cast away.

cast away.

the waning late summer sun
resting on the face
of a golden still pond
this- is- calm… (pause; inhale… hold… hold… exhale…)
“pinch me my darling,
for surely I travel in the realm of dream”
but no, a sweet captive
of the great blue marble
cast out upon the blackest sea.

notes.. and never forget, we are all on the miracle ball, sure, other life is probably out there but hey, for all we know right now we might be alone, and this is the gift of our home, the goldilocks zone, this wonderful place, even the grittiest corners are better than the alternative but we should strive to bring light to all… at least that is what I see when I catch a quick reflection of a sunset in a pond off the parkway on the way home, horrid traffic, angry drivers, asphalt plows that have flattened forests, but nature still remains, look around… (and this piece wrote itself when I was driving home on the parkway tonight, right before exit 135 (clark) there is a body of water, a pond I suppose, not sure, but it is there, I would love to photograph it, or film it, but pulling over there would be dangerous, but it looks so alluring every day, it makes me smile, the sun setting over this little unknown body of water, regardless of what is going on in the world, there is windows there, thanks to nature, look through them for a little relief… the opportunities are there)
moonlit drive…

moonlit drive…

“might I walk you to the moon tonight?”
and whom am I talking to?
myself, that inner voice, speaking right now actually
but to what audience?
just the inner auditorium made for one? perhaps
often right, there is ecstasy in the ordinary
driving home, typical highway
night has been looming sooner, as she does in fall
how soon we forget, and then just accept
so distraction can be a slide into the dreaming world
“may I describe the moon tonight?”
or more simply the sky, more a scene
like flying over a silent desert,
after a day of scorching infernos downward, blinds eye
now resting, under the gracious umbrella of night
as the lamp lens intense set

the landscape can sigh
as majestic purples multiply
and mate, with curtains of magenta
forming layers, like tourist sand in bottles
the colors inhabit the boundary
impregnating the horizon with splendor
until full surrender, inhabits
my focus is trained only on that above the horizon
not the wheel in my hand, the artificial lighting,
the concrete cells and paved grounds
the reality that surrounds, softens as I fly above into the night
I imagine laying prone, only to peer upwards now
the moon, but a quicksilver-sliver, a wink,
not a quarter full, just a peeking-boo
a november moon
as cold as the
waning light
there to bear witness, through the night
and I feel I can hang a hammock there
from star to star
under that silent tide
on this ride
and so I might.

notes… I found this on my desktop temp folder, forgot to post it when I wrote it back in November… so strange, these things are almost like children to me and I would have sworn I posted it… but I looked back and had not (but soooo recall the creation)… one of those I wrote driving home at night, the muse sweeps in, sweeps away the banal, plants a seed, I try to be the good farmer and raise the idea as my own… that’s all I know… does it work? I suppose you are the last word on that. Do you dream of flying off into the moon when stuck in traffic? (and should I tell people to play the song before reading the post? hmmm… I am willing to take suggestions on that one, I always thought it was obvious.. which it isn’t I guess, the rule is not always a rule, savy ?) … and your time, thoughts and likes are greatly appreciated, have something you want me to check out ? say it… I’m not a mind reader…

in the mind of mutiny…

in the mind of mutiny…

(this is an imagining of a writer tasked with writing about a voyage into the unknown before the world was all mapped, when ships were the only way to go continent to continent)

nautical twilight

traveling out on these very sturdy oak boards,
pitched and yar on the earth herself,
land long past behind us now
a promise- a distance in front of us now
from outwardly run the captive mist of isles
and onward bound so I am tasked
to write of this supposed bounty, adventure
of land far past the eyes of any maps,
so in trust we sail on the captains word and keen
sitting under the lateen-rig yards
and at night surrounding ocean crowned with countless stars
in circles men unwind the day
yarns and tales round spike the ears
words and slurs round pass the ale
for most now I’ve heard these many days
monsters, mayhem and the soft serenades (of mermaids?)
but we never speak of-
never speak of that, as if the ocean
will swallow whole the mass
this quiet nervousness however is a chill past in night
doubt grows in passing hours, days
the wonder if wisdom was to turn back
but never speak of this-
never speak of this, looks lock to say
if they were but literate men may they
write the same;
I’ve travelled many places on the fair continent
by caravan, by foot, by beast,
always something to see, feel and feast-
but here, danger breeds in the sameness swells
fear seethes out in that vastness casting spells,
and every day placed for the next,
ritualistic into effect for the coming breath,
the welcome consort of a racing dolphin escort

or a whale plume’s that recalls city-park fountains
or so I imagine, reminisce of the standing ground
of trees, of birds, all of these foreigners now
fleeting memories out of grasp of hand
now, after all these months,
I learn of the certainty of land.