the trees of lynnwood road old photos reveal saplings – carefully planted a family yard laid out in planning a landscape of new houses for miles eyes, the generation that planted them nearly gone, and mine, surely not many decades to go but they will remain the trees of lynnwood road
“how time passes differently from man to tree to moon, from thenear eternity to the nearer soon“
notes… lynwood road is where I grew up, probably not where I will die but a good a place as any… since my father died I have been going through his things, and old photos, seeing the neighborhood in it’s original form and all… houses like homesteads dotting the plots, all equal apart, trees tied down because they were so young, one flood or storm and they would be done, now it all seems so familiar, because, well this is, they know me and I know them…. we don’t talk, we never did, but we understand each other just the same…
oh dear fair moon might I take a bite of advice for how did you appear in the middle of my day sky but I suppose you are always there with a certain-curtain pull back so how do you bare, then? the view, not ever an interloper nor a guardian at our door a lone-cold observer from shore to shore, sights from rocky atolls to fading cliffs the observances of millennia- maybe this is jealousy? I’d invite you to dinner to hear the stories of your grand tour but can not trade for that to bear the calamity that will ensue so, alas, stay where you are perhaps another lunar trip will do oh my dear fair moon our singular notion our most loyal companion. I look up, to you.
notes… the day moon always gets my eye, I call this style stop and start, like letting the words flow and then turning the faucet off suddenly, not a staccato like I do sometimes, this is deliberate to show chain of thought, or at least that is what I am going for, kind of like a fence, a smooth line and then a post… if that makes sense, if it does not, I suppose you will just move on… as always, all comments are appreciated.
for am I faint my words are thoughts only whispers in drought carry-on in the airy realm- for my feet are not on this ground, my body- but a fading shroud a lone sense a vague sense of place for I was attached to but a name now my shackle is curious bound round the round I orbit this base just past the touch in the realm between of know and known this is this place, my home
notes… we are, in many ways a beautiful culmination a molecular miracle generation, but we are also temporal, how do we as thinking beings reconcile this? I don’t know… I know religions cover this, but how can a religion formed by us in these scant few years of human existence on this one planet, in the infinity of space, cover this? wrapping our heads around impossibility or inevitability is anathema to the human mind… because we want to survive just as the simple bird does hatching eggs in spring… that thread binds all living things, is that god speaking to us? I guess I will have to wait for my end for a real answer… or none… hence the conundrum…
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.
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…
(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.
my beautiful flower for what have I done poisoned my garden ’till kingdom come
notes… since my father passed I have been posting photos on my facebook page daily, and of course I wound up running across photos of her, my true love, the major screw up I can never mend, well, I hope but that was many years ago, time is supposed to mend or heal, not so much here, I try not dwell but honestly it is always there, somewhere, some days just rise and it is all I can think about, just happened to coincide with V-day, I used to make her special meals, with red themes, heart shaped veg or the like, always something ambitious, I miss those days, but I am still here and there are days ahead, so that has to be my focus, but seeing those old photos, the closeness, her holding me and me her, in addition to my old dog, Chestnut, whom I loved so very much, and made mistakes like any first time parent, memories, of all the animals we had, practically a zoo, birds (amazon yellow front, parakeet, parotlet, monk parakeet), a degu, pacus, turtles (mississippi mud and soft shell), a mexican tarantula, a sugar glider and a texas ground squirrel… yeah it was pretty nuts, and I leaving out the scorpions and betas… retrospect always breeds romanticism, but who am I to argue with my own feelings? but accept them.