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…
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 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 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?
like illuminated ants in file this nightly dance a ritual bath in the sense of sameness the commute – blurring lane lines bow bright red flashing ants marching single files for miles seasons pass frames change drapes seasons pass the way remains the same morphing into a sense of lost time and time spent where did I even begin?
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…
‘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…