the voice we hear in our heads.

the voice we hear in our heads.

why is my inner voice
not my own?
but I hear so clear

this voice, my mind, my thoughts
a direct action network crossed
the sound of my voice seems foreign to me
not from another land
but definitely from another person
so that is what people hear?
a different intonation in their ear
and that is me- ?

but I can not hear myself (truly)
this filter is biased

there is no doubt
or all doubt
how can I be sure
might I borrow yours (ears) for a moment
like headphones

or ear buds
so I might hear myself, as you do, as you might

but that is not the point
I point out
the doubt

can anyone else hear me, as I truly am
in my own head

in this theater I have led, all these years
my stage, my soapbox, my podium
will the technological trick ever exist
to link my voice to this?

notes.. my point? have you ever listened to yourself? on a recording? damn… I suppose yes, I think everyone must these days, not so much when I was growing up (or not), but now it is an inevitable thought… is that REALLY what I sound like? and how do I converse with myself with a different voice in my head? surely it is not nearly the same that projects out for others to ingest.. so strange, I hear a voice in my head so different than the sound what is released to the masses, that out of balance seems baked into my cake… but who knows? your thoughts I ask ? or should I not impose? as I can only hear your voice in word which is not the voice to which I refer, but yet… which do you prefer?

dilemma (a short)

dilemma (a short)

sentiment, reality though.
I never seem to have the time
to properly metamorphosize
so will I ever be…
externally
who I am, to be ?

notes… and so I ask you (yes you) what are we meant to be? are we free? (to be?) I’m not so sure sometimes, and others I am a blustered fool spitting in the face of an obvious tornado, what an odd fellow, one of my neighbors has a rooster now, I hear it in the morning, thankfully it is on the next block or my neighbor might not be waking up…

PS: if you have a word reaction to my work, send it in, the best I will tag back onto my post, as a reaction? a question? a continuation ? sure… any of these, so if I invoke a response from your muse… please share…

retreat. (in a mind, or?)

retreat. (in a mind, or?)

the desire to
lock myself in my own room

spin a yarn for a time or two
as the outer light does fade
spinning round the barrier
a protector, a soft wall
but yet a border just the same
so I might pause
and rest
ahhhh, respite
no, waking sleep
ability, to transform
and emerge
in time
-to fly (forward).

birth… day… (a poem about life)

birth… day… (a poem about life)

Photo by Alexander Zvir on Pexels.com

So, I have crested oe’r the gateway
into the dawning of my greying age

a fading age
held in the palm
of the scales of time
in counted breathes
and a beating heart
for within this vessel of godly constraint
grows and dies, expands and retracts,
a life, my life

notes… why this song? it always makes me thinky … yeah, not exactly a technical term, I know… but accurate just the same. Angel or a Rat ? or the same ? in the same domain ? so… I was thinking…

fault, and reconciliation…

fault, and reconciliation…

;fault bucket-
I wonder what brigade

might save
as I pass
hand to hand
so I might learn
to trust
again
for at the end
may empty
my burdens;

notes…. form in a way here, flow, like water rhythm wise, and also I meant this to look like a tipped bucket if you can see my visual clues (punctuation and it leans to one side if weighed on a scale perhaps)… sometimes I do things such as this… the funny thing is that the genesis of this thought, this poem ? researching an error in windows… seriously what more of a dork could I be… but always the muse she is guiding me, on a shoulder, in a vein… who knows? maybe I am insane… all the same, we all are to some degree, depends on the influences we listen to I suppose, I will stick by the mystery of the muse, I will… especially if it really is Selma Hayek...

fire, for we are, then we are embers, and then ash…

fire, for we are, then we are embers, and then ash…

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

for I am fire-
seems the obvious enough,
and fuel for this-
shall run scant, I know this
but still persist- to burn on
I know not the source but yet can speculate
for the writers, the authors, the morai
“to the fates !”, dare I
for more puppeteers than scribes
pull on strings rather than script the divine
to fellow flames, such as they were
shelley, shakes and thoreau may contemplate
crown thy mantle with a metaphor
might they be ashes now in the evermore
but the burn-marks still inspire scores
even when spoken toward the dwindling dawn
such might believe the theogony
to spark the daughters of ananke
to dwell in this most glorious dull
a tool of the realm upon the shoal
such as the fuel does inspire
such as the wake does drain the soul
for this I know
for I, am fire
.

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… since 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