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.
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…
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.
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.
the 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….