a colony prescribed by the hand of time ordered into the womb of god delivered and so you are
notes… sometimes things pop in my head, I could tell you I am not religious because I am not, but does that mean I do not believe in something higher… how can we just be dropped here right now on this little marble in the middle of supreme vastness ? sure, it could all be random, but I would rather think a hand is moving things behind the scenes, I’m probably wrong, so what… in the end it does not matter, so I choose to believe my life has meaning…
nary a worry bare’ing on the cloud countenance fair recompense for seasons spent – in blankets distant time now in slumber in the gloaming a solid azure temple looms testament to that coming soon if joy had a soul and a mate written ‘cross this beaming sky even up on the skin of suns doth sing, doth rejoice hymns of the life of promise for even death’s dark heart, is warm’d I would not foretell a gospel of such emancipation- the atmosphere, she is in courtship with every breath drawn in on the air’e – rides sensations eyes that have had this common pause this common cause down unto a leaf the beauty say keep from within my hand into the very ground reflecting back, our wonders spin-spinning faster the sunlight slides out across the landscape flat shadows stretch long they affirm my existence for now, at least – for now.
the trees, their looks bear down upon me a whole row of judges bent the same forward their stoic state confirms they feast rightfully on my shame -; peddlers of the rain- the rumblings resonate in the scrum of my ancestors, a small-broken bird lies, in a puddle, flat mirrored frame surrounded by lily pads of cherry blossoms fallen a bloodless crime- not drowned but that of a twisted neck captured now placed unto that final nest, I contemplate the darkening-looming and attempt to tabulate the celestial math but I have no means to the master for I am locked in the strands of man- for- I am.
notes… this is one of those more cryptic ones that just came to me as is… so, this is how it is… the inspiration was a bunch of trees planted in a semi circle, they looked down at me, or so I felt/thought, and so it was….
forsythia, my dear, my consort cast out upon the land a golden plume a golden mane the stirring locks of ostara herself harbinger of spring message received for you are truly born of the stars from your roots rise sunrise up upon this earth- rejoice! spring’s sweet songs do awaken.
for spring is a procession of progression– cherry blossoms bathe the path in white to lavender and all manners up to purple, urban planning has them lining the streets in rows like a royal parade celebrating victory over the great winter – for at least a time, and short lived they will fall like confetti littering the street on the day after, the daffodils, holding golden cups sky-upward ready to brim with the coming rains, those same rains will flatten them as they nourish the rest of the surely coming green flourish, the ramps, onion cousins, or maybe garlic uncles, no, more like tiny onions, their chive clump headdress pokes through looking like unruly fits of grass, spring onions – yes, they are known to check in with such a name in certain establishments, the arcs of forsythia, golden arches with no drive thru, inspired in such golden rod as to make midas blush, the mornings are filling with song and sun, Ostara winks as her womb births the dawn of hope, and so I do, spring is hope, hope is spring, and then the worn hot complacency of summer sets in, burns out all the green, and then the world must sleep once more to regain, to regenerate, to be born once again – better to enjoy this now, the colors, the procession, the daily progress of life bursting to be seen, yes, take in the scene.
sunrise- for surely you realize I have waited up for you all night, like a train that arrives at the station, yes, I have the brochure the times and destinations listed- but still, the vanguard on the shadow loom prompts fear on the loose as time drips slowly down fears bread and brood rampaging now – out of sight slightest sounds reflect until- that morning light – a morsel of salvation as mana from heaven.
notes… restless night, waiting for the birdsong, waiting for the sun, anticipation causing anxiety tapping insomnia, not my usual gig, not my usual thing, but every once in a while the night is long, longer than others, at least in thought, at least in my craw, so it was…
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.
(wings are not always feathers) for might I – fly? even then- imagine, a butterfly in flight is an exercise the so-delicate the so-soft the ballet pirouette yet effort lies root the rouse; to my friend, the hummingbird a dervish of the common earth a-wings a-blur hand a scepter to the nectar queen move forward from that pounding heart, I might rather be a simple gull and glide on above ocean tides, falls and rise suspended as with silken threads, drawn a puppets ride swaying forth like a child’s swing as someone else pushes- perhaps… even that… the hands of god.
the casual calamity of the common clamshell; back in the day an ashtray an art project finger-painted adornments to elevate the rock garden once whole with life two halves are just a shell of the former self
notes… sometimes I am whimsical but still philosophical …this would be one of those times, don’t deny your inner loki if you have one, care to indulge, just don’t extend to hurt, that’s all