do not fear the snake if you are a snake be aware to bite first
notes… semi haiku, I mean in feel, I did not count the syllables and obviously this is not 3/5/3 of 5/7/5… but no one owns the rights to the form… (or at least I am not aware of such a copyright claim), and in terms of the content of this post… heck, this is almost laughable… these words popped into my mind while watching Conan the Barbarian (the original)… so art from Arnold.. yep… I was thinking of the snake scenes and symbolism (which is all woven throughout that movie)… so keep your eye out as to what inspires… thoughts?
upon that ghostly domain soldiers thrust out upon in waves left to die face down and drown and drown the days even after breath has passed foul tide and stench has raised the war sounds rise to cover the noise of the dead the dying and injured stead can the shore open forth and then absorb the horror of the last moments of men boys, men soldiers sent in thrown against the walls of iron cross with pure luck and harsh determined lock who might stand at last who might retain humanity, bound forever within these sands of the sights, the sounds, the thoughts of this calamity at hand– of man.
notes… this one was written after I saw Dunkirk but mostly I was thinking about Normandy, but war is war, the same applies whether the line is on a beach or a street, war is as old as humanity, sometimes there is no choice, but there is always a price. (plus I am an old school metal head who grew up on slayer so… there is that…)
“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 thewaning 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…
puddles as pools as footsteps, the oddity of being on the dividing line on a map, always the corridor, wintry mix so they say, so it is, snowing one minute, raining the next, the pure white of barely an inch, devolves into ice walled pools that retain some structure, captured capsized footprints, preserved perfectly, for at least a moment, until the eventual slide into full on water, a frozen tide, lines that outline where I was just a second ago, proof of life I suppose, if however temporary, even those footprints on the moon will go away someday, I suppose, would I treasure those more, if I could ? more permanent than my little frozen steps across the temporary pond hopping in my driveway, all just a matter of the scope of time, the lens of passing, time, time has all the time in the world, and then some, mine just a fleeting trail of steps, melting into the ether, succumbing to the inevitable.
sometimes the smallest things, you should notice, like your footsteps in the rain, or the semi-rain, or the snow, proof of life, like a clutched newspaper, but better, a strike in nature, even if for a moment, the mother provides for a moment in her bosom… so take them, when you can, for time even binds her kind hands…
(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 theywrite 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.
sometimes you come across unexpected things when cleaning, a forgotten article, a book, clothing… or a photo, dated on the back 10.99, a lifetime ago, but the impact is still a sinking-hole feeling inside, a sick feeling to reside, something, somethingI have never been able to shake, HER, the one, the one, there has been no cure, no elixir, no remedy, no replacement, at least so far, all these years, you begin to question, you wonder, wonder if you are a lost cause, or just flat out insane in some manner, but the feeling, the feeling is so raw, so guttural, ripping into your core that I can not ignore, am I just a broken person of the heart? the worst part, of course, is I blame myself for most of what happened, the separation, retrospect, of course is an easy road, but does that mean it is incorrect? I suppose, I feel (or am) broken, knowing that all of us are, somewhat, to lesser or more degrees, but knowing that does not soothe the driven cold spike I feel on moments like these, I don’t think I will ever truly be healed even if I pray to be, and I argue with myself, looking around at the world, do I even deserve a reprieve, when I can not even begin to forgive myself.. 10.99… October of 1999 – I wish to an inch of my death I could hold you close again, just once more, to feel your heartbeat and your warmth as we are one, just once more, as the reality of that memory is so faded now – those immediate memories, just the empty chasm of regret and pain… I wish I had a higher IQ of the heart, back then… I miss you, still, if you only knew, if you could only know, how sorry I am, how much, I am forever to dwell, in your love, and how much I will always love you, wrapped within myself now… within myself until the end of times, where I hope to see you, for that is all that keeps me alive…
notes… this was stream of consciousness, the photographic record of us is not large, I doubt she even has one of me, I can count only a handful, but the time we spent, two stars of different galaxies aligned somehow… there has never been anyone else but her, I have tried, replacements, forgetfulness, time… no, none of it was worked, but I am still alive, so there is always hope, even as my years fade into time, at least I had that time, and I would walk there gladly again, even in delusion, even in dementia, or anything, the pain of separation is the poison that dims the light of my soul.
sentiment, reality though. I never seem to have the time to properly metamorphosize so will I ever be… externally who I am, to be ?
notes… and so I ask you (yes you) what are we meant to be? are we free? (to be?) I’m not so sure sometimes, and others I am a blustered fool spitting in the face of an obvious tornado, what an odd fellow, one of my neighbors has a rooster now, I hear it in the morning, thankfully it is on the next block or my neighbor might not be waking up…
PS: if you have a word reaction to my work, send it in, the best I will tag back onto my post, as a reaction? a question? a continuation ? sure… any of these, so if I invoke a response from your muse… please share…
the consequence of bile, the hoarding of poison, the purpose of same, in actuality I am not painting myself as some viper or venomous snake, or perhaps I am, for the sake of this context, certain things annoy me, let’s say, push my buttons so to speak, but who is in real control of such things, do I lie in wait like an ambush predator ready to strike when given the predicted stimuli, yes, I must admit I do, but why? should I just let the rain swipe off my back like rain on a duck’s ass, instead of being an actual ass? yes, probably, would be better to avoid toxin to store and use, why bother with the poison at all, I guess that is my point, as I caught myself this morning, recoiling at a co-worker’s obvious intent to ruin my mood, but if I respond with kind (not “in kind”) the button of my tolerance gets rather stepped on merely than pushed, as if the throttle wants to go full open tilt, “kill them with kindness” when I just want to kill them, figuratively of course, I am no beast, well, at least not until Friday’s most weeks… the “ignore” does not seem to work either I’m afraid, the lack of action just creeps up my back not so subtlety, like a rolling volcano boulder up into my neck, causing the hairs to stand up and stir and cry “what the heck!” (or more likely more ‘colorful’ language… if I am to be fair), so easy in moments that pass to judge and say what would do, much less of an impress to put on those shiny goggles of hindsight (as I am now), I wish there was a trick, a magic one would suffice, where as I could slow down time and think things out, but that is not going to happen (no matter how much I study the arcane), the answer (I propose) is preparation, scenario recognition, they say life is too short, for a great many things, probably for toxin as well, but the gulch of what we know and what we do varies in the seasons…
epilogue: I caught myself this morning, being mean for no sheer reason, although I know I was being prodded, I need to work on myself, does it matter in the long run? probably not, but it matters to me, there is no reason to be terse just to be a jerk, or to live up to my reputation of same, even if I have to bite my lip, I should, there is no use spreading disdain in this world, our lives are too short, it is hard to remember that in the moment though as we play our roles, but I guess my acknowledgement shows some growth, not a trophy though, not a finish line, I must remember… to be kind. because, why not?
voices are distinct, such as we, think about how much goes into a particular voice at any particular time, time, yes, time, genetics, body type, the evolution of ears that are around for the voice to enter, the endless amount of variables that makes a voice unique, because they all are, and then suddenly, like all things, there is silence, that distinction, that amalgamation of so many things… is gone. Never replaced by the same, there is no way to duplicate the recipe, sure, one can try, and maybe even bake something close or near a clone, but never, never to be exactly the same, so that voice has gone out, like a snuffed flame, once a life consumed, a remnant only in memory of a distinct sound, a singular voice, gone out, a golden disc, destined to roam the stars…
voices disappear voices go out like lights- once guided, gilded gilded lighthouse that surveyed the shore gone, swallowed by the surf of years and perhaps not all are lights but some are we come to trust to guide lessons learned beards grow long, and grey salt in the air whether calm or fray a beam we rely on even when we know the way, so well a voice gone taken back into the sea a light out never replaced to be
notes… in tribute to my father, been a year now, he was not perfect, so neither am I. But his voice, the noise, the frequency… there is silence in that space since, his sound’s occupation is absent there… and is missed.
Shades of My Garden 