the neighborhood in it’s original form and all… houses like homesteads dotting the plots, all equal apart, trees tied down because they were so young, one flood or storm and they would be done, now it all seems so familiar, because, well this is, they know me and I know them…. we don’t talk, we never did, but we understand each other just the same…

lost.love.letters.

lost.love.letters.

Photo by Jorge Fakhouri Filho on Pexels.com

are we fibers
or just strings
or links in a chain
I wonder
as I hold you closer

I imagine
we begin to combine
at the molecular level
can we now pass through each other?
or simply merge
for a moment
two spun as one
no wonder
the separation
feels
as this does

notes… lost love letters staccato style (as I call it), I am very aware of rhythm in my words and flow… maybe it is all in my head, sure, but those who get it are wired into my frequency, I do not expect that to be everyone, just you, so thanks for the time, any and all comments are appreciated

a fool’s poem.

a fool’s poem.

april fool’s day
should be my birthday
for I may wish
to restrict
being only a fool
for one day
not the whole year.

notes… I started this little project a few years ago on April Fools Day.. that was not an accident, for I have been a fool, and still am, no matter how far ahead I get I know I am handled by my own limitations, trying to breach them is my mission, I fail, I stumble, but I move on anyway, head held high with foolish pride, because… well, I’m human you know. And the poem… this is meant as an exercise in diction/pace, sometimes they just come to me that way.. so here it is in simple terms… enjoy… and thanks to all who have ever taken a pause here to view my work.

a prayer for the time of my dying…

a prayer for the time of my dying…

Photo by Rakicevic Nenad on Pexels.com

for into the arms of god go I
divine guided path
with a fulfilled heart
and calm mind,
for into the bosom of god am I
for my ego shall fade
to rest
as I have arrived home
for all time.

notes… am I not dying anytime soon (I hope) but if I do I hope for more, I am not religious, I do not prescribe to any particular belief, and I do not have any angst against those that do, I have to believe something else is out there, our life on this world is truly a miracle, it could all be random and what not, I accept that, but I hope for more, I yearn for more, and if I am wrong ? I will never know anyway, so I plant my flag in the camp of hope on that end, and may I see those I love once again… somewhere, someway, maybe in a dream that is a parallel reality…

examination of life… [\—]

examination of life… [\—]

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

for of a pauper
or from a prince
from a line of kings
or of a reign of khans;
that comes
that which speaks all languages
and none.

a last supper, perhaps
the thought had crossed my mind, after
father,
for all your faults
all the times I thought I knew better, still
my father;
meatloaf and corn
paper plate
fruit cup
struggling with the plastic fork,
as I must watch
the constant beep of various machines
trying to understand the strange menagerie
of this common foreign land,
meatloaf and corn
I ignore the bits upon your shirt
the dots of gravy
the unshaved look,
focus on just being here
visiting hours, for this is surely not home
there are different rules here
absolute rules here
for no matter who’s father
least not mine
in a bed
stranded, helpless, reduced
tubes, bruised skin arms
asking about the rutgers score
the masquerade of familiar
what of the outside can be brought in
drapes are the thinnest walls
the clock, sits, only the third hand seems to move
time is giving me more now
as forced conversations run out
then there is time
just the time to be
together, silently
for now,

father.

detached … but yet not.

detached … but yet not.

abstract architectural design architecture building
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

ladders and stairs
paths and ways
tread and wear
I strain my eyes
carefully to examine
the face made of porcelain
all the while I am the puppeteer
holding my own tender strings,
from orbit, lines are lessons
in person, rifts to dear ledges
the more the experience loads
in the fading light ticking
grows – the burden of the coming,
for a mere message
bobs up and down
between the shores
a millennia
maybe more
sailing unto distant lands
a note from the world
unfurled
in a stranger’s hand,
might I be a comet and visit
all vectors, sectors
the domains of light
and the space between
until, at last
my tail glows unseen,
a candle in a courtyard
with a slight wind bent
aged eyes slow close tired
as the flame is utterly – spent.

a thought about the pariah of panic…

a thought about the pariah of panic…

don t panic text on toilet paper
Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

“there is no safe room
in which to abandon to
the light of day, nor the ire of night
cares not what struggles beneath
the universe does not discriminate
fate has no favored prey”

notes… be safe but also be prudent as to the ways of the universe, we are but a cog, we exist, and the universe deemed us necessary in the history of all things, take some solace in this…

a moment, in touch…

a moment, in touch…

duckthe wind, is an overture
roaring, under conductor,
like an inward ocean learned
cresting and breaking among the trees
I listen for the conversation creaks
as if, to contemplate them
but even foreign songs have a tell
and perhaps my earth memory is quelled,
a spring day that presents more like september
brilliant blue sky that belies the weather
bamboo leaves flipping spinning
like an old duck hand carved weather vane, tapping
flapping wings with might upward against the stream
and stops sudden, a moment, an exhale, perhaps
the sun, with effort, tries to warm the day
just enough for the brave , to peek out, to partake
even just for a split second, top heads poke, gingerly, above the bow,
I am swept into this sea –
this blend of seasons, a menagerie
the rise and fall, the beat and pulse
wishes drop like coins into mother’s well
the facade of the world surely around
invisible and faceless
in touch with such bounty.

notes… just a feel thing, a moment, trying to draw the reader into my experience, maybe successful, maybe not, brush strokes against the canvas of reality here in quarantine-ville, the music… starts a little slow, but kicks in around the 2 min mark….