this banal vessel?
a carousel of magic?
a recipe of miracles?
an index card-
handwritten scrabble
worn yellowed edges
a tear or two from use
a corner missing
how the uncommon gets misplaced
and indexed
this side of learn’d heaven
such is… life.
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…
the commonality of dust
the fragility of man
but my soul longs for the coast
even though I rose from the land
my heart yearns to be part of the sea
if eternity so blesses, this transformation
may I slip into that deep
my blood to water
forever as my keep
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 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.
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.
“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…
’til death do us part’
and so has passed
and I wonder
for my mother
the separation, from my father
a fixture
as two were one
for decades
a lifetime shared
but now,
separated
and now,
one.
if joy could have form, materialize
have a lover, a consort, a concubine
and this union could cover all sight
this is the emotion
painted on the sky, this night
Shades of My Garden 