;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...
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.
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 thenear 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…
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
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….