the birthing…

the birthing…

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

“a postulation on the transient nature of self”

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…

we are, in the air…

we are, in the air…

on the air’e

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 onus of shame

the onus of shame

Photo by Kristina Paukshtite on Pexels.com

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 (and a treatise on spring)

forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

Photo by LExie Blessing on Pexels.com

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.

simple, sunrise.

simple, sunrise.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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…

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.

egalitarian flight ~~^~~

egalitarian flight ~~^~~

Photo by Nav Photography on Pexels.com

(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.

‘that’s swell, clamshell’

‘that’s swell, clamshell’

Photo by Ellie Burgin on Pexels.com

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