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
.

destiny…

destiny…

Photo by Jess Vide on Pexels.com

so,
if we truly are-
dust.
then we may be familiar
you and I
embraced within the landscape

for eternities
pebbles on the shore- once
we were meant to meet
in this life
of that

my heart
my love
I am sure
if only that
I am sure.

notes… almost a lost love letters post which I am known for (well at least by three people or a little more) but this one… felt more general, I am thinking about pre life here… and after life… we are molecules, we have a physical component, so maybe we met before, on a beach, is that a reach? not to me, it makes perfect sense, maybe our attraction to each other is molecular… and ancient… and beyond what we think we know, we know so little, but don’t tend to really think about it… all stuck on this magic marble… spinning in some in•fin•i•tes•i•mal section of the universe… can we be that small ? no, we are that small, but that does not mean we have not met, a million thousand times before, why else do we coalesce now ??? your thoughts and comments are always appreciated… thanks.

the birthing…

the birthing…

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

“a postulation on the transient nature of self”

a colony
prescribed by the hand of time
ordered into the womb of god
delivered
and so you are

notes… sometimes things pop in my head, I could tell you I am not religious because I am not, but does that mean I do not believe in something higher… how can we just be dropped here right now on this little marble in the middle of supreme vastness ? sure, it could all be random, but I would rather think a hand is moving things behind the scenes, I’m probably wrong, so what… in the end it does not matter, so I choose to believe my life has meaning…

we are, in the air…

we are, in the air…

on the air’e

nary a worry
bare’ing on the cloud countenance
fair recompense
for seasons spent –
in blankets
distant time
now in slumber
in the gloaming
a solid azure temple looms
testament to that coming soon
if joy had a soul and a mate
written ‘cross this beaming sky
even up on the skin of suns
doth sing, doth rejoice
hymns of the life of promise
for even death’s dark heart, is warm’d
I would not foretell a gospel of such emancipation-
the atmosphere, she is in courtship
with every breath drawn in
on the air’e –
rides sensations
eyes that have had this common pause
this common cause down unto a leaf
the beauty say keep
from within my hand
into the very ground
reflecting back, our wonders
spin-spinning faster
the sunlight slides
out across the landscape
flat shadows stretch long
they affirm my existence
for now, at least – for now.

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.

the crucible of a cubicle… [__]

the crucible of a cubicle… [__]

‘cubicle’
an interrogation of flies-
I sit at my desk
cigarette, half cocked, not lit
ashtrays, ashtrays are long gone my friend
papers, semi-arranged, by year, by slot, desktop
or what the cat lady dragged in-
priorities rise and fall like a tide
always coming in, always high tide
I would like to think I made something of a life
wife, kids, but no, here I am, here I am in this-
this prison to pension, this desk.

notes… in my mind this is double edged, I pictured an old tortured soul sitting behind a desk somewhere in the 70s with stacks of things on all corners, almost a hoarder situation, kind of a noir comic vibe, I don’t smoke, never did, but that vibe, the angry, gritty, smoker stuck in a corner with no smokes, ashtray an anachronism laughing, ending a life where you fought so hard for truth and found naught… just what was in my head when I wrote this. oh, and yeah, in a way reflective of me, in my newish shiny office, I have a window, and that makes me the happiest performing animal in the zoo I call my office home…

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…

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.