the silk spun of a winter morn a slight of grey weighs – up on over the land a sheer coat of form from that of man across earth herself a pause- the luster of slumber frost
notes… woke up this morning (seems obvious), grabbed my cup of joe from the kcup kiosk installed in my kitchen (starbucks columbia in my uber fancy yeti travel mug – sheesh I’m a coffee dork), throwing my stuff in the car, the phone, the clipboard with all my nonesuch, and I notice it, that perfect coating, that sprayed on amazing coating of frost across the lawn and all the eyes (barely open) can take in, such perfection, sure, it’s damn cold, twenty degrees ain’t no joke, but even in the grip of all this, the little shimmering reflections all around, so I reflected on it for a moment, and this is what I found…
up that same stretch the same pavement different constructions signs perhaps the same general perception some time has passed enough to grow a beard, maybe slightly longer than that there is a different feel yet the birds still sway back and forth over the meadowlands over the roadway like giant hollow swings billboards, toll booths wet with new year rain the same the same as last year’s rain as far as I can tell – I await for a thread of sunshine
notes: this is a feel thing, this was my first day back at the office in a month, since I had covid and since my father passed, you almost expect the world to be different, you feel different, you look at things differently, but everything else, feels the same or acts that way, so I wanted this work to be… mundane…
for of a pauper or from a prince from a line of kings or of a reign of khans; that comes that which speaks all languages and none.
a last supper, perhaps the thought had crossed my mind, after father, for all your faults all the times I thought I knew better, still my father; meatloaf and corn paper plate fruit cup struggling with the plastic fork, as I must watch the constant beep of various machines trying to understand the strange menagerie of this common foreign land, meatloaf and corn I ignore the bits upon your shirt the dots of gravy the unshaved look, focus on just being here visiting hours, for this is surely not home there are different rules here absolute rules here for no matter who’s father least not mine in a bed stranded, helpless, reduced tubes, bruised skin arms asking about the rutgers score the masquerade of familiar what of the outside can be brought in drapes are the thinnest walls the clock, sits, only the third hand seems to move time is giving me more now as forced conversations run out then there is time just the time to be together, silently for now, father.
notes… well, I must confess I went full on form haiku here, but it makes sense to me, these little flowers in my lawn only bloom in the summer sun, I was out there sweating my,… well never mind, it was hot, let’s say it that way, but those little flowers, the only ones that populate lawns beside dandelions, have you tasted them? the name is not misplaced, they taste great, something I learned in day camp decades ago. and you know, I have not repeated the experience, I should…
“the moonlight frozen written, on the wall filtered, through the bathroom window on an angle noticeable now when someone is gone”
notes… we get used to things, we surely do, the routine, I am the same, I frame things in the familiar, perhaps our minds work that way, they probably do, we compare and contrast constantly, we size things up, and when things change the change can manifest in so many ways, some we notice, some are subtle
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.