slow the moon slumber the night summer night august swoon the air is sweating out from under my skin the mosquitoes are quite in love, enamored in mood, feasting on blood drinking up the night fill on through an uncaring host no tail to swat no care to move for my backyard is no bayou no beasts are lurking there, parched lips brown bottle cold sip of beer nearly satisfies, baking on the other side of the sun direction under the moon’s eye kept from sleep and dream invisible mist heavy surrounds gravity in shackles down to the ground I melt into my chair into the scene bring me rest, being me sleep my flesh weeps into the air
notes… well, I must confess I went full on form haiku here, but it makes sense to me, these little flowers in my lawn only bloom in the summer sun, I was out there sweating my,… well never mind, it was hot, let’s say it that way, but those little flowers, the only ones that populate lawns beside dandelions, have you tasted them? the name is not misplaced, they taste great, something I learned in day camp decades ago. and you know, I have not repeated the experience, I should…
there is humid, and then there is HUMID, some wise man said sometime or something… yesterday was one of those days, the kind of weighty yoke that slows the world down to near motionless, every effort seems an affront to good sense, sweat is not an option just a nod to how much and how swept, you can see the air frying and understand how mirages work, adding to this physical dissonance is that strange sound, some might describe this as a buzzing sound but yet to me the truth lies somewhere on the spectrum elsewhere, maybe the union of a common snake’s hiss and a raged rattlesnake’s rattle, and like the waves of heat that seem to break upon your face that sound is much the same, rising and falling in some strangely robotic chorus of the natural world, is this displeasure? a warning? of course the mystery is gone, we know cicadas are the cause, but as I regularly do (and I do) I wonder about the time before these things were plain and easy to find out (in the palm of your hand if you will), if you close your eyes and listen to the sound, what mysterious creatures or demons abound? I imagine trees dripping with perfectly camouflagedpit vipers, curled around the branches like leaves among leaves, ready to strike at any passer by who’s senses are worn down by the withering heat, or maybe these are the sirens of lore, just land born, lulling you with their waves of song into a desperate shore, to what end? only they know, so they sing some more bars…
you know, maybe I am overthinking this, the actuality, the reality, the actual cause of the noise is something one might not believe, little bugs, critters, supposed dwellers in the cellar of the hierarchy of life, cicadas, vibrating a membrane to the point of insane, a coital chorus of love, I suppose we all dance to a different song, but that sound, my mind is instantly tied and kidnapped to the end of summer, the lazy hazy days of late summer, is this August yet? no… not quite, but this sure feels like it, the end of summer, the closing of the funhouse is around the corner, but yet I want more, but as many years pass, so do the chances, so heed the song, and remember this is all, passing.
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…
past when I usually spy the sun, still well before she dips below the actual horizon, not just mine, like a star guiding a wayward journey on a moonless night, there I was in the perfect position, by luck, by providence, by circumstance, a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper maybe coriander, all of these, there I stand, staring into the spiral center of a leaf field collage, nearly as dense as the night sky on the round, simply replace black with dark green shadows, but a crack, no a cranny, a nook, a little big hole of just enough, for the sun to shine through, somewhat lens flare diffused, this was not the swelling noon globe I am used to, sometimes I will catch glimpses of this theme in a window, a peek, a wink, but maybe the trees were swaying then, never quite this still, this perfect a portal, a north star buried in a mass of green leaves arranged so perfectly like a tight bouquet with a brilliant diamond in the center, little moments like these provide blocks to build inner strength, reinforce the walls of the good of the world, that hope, the individuality, I had been starring there standing for a while now, completely lost out of my body swept out into the ocean of the anomaly, and as fast as such times are, the circumstance for my chance was gone, but I was there, I was there for the experience of the moment, I was there.
an unremarkable rainy day the pond in the park over there a lone figure sits on the bench centered I can not read their story from here so I move on
notes… I say it every time I write a piece like this, haiku is great as a script, I don’t like the restraint but I love the feel, intent and compaction, no bones to throw @ those who are haiku advocates, Basho is amazing, he embodied his poems, but I am not Basho, so interpret for yourself.
given the prospect of being blind or deaf, I would not choose either, I can not imagine the world as other, I suspect it would be ‘better’ to be born that way then to know of the fruit and then be denied it’s sweet taste, how often do we ponder the good graces of the basics, sight, and more specifically color, something we all take for granted (not wagging a finger, myself charged guilty aside from moments of clarity such as this), just the idea of color is an amazing thing when you stop to wonder on it for a moment, and the mere spectrum we see is just a hint, a shadow really, of all the color actually out there, I suppose we do not tend to think of X-ray, infrared, ultraviolet and microwaves as ‘colors’ but they are in wave form just the same as ROYGBIV, but they are not recognized by our eyes by design, who knows what the future may bring if we leave this earthly thing, or become more bionic than human… maybe someone will be painting in microwave one day (and heating din din at the same time)… holding a prism and breaking light into a rainbow swath of ingredients, a hidden cascade locked in every light, except when the rain and sun meet, we marvel at those natural rainbows but what is color? visible light, if you look at a strawberry, it is not actually red, the surface of the berry is merely reflecting red light, absorbing the rest, that is what your eyes cast and catch, so therefore “strawberries are red” even when they are not, color is simply an interpretation of what an object is sending back to your optical receptors, but these calculations, happenings, actualities, we process millions in a daily breeze with no effort, just the sheer idea of color shows the sheer wonder of our creation and ability to sample the world provided around us, truly amazing, a palate built for our exact imaginations…
taking a moment to soak in the sundown, not really a sunset most nights (like the kind when you hear the word “sunset“), my view is not of some majestic mountains or other similar bucolic loveliness, no, just the sun dipping below sight, tucked behind my neighbor’s house, but it will suffice, until something nicer comes along, I suppose that is what vacations are for, I close my eyes intently & intensely to concentrate on what is left of the day’s rays, to absorb every single last joule of radiant solar energy, hopefully put smartly into my internal battery, if there is such a thing, well, at least there is in my imagination that is, so go with it, I suppose this is meditation of sorts, on outside observation I probably look half asleep, and in fact I think I may have teetered back and forth a bit, perhaps eyes open is a better option after a long day of remote client support, one of those days the phone rang before I could even comprehend the morning, and non stop flow until the clock was up, one of those days that after I tell myself to not allow myself to get wound, but by 10am and 2 coffees in I’m down that hole spinning ’round and ’round, so this is like my decompression chamber, well, more like my green open space, not a private matter as all passersby can cast their judgments and questionable looks upon me, I try to spin close the leaky spigot of my thoughts, let my mind expand out into a relaxed pause, I concentrate on a blade of grass gently bobbing up and down, just slightly taller than the rest, that is why it stands out, I scan around & wonder @ all the manner of green hues in the leaves occupying the personal canopy of my yard, the birds sound even, singing even, not chatter or arguments or chirping fits or territorial spits, the chaos of the world seems lulled by mild order and the meandering pitch perfect wind, as the breeze works toward and over like just warm pulsing bath water across my bare ankles, I have at least this little escape, this space of mine for this time, sitting somewhat selfish with a beaming inner satisfaction, as the breeze leaves me in the past like a clever thief, I notice the savage has been sapped from within my keep… rejuvenation, a moment in the sun. (thanks earth, I owe you one)
notes… as always, thanks for the looks, the views, the thoughts, the news, any and all comments are appreciated, negative or positive, it’s cool, thanks for taking the time to check out my little blog. I would say I do it for you… but nah, this is my art, I do it for me, I hope people like it, I want people to dig it? sure. But one is enough, 10,000 would rule, but hey, I ain’t that out of my head …
PS: maybe I am stupid, but I tag my posts accurately, that probably explains the highs and lows, the spikes and the tumbleweed, but that is what I do, that is who I am…
joy! with joy! the uplifting the song of spring played up on Vivaldi’s strings the germination of possibility a rebirthing machine the seed shall touch lead forth to harvest then of joyous host this is the entrance, the start the promise of life from a new born star
notes… I went back into my notes from last year and found this little thing, spring was certainly different last year, and I suppose this reflects that, I must admit it brings back the memory of the glory of spring, the feelings, they were so muted this year, they are slowly creeping back, with a mask of course, kind of dipping a toe in the pool before moving forward… it is easy to forget how in a short time all this will be behind us, it will.
so here I am, rock you like a hurricane, here I am… sorry, 80’s flashback there, so, here I am, sitting outside, waiting for the reported storm to come, the wind has been kicking up for a few hours but is oddly quiet now, cliche, I know, the calm before the storm and all, but what can I say? it applies in this case, the sky has darkened but not to doomsday levels of bleak black, just darker than it should be at this 7pm hour, the kind of dark you experience like a curtain slowly dropping a storm in, a dimming of the lights of sorts, and then begins, the sound, the subtle pitter-patter pacing, the approaching, hearing the footsteps, slowly creeping closer, then building volume while shortening the distance, leaves being gently prodded then a few moments later pelted with droplet heavy hammers, ever closer, waiting for the invisible dam to explode wide open, and the then, a pause, the thought hit me, the actual ‘idea’ of rain and what it is, I understand all the variables as I was taught them at a young age, and the actual science of same, water vapor and the cycle of water through the atmosphere, and I feel robbed, in a way, by the knowledge, the wonder is lost, the sheer amazement of this amazing thing is lost, I imagine, or try to feel the naivety of my ancestral form, looking up into the sky and wondering where this water is coming from, surely clouds, surely one would make that connection with no scientific anchor around, but beyond that, imagine water just appearing from the sky, the sheer amazement, the sheer why, the sheer wonder, how can this water be? maybe I am a romantic when my mind comes to nature, or just a dreamer that prefers to think of the sky as wonder, to dance in the idea that the sun is carried across the heavens in a chariot, the moon a nearby companion, the stars a map of constellation figures… and the rain now beats harder, to the drum to move my bum back indoors, and maybe listen to the drops beating against the window, and perhaps… to dream a little more.
Shades of My Garden 