retreat. (in a mind, or?)

retreat. (in a mind, or?)

the desire to
lock myself in my own room

spin a yarn for a time or two
as the outer light does fade
spinning round the barrier
a protector, a soft wall
but yet a border just the same
so I might pause
and rest
ahhhh, respite
no, waking sleep
ability, to transform
and emerge
in time
-to fly (forward).

in the know (the crows)…

in the know (the crows)…

crows on the rooftop there-
what are they trying to tell me?
(light signals switch, black eyes twitch- looking)
they are not permanent residents
at least not in this noisy cloister murder contingent;
occupying whole oak tree and surround
what is so special about this house (now)
what draws them so here and near
why do they understand better than I
they possess any land, under, the flown sky

notes… sometimes, OK, often I look out the window… and wonder, what draws a crowd, what is the call, what am I missing? something? or nothing more than a dinner bell? or deeper?

imagine-nation…

imagine-nation…

imagination is on the wind
sometimes drying on the vine
or a snake through a valley slides out into a plain
flat-up-face-frolic lounging
in the mist of sudden rain
taken to steering flocks, of wings
teasing out sculptures from moisture forms
at times brash dervish made of hell-bind-self

to the quiet mind, a rested leaf
underneath, a blooming tree
gossamer seeds, floating about
like armadas of tiny balloons aloft
who knows where they might plant
and sprout out a thought, from the land
– or not!

a muse walks into a bar… and how would you know? maybe the peanuts make a face, or bubbles begin to race, condensation sighs, or a barstool sings as it rides across the floor, their is music in even the most mundane, after all…

machinery (parallels)

machinery (parallels)

I wonder of the running machinations
processing in those memory banks

that still dream in DOS
connections soldered
into the past
by their own regard

notes, I wanted the lines to have flow – but not perfect flow, like a machine that is input in / output out…

sometimes a glance to the sky, materializes in thought…

sometimes a glance to the sky, materializes in thought…

the nervous ones
perhaps the influence
of the gray-
amorphous
an endless ceiling of fog
a oneness
concealing unknowns,
outline angles shadows dart
to and through
to and fro
back and forth
more chaos than dance
less grace than chance

the lack of pattern
the lack of calm
in this suffocating dome of visual dissonance-
for even a tornado has form,
the world
all very still now
save- for the nervous birds
panic set to erratic
their movements

eat at my will
gnaw the ends of my bones
as they prattle back and forth

notes… just looking out of my window at work, one of those rainy days well, that does not rain, sort of dreary, and in between, I would rather have rain, and it was a weird day anyway, I got home @ 3am from work, I was converting a supermarket computer system in Hempstead NY… I do enjoy learning all the little nooks and crannies of the tri state area but those hours you always run into all sorts of construction, it is a bit disheartening when you are trying to cross the verrazanno at 3 am and you have to navigate all sorts of orange cones and what not… it is a bit surreal… most of the world is asleep (at least locally) but you are chugging along trying to get home, and still pacing $13 tolls on the EZ pass… and as usual this is something I wrote off the cuff, a few adjustments here and there but mostly as I jotted it down today…

thoughts from the porch… (a hope of light)

thoughts from the porch… (a hope of light)

(my actual vantage as I was inspired to write)

“a hope of light”
and reminders, signs, talismans, so obvious as to be screaming whispers vibrating in obedient corners, all there – hidden in the plainest of sight, a hope of light…
as today I was a wheelbarrow more than a man, drawn out like a mule, to drag payloads back and forth, never in balance like once was new, and gravity has a way of multiplying the trade pay, the yoke, the wear, and there is less lubrication these days between the ground pounding and my bearings, even I would admit the tread is worn from sun and toil, but I would argue there is still good rubber there, but after the day the wheelbarrow must go back in storage, to the garage home, bringing dings, dirt and memories caked on, reminded, nothing is ever new again once out of the box, certainly not now these years of use altered… so arrives home…
the patience I might have left the house with a full tank, that has now been spent, every inch of me ready to pounce at every little non-event, of words, of even good intent, even though I know, I am a porcupine wound, can’t everyone just see, just read, the glaring signs, and make no sound, shall I pass by, until at least I may come on down, or let the tension un-bound, I manage not to wreck the crew… somehow…
so, not wanting to tie myself into a fight or fits, I park myself outside, look upward for some guidance, to what is left of the fleeting day sky, and to be entranced by – the hope of light, that promise, the next morning, another glory yearning, and the next, until there is none, the rest seems to slip away, the tension locked in my jaw starts to fade, the pressure in my temples begins to contract, a breeze comes along to rest on my cheek, a family of deer creep along my yard, unaware of me being disarmed, for maybe a minute ago they might have sensed the will of a frothing hunter out for blood, but that base urge has melted down and gone, replaced with thankful tranquility, a cure for humanity, or perhaps just the elixir to wash away the non-humanity we engage in every day, so I bathe in – a hope of light…

all the world is a…

all the world is a…

Photo by Monica Silvestre on Pexels.com

dear, my dear
born again?
must be september
but I can not seem to remember
musket balls to remote controls
I will not swear fealty to cross that moat
nor believe the stories you untold
over brook and crooked back
banish me then
from your impossible lands
where to tell time I had to face
the dire clock’s of dali laced

no, no mad hatter for me then
I’d rather fare the lion’s den
so I might now
exit stage right
(to all a bow
to all a good night)

notes… my notes, have this as “jumble” because… well, if you are privy to me I would say it is obvious… but I always am speaking on many levels… well, ok, often is a better description of assumption, this one has levels to it, I am referencing things in nearly every line, I do that often but not always, see how I can weave a maze of my own post? that’s fun for me, words, thoughts, a playground in which I bound about like a kangaroo hopped up on speed, g’day mate let me kick you in the face like a joey in rage… man I need to cut back the caffeine … or not…

day moon, whimsy…

day moon, whimsy…

Photo by brenoanp on Pexels.com

oh dear fair moon
might I take a bite of advice
for how did you appear
in the middle of my day sky
but I suppose
you are always there
with a certain-curtain pull back
so how do you bare, then?
the view,
not ever an interloper
nor a guardian at our door
a lone-cold observer
from shore to shore,
sights from rocky atolls to fading cliffs

the observances of millennia-
maybe this is jealousy?
I’d invite you to dinner
to hear the stories of your grand tour
but can not trade for that
to bear the calamity that will ensue
so, alas, stay where you are
perhaps another lunar trip will do
oh my dear fair moon
our singular notion
our most loyal companion.
I look up, to you.

notes… the day moon always gets my eye, I call this style stop and start, like letting the words flow and then turning the faucet off suddenly, not a staccato like I do sometimes, this is deliberate to show chain of thought, or at least that is what I am going for, kind of like a fence, a smooth line and then a post… if that makes sense, if it does not, I suppose you will just move on… as always, all comments are appreciated.

a fool’s poem.

a fool’s poem.

april fool’s day
should be my birthday
for I may wish
to restrict
being only a fool
for one day
not the whole year.

notes… I started this little project a few years ago on April Fools Day.. that was not an accident, for I have been a fool, and still am, no matter how far ahead I get I know I am handled by my own limitations, trying to breach them is my mission, I fail, I stumble, but I move on anyway, head held high with foolish pride, because… well, I’m human you know. And the poem… this is meant as an exercise in diction/pace, sometimes they just come to me that way.. so here it is in simple terms… enjoy… and thanks to all who have ever taken a pause here to view my work.

moon musings.

moon musings.

So… you know, the moon, that thing, in mysterious ways can do mysterious things, some howl, not me, not this soul, but my mind does wander and wonder at it all...

(1)
from pine tar to the bore
forgive me my grace
a bit too comfortable in my grave
on shadow moon
and misty tides
a rider appears
a delivery, a note of handwritten dour
as we prophesied
in this late hour
for the signs all gesticulated in blood
nurtured in the knowledge
that the past has returned.
(2)
with a somewhat lazy eye
climbs upward the ladder
rung by rung up hazy sky
for an obscure moon there
on this late february night
a caged celestial bubble
lost in the pool
cast in the night