cykle.

cykle.

the four days-
the cold barren
the stark bare
the slumber huddle
survival; closed eyes;
the gentle warming
on western horizon
land unlocked under toe
slow awakening
dawning eyes
adjusting to the light
stretching out
up towards the sky
blooming;
hands palms wide
to warming glory
migration towards
the water,
the ocean
holding on
until the cooling
and leaves fallen,
loops on turn
we then return
to our station.

a scrap I wrote a while ago, I find them on various thumb drives, and I am surprised but what In find but then remember the vibe so… this is mine, all thoughts are welcome, I am a curious to find out the minds of others, it does not consume me, but it does have a sense of interest to see how I swim among my peers stuck in my same years of time…

the prison of routine (s.o.c.)

the prison of routine (s.o.c.)

the prison of routine, some might say the harshest confinement is the one constructed by yourself for yourself, well, this has some truth to it but the main difference in the mortar and brick is choice, when someone other locks the door and walks away with the key you are left at their mercy, for at least with your own device there is hope and light, a fight, a chance, a choice, so you should make steps forward this, however… lurking… fear is out there, out there beyond the walls, defanged, defamed, barely noticeable sliding around the edges of inevitable periphery, never fully vanquished but certainly downgraded from the moment to moment memory residing in these temples, but as most coins there is certainly two sides, a sly-silent partner, an ally, a comfort. for they work in concert you see, to relieve you of the daring of the new, with the quiet contentment of the known sold-old, so you tell yourself with conviction “What’s so bad about this, really?”, pushing down, suppressing or ignoring, that truth, the truth, what you know as the truth, what you have walled up yourself against all (or most) vulnerability, out of sight, out of mind, contentment blinds, that familiar, blanket of the finest kind, a warm snuggly atmosphere wrapped around surround, a cocoon- not of enchantment or rebirth or transformation even, but that to preserve a line of time, trying to stop the march that only goes on, a set, a play where the stage remains the same with some of the props changing, floating in and out of creation, but the base floor remains the same, so to close your eyes there is no serpent there to strike, only clean-dreams, safe dreams, the only rain- not the biting kind, the kind of quench of a summer drench to leech-instant the heat off your skin and in an instant spark steam on the heated grounds, summer scenes with not a rumor of winter, which must, of course, always come, but in this place, this palace of reinforced concrete is the con, your own prison of routine, worse than the singing of the sirens on the open seas, for at least you have heard their tale or read it so, from others lost, upon those sharpened rocks, but when upon – you crash out on to your very own, where stones and sticks to not break, but are lock and key, a willing iron mask for you to keep (in your own keep). so that is the prison, of my routine, and even scribing, scribbling, the realization of this, the seduction of self is deadly-slow bliss.

notes… this is one of those pieces bouncing around my head for days, well… the title was and the rest was like a train that followed on the tracks as I laid them, all in one flow, all of ten minutes maybe, takes longer to post and look pretty than it does to write… but I like adding the videos and such, that’s more for me than anyone else, if other people (you) dig it, thanks, that’s cool, this is more of a gallery though to hang up my art and let people walk through… except the cool thing is this is a better suggestion box than most museums have…

in a simple mirror found…

in a simple mirror found…

the birdfeeder

wrought iron
ancient tower
in look
sold and bought
at a garden center
in years I might have forgot
some winters to fill you up
going bare barren
for an entire season
no good reason, just the passing
forgetting to refill the silo
forgetting t’was even there, at times
the nature of gravity and consumption
in the wind, swaying

a common winter night
not an occasion to stop-
so filled to the top
and spilt over
not a delicate affair
no, certainly not
like an old man in the park
shuffling hands in a paper bag, for company
more organized perhaps
but much the same rouse
much the same draw

and I can not control those who come
who find this rest stop
and sometimes a flurry
a gang of rooks, a jail break frenzy romp
rather than the gentle sweep and peck
the subtle moves of anxiety
the back and forth with caution
of those who might be prey
or at least garnish so
little ones bounce from limb to perch
or a big blue jay swoops in
also on the lurch

sometimes I wish-
to script upon the seed
with the breed
I wish to attract
oh, silly me
haven’t we all done
this very same act?
(in our own reality)

based on the real, just my bird feeder swinging on the tree outside my bedroom window and the implications there… life is a strange and wonderful thing. so…. what do you think ?

and for any noobs: (I promise to be gentle) I write in flash form, maybe my work is not perfect but it is a flash photo of what comes out of my mind and pen (ok, keyboard mostly)… so, just so you know how it works around here, this is all just me throwing my breath out there, so if you read all this, or any of this, thanks for your cherished time, I appreciate it.

the why (to ponder)

the why (to ponder)

drowning in thinking
perhaps tired of inking
these inklings
epithets to
dreams from
threats of
a new whirlwind
a cascade due
an avalanche down
doubts weighted by fear
the desperate climb out
claws from down under
pulling downward’sunder
but I mustn’t-
I mustn’t succumb
I must fight
for each breath
for that reach
for life
regardless
or… or…
what?

notes: unlike other animal life we question our existence, but when push comes to shove we do fight to survive, mostly… mostly… are we free from the same death panic ? I doubt it, I am not, mostly in daily life I am but I know I look to the stars and see light that is thousands or billions of years old, does someone see mine ?

doubt, creeping, even in the impervious.

doubt, creeping, even in the impervious.

rattling;;
If I am so impervious
if my armor so impeccable
the unmitigated gate of my plate
the glimmer blinds others in the sun,
then the words of said others
shall have no quarter here;
whisper mills-
gin mills-
water talk,
should then not bother me
like this at all-
rattling;;

notes: I am generally one to not care about the words of others, I pride myself that way, I present myself that way, but I suppose not the most stout fort has a fault, or a weakness, sometimes, the words seep in, like poison, like reason, and I am as much as human as all… even if I pretend to hold myself above it all…

lost.love.letters.

lost.love.letters.

drift

the stretching- beautiful blue sky out-
as I drive, the span over the meadowlands,
tree tops, now budding, in this spring
my mind wanders- dreams- drifts- as it should
and then inward; there is that moment of inner inspection reflection;
looking for that place
where my mind will rest
and my heart might forget, (her)
all these years-
and still-
no one compares to you, my love
for each replaced thread, so abandoned
I am reminded-
and so long,
even the fear has long since departed
the familiar denial has settled in
the submission
to the cold acceptance
with only your memory
to keep me warm
until I go. (there)

(and I pray someday to see you again-
for sometimes the hope, the dream is all I have)

sometimes I am mysterious, or arcane, or sometimes I am a merchant of simplicity… depends on the world and how my mind drifts, this was today… (I wrote this piece listening to this song, why? who knows… it was what made me think, made me muse, so I am tried to bring you to the same place, where I put the song on repeat and my mind on repeat until a mantra bubbled up to understand, so it did, profound? loud? soft? correct? righteous? nah… just me.. and maybe you, these days it is what it is, and sometimes I am OK with that even if I wish for the bliss, I realize I had a time in the sun, would I like another? yes…)

the strangeness of inspiration, so muse

the strangeness of inspiration, so muse

time to put away the winter things
sleds in sheds
boots in darkness
closet corners full
less dress
car packed full
an adventure to take
under the summer sun

notes… went back in my time machine, well, not really, of course, I WOULD share that with you, if I could, of course… but I pulled up an old snippet from the year 2019 and it spoke to me, I guess, sub-consciously, and so this came about, of it, that union of my own old thought, and now, how things change, and will, always, move forward, so I should, I am trying… how hard, depends who you ask, who wants to be honest in all that, who wants to push, even if we know the cliff could be right there, I should get busy, have more urgency, but I wrap myself in the every day race and tail, reflecting on it does not move the needle, which I need to do before I am quite dead, literally.

in the moment.

in the moment.

a conjuration-
I am-
suddenly found ‘midst
an unusual sun shower
a downpour
of cherry blossom petals
a shame,
for they will never feel
the real kiss
of the true summer sun
so I must
for them

notes… this is what haiku is to me, not the form, the beauty. I was going to my car after work in the blah industrial section of Hackensack , NJ where I work, there are cherry blossoms lining the side street, warehouses line both sides, but yet… cherry blossoms are the there, in line, that attract the wild birds of the area, such as they are, we even get quaker parrots from time to time, so, there I was, in the middle of a storm, of petals… and I took a moment to inhale and observe, beauty is there in daily things.. just take a second and look for it…

the long wedding…

the long wedding…

Matrimony

so-
should I?
marry you
death-
now or then
why wait?
why the rush?
inevitable-
the perfect mate;
fate-
so let the courtship begin
and never end.
unless I should begin again;
reincarnation or resurrection-
so let the lantern be lit
so I may follow
into the path of light
.