Tag: longing

lost.love.letters.

lost.love.letters.

by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment
Photo by Daria Sannikova on Pexels.com

I think of you every day
like the sun rising
that simple-
that feel
a gentle warmth
on my cheek, on my eyelids,
as I see you with them closed,
I think of you every day –
the guilt is the passion of the poison
as I am a circled serpent bite embraced,
I think of you every day,
as I drive past, I drive
from the freedom tower to the empire state
as a made-up façade running along my side like a slide
as the sun glides rises up
like a passenger riding in a train
watching scenery pass by
yet, I’m in my car
almost a dream like state
I am so far – from, yes, so far from-
you,
I think of you every day
and yet
sometimes there is grace
for even in this pit of despair
from which I still breath and draw all air-
for there
there was always the truth
there was and always will be love embraced
and for that
is all that saves me
most days… most days.

notes… I wanted this to feel like my thoughts, stop and go, and yet flow – at times, is that not more real than perfection sometimes ? I realize poetry can just be this amazing stream but sometimes I am trying to create life, real life, real thoughts, and that is never perfect, do I want to create some perfect things sometimes? yes… but not this time, this is being life on purpose…

lost.love.letters. \\\\\

lost.love.letters. \\\\\

by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment
Photo by Ave Calvar Martinez on Pexels.com

perhaps this is causality
and I am the casualty of-
the rain
a grey veil of gloom over
even silver linings wane
not some days
not all days
today, one of those lingering
an insidious thought invades, breaks the levy
‘I have nothing’
or feel that way
perhaps only because I ‘had’
I can not stop the swell, the surge
the rush back, a rampaging flood now converges
that a bound fist in my abdomen confirms
my eyes well,
we all want to travel back, to rewrite;
and we do, in a way, down that path, in our mind
but know, always know the foundation
the truth is in the earth, hands clench this
the cruelty of the steadiness of dirt
support of life and burial of the dead roots
as far reach as heaven, up into the air
roots buried, anchors, always, memories
a library, a curated collection
rows and rows of known, wanton forgotten
I am alone-
most days this is not a bother
some days a marker, a visitor, my own host
I scrape for false shelter
draw out the homilies on my lips
all the words I left out
a mantra to my burden
to wait out the storm and pretend some more.

note… to any new people (as I am seeing more traffic), hello you (waving), my work is off the cuff, one off, unless otherwise noted, perfect? no way man…. but I post it… and here it is… when I write the thing it is visceral, you get me facial, that’s all… and if you like it … great, if not, also great, I appreciate the read, the time, your eyes, thanks… we are existing right now at this time…. which is a miracle, billions of the years of the universe have brought us together… for corn dogs… well, er, at least that or more I hope, so all your comments, recipes, thoughts, coherent rants and advice for my garden – are appreciated. I am the bamboo whisperer… I tell ya…

memories etched in oak. //k\\

memories etched in oak. //k\\

by David Koblentz ♥ 2 Comments

and there, on the ground
I was not expecting you to appear
a ghost of oak and passed
a flash, lightning grasps the synapses
a bolt, a soul past
a page again revealed, open tome
and harken back, for she was alive then
there is nothing in this domain
no tree does remain near
no, this can not be here, not now, how?
nowhere in this cradle of maples exists
there was one but gone
the years, in creases
the sun, decreases,
the sin but to live longer than those loved
a traveler stained
tattered remains somehow stronger in the ruin
steel hardened under the constant cause of wounds
circumstance, fate
the great ghost oak awakens
the gateway, a marker
to this time of dying
so oak moon;
I know-
so oak moon;
I beseech you, I seek you
among the long of nights
for the respite of demise
may you grant wishes
upon, whisper
just whisper out, existence.

notes… sometimes the smallest things trigger a memory, this one in particular, I remember the day, much like today, not very remarkable, not very suitable, an early december rain, as I walked outside, I remember the crack, the flash, lightning arcing into that oak tree, the one that had always been, for at least my short life, FLASH! and the lightning arced out into the old basketball pole into the ground, the hair on my arms standing, the shock, well, the literal shock of being right there, seeing the death strike that killed that majestic old oak, and I remember her under that tree, and now all there is, is a patch of grass, not even a nice one, or uniform, many years have come and gone and the earth seems to hold the scar like my own, stump to root gone for so long now, but that little stretch of lawn, a scar, strange, maybe we are returned to dirt and something of us remains in that part, eventually it will all be plowed or something else, a street, a house, but for now, a reminder formed by the earth herself, and today, a subtle reminder brought in by a breeze, I literally do not see any oaks around but there was a singular leaf, a note, left there for me, and then these words came to be….

(for those new to my blog, welcome (and where ya’ been?), I write and post almost all in a whirl, off the cuff, the vast majority of what you will read here is done in one sitting, like I am doing now, flowing, that is how I do things, if you like? great, I appreciate your time, thanks.)

lost.love.letters.

lost.love.letters.

by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

towel on the baed
Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com

I only need to see
but routinely ignore
the empty sheets of morning

in that moment, perhaps a moment, something I usually do not think about on the way out the door, or maybe try not to anymore, but did this morning, how usually, how used to, I might find you there, and stare, watch you sleep, laid out, jumbled, or curled up in bundles, my love, your night black hair, with a few grays, even back then,  in our twenties, how long has this been an empty bed, nothing between the sheets when I leave, the empty sheets of morning are all that greet me, how I have grown accustomed to the notion, a place once inhabited by two, entwined devotion, now just an island, I do not recall even arriving here, just surviving here, but here I am and here I’ve been, so long now… so damn long now… is this to be my end? these empty sheets that greet me every morning since.

lost. love. letters.

lost. love. letters.

by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

a bird on a rock of a mountain cliff by the ocean
Photo by Ben Müller on Pexels.com

“if for one more time
might I hear the songbirds song
outright up upon summer’s dawn
and feel the warmth of that good sun
one last time before I am utterly gone
from this place back to the ground
to be remade yet might I hear that sound
one more time
one dear final time
to hear that bird and her song”

notes… a little more subtle this week, same theme though, lost.love.letters is now archived on my collections page (if it is something you dig).

music to contemplate life by…. Stellardrone – On a Beam of Light