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
‘stand‘ if I can lie to the moon I can lie to you if I can whisper to the moon I will send my envoys into that room a gathering of your friends there was never any covenant of truth so let’s stop the pretense of pretend is this convenience a road stop or the end?
“faint“ a long forgotten candle burns flickers… slowly, in silence in the dark crater crowns a mound of melted wax shapes the form, sunken barely moving shadows trance in the corner of a long forgotten chamber
notes… I call this “vessel poetry”, meaning I am intending to be vague so the reader fills in their own details, sure, this could be taken at pure literal (visual) meaning, that’s cool, I did have a literal specific picture in mind, kind of a forgotten grey wood cabin with no windows that light still comes through all the old lines in the wood, in the corner some old candle ready to die on a silver plate with one of those ring handles almost like a mug, next to a dead fireplace with dead embers… but I also thought about more (and specific things) when I wrote it… what did you think about ?
“H2one“ bodies of water so we are holding our ocean within, internal gravity we capture moisture from the outer-world, internal irrigation so our inner fauna can stave off extinction all that flows in our rivers and channels not just rafts of cells or the pulse of marrow but bolts of electric information memories, thoughts joys, pain the self, the self contained eco system one the only ocean we are masters of and yet still do not know nor have mapped all the depths and fathoms of our own.
music ? as usual my parade of under rated bands as I scream their names in the blog wind…
notes…. wrote this back in July (with a couple of tweaks tonight), man that feels like a long time ago… the summer is nearing an end, I feel like I missed something, but I do love the fall, not like face planting, I mean the season in general, it is when I vacation, when people go back to school I usually shoot off to somewhere for a couple of weeks… tomorrow? off to dig for fossils here in new jersey, yes, I typed that right… if all goes well I might report, and you can retort, or be a sport… and leave me a like, a comment, a question, a new and interesting way to deal with super hot chiles… I could write a blog on just that, but that would not be my voice alone, so I will let others handle that… but damn I love hot chiles….
the sound of my bathroom exhaust fan rattling from years of revolutions, outside I put my ear to the ground to listen for that very sound but to the surface dwellers this is imperceptible or on a frequency not given this is a frequency for which I am not equipped.
notes… I call this observational poetry, something catches my eye (or ear) with a hook of metaphor, what for ? I don’t know, ask the muse, I just work here.
“a grand scene“ within the confines of hours cherry blossoms to the slaughter dashed petals in a downpour littered about the earthen floor, a grand scene laid out with random care cast out runes read upon them the fate of these fallen blooms
notes: cherry blossoms are a big thing here in NJ and also DC, but they are very temporary, that is what I was writing about, it was like walking up on a murder scene, all of a sudden, in one afternoon from full bloom to all the petals trounced on the ground, it made me think of some CSI scene, yellow tape and all (poem written originally 5.21, slightly adjusted tonight).