the mother
and her dying children
yearning to be born
so I am sold this is a circle
but what if this is
nothing-more,
than a line?
the earth, a cradle, my time in such…
Tag: poem blog
traffic; release-fly
a loose caravan
of common black-birds
races across the near-still canvas
colors of the autumn setting sun
off, towards the quarter-crescent blue moon
they pay no notice
to the bustling parkway below
and for a moment
I. am with them
notes… I should wire my go pro to capture what I actually see, maybe, would that diminish or enhance? either way I feel the need to do so… which means it will help, two nights later the same stretch of road was the same, but darker, and two planes were crossing the same path as the birds, it was like some sort of sequel…
all the world is a…
dear, my dear
born again?
must be september
but I can not seem to remember
musket balls to remote controls
I will not swear fealty to cross that moat
nor believe the stories you untold
over brook and crooked back
banish me then
from your impossible lands
where to tell time I had to face
the dire clock’s of dali laced
no, no mad hatter for me then
I’d rather fare the lion’s den
so I might now
exit stage right
(to all a bow
to all a good night)
notes… my notes, have this as “jumble” because… well, if you are privy to me I would say it is obvious… but I always am speaking on many levels… well, ok, often is a better description of assumption, this one has levels to it, I am referencing things in nearly every line, I do that often but not always, see how I can weave a maze of my own post? that’s fun for me, words, thoughts, a playground in which I bound about like a kangaroo hopped up on speed, g’day mate let me kick you in the face like a joey in rage… man I need to cut back the caffeine … or not…
the survival imperative…
in the awakening
might I tread lightly on
as the sky explodes with dreams
spread tethered out on cotton streams
a requiem for a thief,
for I am-
a consumer of all things
until I become threadbare, myself
a baron of composition
bereft of fruit
to wither into the aether
to claim my time
to cling to life
I, survive.
notes… we slide in and out of this existence to fast in cosmic time… I hope this is just a train stop in the converging line of time and dimensions…
source.
who is there that does not believe
who is there that shall believe
for in that belief
resides hope eternal
and all shall be
all shall come
from –
within.
snippet… –
“and what I know of
the silence of love
speaks volumes”
notes… haiku? not sure, not meant to be, strictly, that is, this is something I woke up this morning and this was scribbled (OK, typed) in notepad on my little laptop friend here, I don’t even recall writing it, but since I am a music wonk it has beats… 5 / 5/ 3, funny how the universe works such things out (hat tip, universe, in waves)
carousel… {{:h;h:}}
horseshoe pattern prints
trails bend and cross
this first and freshest snow
surely, a rabbit;
and now in this midnight hour
the tracks have gone
so I wait, for my friend
notes… maybe the ocean is not my only muse, there is the weaving of the breeze through the trees picking off leaves in autumn, the cricket’s symphony on a late summer’s night, and this, silent, clean, pure snow, watching it fall, wrapped inside the comfort of a home, checking the window view as the snow builds up, on the railings, on the tree limbs, slowly covering everything with a white sheen blanket, the kid in me wants to run outside and roll around, the me of now, content to watch and reminisce…
lost.love.letters. \\\\\
perhaps this is causality
and I am the casualty of-
the rain
a grey veil of gloom over
even silver linings wane
not some days
not all days
today, one of those lingering
an insidious thought invades, breaks the levy
‘I have nothing’
or feel that way
perhaps only because I ‘had’
I can not stop the swell, the surge
the rush back, a rampaging flood now converges
that a bound fist in my abdomen confirms
my eyes well,
we all want to travel back, to rewrite;
and we do, in a way, down that path, in our mind
but know, always know the foundation
the truth is in the earth, hands clench this
the cruelty of the steadiness of dirt
support of life and burial of the dead roots
as far reach as heaven, up into the air
roots buried, anchors, always, memories
a library, a curated collection
rows and rows of known, wanton forgotten
I am alone-
most days this is not a bother
some days a marker, a visitor, my own host
I scrape for false shelter
draw out the homilies on my lips
all the words I left out
a mantra to my burden
to wait out the storm and pretend some more.
note… to any new people (as I am seeing more traffic), hello you (waving), my work is off the cuff, one off, unless otherwise noted, perfect? no way man…. but I post it… and here it is… when I write the thing it is visceral, you get me facial, that’s all… and if you like it … great, if not, also great, I appreciate the read, the time, your eyes, thanks… we are existing right now at this time…. which is a miracle, billions of the years of the universe have brought us together… for corn dogs… well, er, at least that or more I hope, so all your comments, recipes, thoughts, coherent rants and advice for my garden – are appreciated. I am the bamboo whisperer… I tell ya…
a quick reflection… {()}
now you have gone and done –
well, you are gone
I sip my tea
yes, I am known more for quaffing coffee, as you know
but a sip or two, of you, I’m thinking of
just now, a gentle pause, a smile
a wish on lips, to you being here
but at least I had a glimpse
and you are so very far now, by miles
but not knitted up my smile
as I think of you now
a sip or two, a cup of tea
notes… a kind of in the moment thing as I was having a cup of tea this morning @ my desk, looking out at the very non inspiring industrial tinged streets of Hackensack NJ…
Shades of My Garden 