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…
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…
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
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
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)
I place my hand upon the trunk
run my fingers along
so I might read a story
above under thumb
the bumps
of history
I do not remember
how long since I lost my worldly sight
for I am the known wise man
and those seek me out
but for that which wisdom I have gained
was paid for with which I left behind
so perhaps that is my lesson
to teach those still
with vision
notes… written back in June, revised just now, one of those that sprang from a single thought, me just running my hand down a tree trunk, when I was walking my dog, and thinking what so many have thought, what has this tree seen ? and could I ever tap into that knowledge ? and if I could…
“wildflower
grown in your own soil
grown at your own pace
I wonder
how you chose, the colors
of your house
and your brothers, sisters there
all of the same house
entwined with your neighbors
burst forth
this short season
thrive
in the warming light
reach up
to the warming light”
music tonight ? OK, gonna be obvious, and simple, and I love this song due to the simplicity, I can imagine reading/writing to it… and maybe I did…
all thanks, likes and musical suggestions are welcome, come on people, turn me on to some stuff I don’t know, I doubt you know someone with the musical pallet of me, electronic, death metal, classical, ambient.. and that’s just tuesday… as always, thanks for looking…
“clouds, like still tide lines of fire
riding up on the blue
by the watchful eye
of the hazy crescent moon
how might this be just a random combination
no plan in the spectrum
a show that lasts as long as light
the light retreats
into this calming night
as I now await
as come they are –
the stars”
just my interpretation of a setting day, after some rain, the colors make me feel alive, like I belong… in this world, somewhat…
“sky draft“
the sky is a story, right now
a beginning, and an end
the script reads left to right
I can not say what language this is
but the design, I recognize
over there is the fight scene
or the love scene
hard to tell, at times,
a dark cloud brooding
about halfway through
skip ahead
a bulb laid on blue
some pages appear blank
perhaps a spot for improvisation
weather or not
the story holds
or is being written
with an unseen pen
changing, shifting
but always a beginning,
always an end.
notes… we all look up (every version of humanity has), I wonder for many reasons, the fact that our sky is actually so thin and is all that separates us from what ancients used to call heaven, a little layer of air is all the separates us from space, and suffocation, and all that happens in that little layer is amazing, a whole system of intertwined water vapor, truly a wonder as it swirls asunder and not so much under, swirling clouds of water vapor, patterns in the sky, braille for the gods I suppose or just those that can fly above…
music… let me introduce you to another genre…electronic, more upbeat than ambient but still… chill… enjoy…
“upon these waves of tall grass swaying
scratching the back of the passing breeze
might I ride my palm along
the top soft tails in the warming sun,
and feel each blade give and bend
to gently slide back into place again
for this bounty is not mine to hold
unto the great mother to keep her own”
notes… ever drive by a field and want to reach out and ride your hand across the grass…. yeah… that was the genesis of this….
Shades of My Garden 