blue ‘phin

blue ‘phin

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in the miles of the blue
pointed eyes navigate the blur
imagine skimming
skipping along
like a trance
or a song
spinning through the air
darting among
with thrush
and a rush,
bobbing for air
when the need arise
coursing, like a vein
these are the days of pure freedom
swimming in unison
with my brethren
in these miles of the blue
stretched out in all directions

notes… I think the music fits the feel of this one… of course I am partial, I am me you know, this is my blog so…
rain dance…

rain dance…

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I wish the whimsical
I pray, I dance
on the drum skins of the old gods
lying forgotten in the thunderlands
I shout out, in trance
to transform this grassy prairie
into the bounty of lush forestlands
may brooks break the backs of the deep plates
and carve-cut out the roadways
for life to venture out upon
quench the sponge until overflow
from bird to bee, proliferation
all manner of life, let this be

notes… one of those that snuck into my skull, I found myself in ancient america at the foot of the grasslands, and wondered what it would have looked like if forest had extended outward coast to coast.. so this is that work…

snap thought/write…

snap thought/write…

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tonight the temp is just right
cold enough to be colder than
I can just smell
the sweet leaves that fell wet
so many more to go
but this line between
seasons in change
I lament the summer
but feel ready for fall
prepared by all the signals
my mind is made ready
standing-waiting in a train station stop
waiting to board the transition on

notes… just walked outside, my windows are open but I am not getting inside this lovely wave of fall air, refreshment indeed in some sense, not reprieve from a scorching day, more like comfort in a perfect blanket zone, comfortable, soothing, but yet hints of fall, the slightly sweet smell of rotting leaves, dying leaves, the intoxicating sweet smell of decay, hinted, and the cricket choir is still living, and loud, but not as much or so much, some what subdued, like the temperature, a bull tamed, a wild horse tamed but yet will fade away into the cold, but right now that feels OK, no, it feels fantastic, relief… sweet belief. oh yeah, and this was something I just wrote in my head when I stepped outside, so, that is what it is, kind of haiku feel…

arboreal dreams.

arboreal dreams.

brown leaf
Photo by hiwa talaei on Pexels.com

for in the spring
I dared to dream
unfolded to soaking in
the light that fuels the green

the daring leaf
for I could be a ballerina
toe to tip pirouette a spin
a dizzying mood

the ardent explorer
a ship riding the tide
the temporary waterways
of august thundershowers

the lazy slouch
content to not much else
sunbathe all the hours on
sleep till noon or dawn the day star

and once a tempest passed
I remember well, the fear, shaking
such force upon my lap
and others fled or ripped, and gone

visited by birds
maybe I might fly among them
carried by the wind
onto some mysterious foreign lands

I can feel the drying in my veins
the light remains but how the warmth has faded
for all these I might have been
my last grasp, to grass, browned and spent

notes… just something that popped into my head today, I could have expanded it I suppose, worked the clay, worked the mold, but it is not my way, ole ‘one draft dave’ they call me, well, ok, no one calls me that, in fact that is a terrible nickname, forget I mentioned it, let’s just keep that between us, shall we?  anyway, can’t a leaf dream? who knows? why not? this work was about that thought and the weird cadence in my mind today (do you grab it?), maybe it works, maybe not, either way here it is…

a metaphor, or an observational poem.

a metaphor, or an observational poem.

brown white and orange small bird perched on wood near pine tree leaf
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am I just a bird
searching through
fields of grass
hoping for
a single worm

notes: all about the rise and fall of the syllables, well, at least to me, one of those I call “haiku-feel”, you know, not haiku in the strict sense, sometimes simple is simple…. seems reasonable, at least to this mind…

a poem of circumstance…

a poem of circumstance…

sparrow perched on bench
Photo by Vladyslav Dukhin on Pexels.com

hope not for omens
preparing dinner
a thud, a dull glass thud
I have heard this before
but why today
since many long I can not even say
since I heard that sound
so distinct
a missile, a blind kamikaze mistake
and there she is
delicate little bird
curled up on the planks
outside my kitchen window
lying lifeless, I know this
this was an ending note
with hope I throw on my coat anyway
slip on my outside slippers
and gently cradle the little
hoping for a twitch
wishing a miracle
but no, a head tossed to and fro
in the tide of past life now
so little bird
I lay you down
may you rest
upon this ground

notes… just sometimes things happen, and you are no longer an observer but the recounter of a story, of a life, and so it was…

location, nature, all these things… what else do you expect of me…

location, nature, all these things… what else do you expect of me…

this was inspired here but my experience was this… the rest, well you can fill in for yourself, as I expect you would…

upon opperman’s pond
beauty beyond beauty be
snow worn on trees
witness, jury, frozen pond
the slow captured still photo
a face of ice
milky glass window
outlined with banks of snow
halted in the cold
what now sleeps below
forever within this hibernation dirge
there remains a joy
the indomitable force of life
rejoice

and I walked outside this morning…

and I walked outside this morning…

orange leaf on white surface
Photo by Life Of Pix on Pexels.com

a
maple leaf
landed
upon
my windshield
one,
proof
that the autumn
is still
young,
wildflowers still
in bloom
along
the roadway
as the sun
slowly dips
into
the sinking horizon

notes… to me this is about rhythm… but it came to me as thus, this morning, as I approached my car, my aim is to look up and out to see the world for a few seconds, and take it in, before engaging in the useless rat race in which I’m in

thoughts from the porch…

thoughts from the porch…

close up photo of green grass
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

how these elysian fields have lost their glaring luster, however foolish, the world desperately clings to the intoxicating golden hue of summer, for remember, there is always hope in any order, the only matter is how hard hope may be to find in the given time, as leaves fall so do the obvious possibilities, but let our memories remain stronger and more resilient than the harshest of winter’s arsenal, as the season fades so we shall rise again, of this I am quite confident, at least for now…

I had forgotten the sounds and the real feel of dry breaking leaves on my feet, how when I hold them and fold them they crackle, like a fire, as a fire burns through fuel is spent, as are these leaves, crumble into near dust at barely a subtle crush, the glorious summer sun drained from these veins, soon to be remade into the very dirt from whence they came, some time ago, acorns survived not found by ambitious squirrels, allowed to bloom, grow, stretch out toward the sky and transform the light of the sun into food, over and over these years, to be right back here, starting all over again, cards on the table now ready to fold, awaiting the next game, all the cards the same in the pack, however the shuffle never remains identical, the game, the game goes on until you lose your spot at the table… that is not this day, this is just the sunset of one season, the transfer of life back down from heights, to bury once more in the womb of the mother of life, this earth, as this hemisphere tips another will catch the fire, the balance of scales must tip, and this one must lose in hours, no many how many times has been, no matter how many times will be, the shedding of the leaves, a process, a tribute, a sign, a portent into the coming months, so we should gather up these leaves of memories, absorb them into our essence, like a thick blanket, to prepare for that barren land, that barren time, life may slow, and temperatures may drop, but the fierce heat of the human heart and that of life itself, dares not stop, if not draw still, biding time for hope to will.

music to read by : Opeth – Coil (live on TV)