rain dance…

rain dance…

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I wish the whimsical
I pray, I dance
on the drum skins of the old gods
lying forgotten in the thunderlands
I shout out, in trance
to transform this grassy prairie
into the bounty of lush forestlands
may brooks break the backs of the deep plates
and carve-cut out the roadways
for life to venture out upon
quench the sponge until overflow
from bird to bee, proliferation
all manner of life, let this be

notes… one of those that snuck into my skull, I found myself in ancient america at the foot of the grasslands, and wondered what it would have looked like if forest had extended outward coast to coast.. so this is that work…

find your place, a nook, an escape, if even for a moment…

find your place, a nook, an escape, if even for a moment…

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on calming waters
the ripples freeze-frame slide and hypnotize
a gull, on a rock, outcrop
two swans act as ostriches of the loch
the simplicity; the serenity;
moves me, sways me, fades me
on calming waters
distorted reflections like impressionist paintings
another world lies, there a-waiting,
to dive in and cleanse my soul,
shed my common clothes-
for a-while,
the hands of the mother, curved earth basin
cupped vessel filled with the universal
for water is life revealed in a mirror
from which we walked, from which we waked
from which we came; yes
on calming waters
a goose and child forage grass-ed edge
unaware of politics or the foibles of men
for this sense ties not to clocks
but perhaps to ancient sun dials,
sweeping ripples, eyes to follow
one by one, out to the horizons
gone, like my words- fallen to the shore
how many have whispered, the worship here before
and let their depths be drowned
for spirit rise, to be cleansed
for the return, to the dominion of men.

only to fall back, into the mud brick laying
the paving, straw and mud, and the modern spoke turning
the drudgery of construct- a yoke
until again
those calming waters call
until then, until that baptismal pause
shall bring renewal, from mother’s hand

notes… so I wrote this in the parking lot of a church, it was raining so I didn’t get out of the car, but this is my spot, right on the franklin lakes reservoir, it is my spring, my fountain, a spot I can go to and escape the every day right under the thumb of the every day, so I recommend you find one… or better two… or nine, sanctuary to let nature drain the stain of normal life off your pelt… it helps…

the onus of shame

the onus of shame

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the trees, their looks bear down upon me
a whole row of judges bent the same forward
their stoic state confirms
they feast rightfully on my shame -;
peddlers of the rain-
the rumblings resonate in the scrum of my ancestors,
a small-broken bird lies, in a puddle, flat mirrored frame
surrounded by lily pads of cherry blossoms fallen
a bloodless crime-
not drowned but that of a twisted neck
captured now placed unto that final nest,
I contemplate the darkening-looming
and attempt to tabulate the celestial math
but I have no means to the master
for I am locked in the strands of man-
for- I am.

notes… this is one of those more cryptic ones that just came to me as is… so, this is how it is… the inspiration was a bunch of trees planted in a semi circle, they looked down at me, or so I felt/thought, and so it was….

origins… -*-

origins… -*-

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origins
cruel perception
the trick of life
am I the culmination
of thought of dream
my parents decision
cosmic reconciliation
into being
the universe quite decided
for I an now

sometimes my view of life takes a turn, or perhaps perspective shifts. is this all a dream? how would I know, how would I really perceive it, and conversely are dreams real, are they reality, we think of something so it does and did exist because of that thought, it did happen, at least somewhere, in some space, in our mind, but yet we may dismiss this as not reality, what is reality, what brought us forth, a thought? perhaps, it is all a circular firing squad from there, a never ending loop, are we in the act of creating merely by imagination, or is imagination the cauldron of truth, of life, all determined by perception, a house looks much different from the inside than from the out, a mountain looks different when staring at the base than when peering from the summit top, and that is a matter of mere feet, not a cosmic mile like looking at earth from the moon or taking a ride on neptune’s 165 year orbit to look around the solar system from another view, these are the things swirling around my brain this day… how about you?

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…

the crucible of a cubicle… [__]

the crucible of a cubicle… [__]

‘cubicle’
an interrogation of flies-
I sit at my desk
cigarette, half cocked, not lit
ashtrays, ashtrays are long gone my friend
papers, semi-arranged, by year, by slot, desktop
or what the cat lady dragged in-
priorities rise and fall like a tide
always coming in, always high tide
I would like to think I made something of a life
wife, kids, but no, here I am, here I am in this-
this prison to pension, this desk.

notes… in my mind this is double edged, I pictured an old tortured soul sitting behind a desk somewhere in the 70s with stacks of things on all corners, almost a hoarder situation, kind of a noir comic vibe, I don’t smoke, never did, but that vibe, the angry, gritty, smoker stuck in a corner with no smokes, ashtray an anachronism laughing, ending a life where you fought so hard for truth and found naught… just what was in my head when I wrote this. oh, and yeah, in a way reflective of me, in my newish shiny office, I have a window, and that makes me the happiest performing animal in the zoo I call my office home…