the consequence of bile… (s.o.c.)

the consequence of bile… (s.o.c.)

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?

imagine-nation…

imagine-nation…

imagination is on the wind
sometimes drying on the vine
or a snake through a valley slides out into a plain
flat-up-face-frolic lounging
in the mist of sudden rain
taken to steering flocks, of wings
teasing out sculptures from moisture forms
at times brash dervish made of hell-bind-self

to the quiet mind, a rested leaf
underneath, a blooming tree
gossamer seeds, floating about
like armadas of tiny balloons aloft
who knows where they might plant
and sprout out a thought, from the land
– or not!

a muse walks into a bar… and how would you know? maybe the peanuts make a face, or bubbles begin to race, condensation sighs, or a barstool sings as it rides across the floor, their is music in even the most mundane, after all…

seconds… how they slip.

seconds… how they slip.

seconds are the hardest to hold,
I imagine-
I recall the summer now

how soon, how soon the world returns
to cold, and how soon this becomes
the now,
pied’ down the road
by the song of blinding time
sunset, sunrise
routine and more breaths spell towards my end
I inhale all the life
that was before me

and exhale just,
time and again
my heart beats
the particles of time march, march, march on
I can not discern the flow
as much as drown
even with my head above the water
matters not
I am no captain here
no stowaway
no cavalier
a passenger or a cog perhaps
nothing more
but aware

notes… I was just looking out the window at work and wrote this as is… a few mods here and there but pretty much this, I consider this kind of observational poetry or even stream I suppose, it ain’t prose.. that’s for sure, but this is the way my mind shaves hairs.. so… here it is… for all to bare…

and the presence of time, trees I know are a marker…

and the presence of time, trees I know are a marker…

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 the near 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…

day moon, whimsy…

day moon, whimsy…

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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.

vapor… we are or were and will be…

vapor… we are or were and will be…

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the house of lost souls

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…

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.

forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

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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.

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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…

egalitarian flight ~~^~~

egalitarian flight ~~^~~

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(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.