don’t tell the trees
nor whisper to the buds of leaves
the cherry blossoms peeking
the willow’s pillows breaking
spring is arriving in due time
paying no mind
to the tightening grip of a nation
a world, a contagion
a fastly tightening noose
strangles activity to a halt
sleeping somber in the unsleeping city
the days feel like months
but not a word to the birds
singing now in the morn
nature glides along
as she always will
Tag: Poems
things you notice…
“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
when a word triggers a flood…
time is the filthy filch of legend
of course legends we are told
whispered to
written of
a coalescence of threads of memories
forming an ethereal tapestry
weaving vignettes into our minds
stamping indelibly
like a passer by
leaving a package on your doorstep
unable to ignore pandora
but to open horror or glory
or just a lesson learned on a recipe card
one never knows what grows in imagination’s garden
monsters that were, that never were
that will be only now
or a mighty hero to rise
and conquer that hill
a demon vanquished
or transform into a bird
and fly like magic
up into the stars
framed for all eyes
to touch down on humanity’s gaze
through the ages
once and many more
notes… I must admit, I get an email daily “word of the day” from Webster’s dictionary, I have a fabulous volume of words at my disposal, but I am a word nerd at heart, a word has to sing to me, it has to sound right, and tonight… the word was “filch” and it spawned this… which is cool because the muse loves to poke me with a stick and share my gift, words are my play things and I do love manipulating them, so much more these days, words are my playground so I play, sometimes it results in serious thought, sometimes in back and forth, but always, always banter, this much is such.
tempo.
his eyes follow her form
across the room
as she moved
my eyes
my eyes follow her from
from and to
my thoughts rampant
like wildfire
fueled by desire, fantasy
the idle mind rages in the cauldron of imagination
lurid possibilities
drowning in insinuation
her curves
to meet my hands
her mouth
to meet my lips
the sensation
that first kiss
obsession
fevered bliss
notes… so sometimes you look at someone at distance, wondering, fantasizing, living out all the possibilities in your mind in an instant, watching them stride, you imagine your life together in that moment you create a story, a movie and sensations…
contemplation…
stopping to listen to
the birds chatter
watching a car drive by
wondering how many more times
will I hear them
when I’m gone
to contemplate the patterns of branches
and the conversations of leaves
to figure only
even my own being,
so I listen, so I watch
notes: observational poetry, something I do, I pause often now just to look at the trees, or if there is water, water, there is just something about water that draws me, a lake, a pond, the ocean biggest of all, but nature, the core, we are tied in to it all, we all feel it but not always…. in our busy days, with our busy lives filled with things that have no real meaning… I am no different, I am caught in the same revision but it is just that, a distraction from what matters, if anything matters, structures, social structures, determine so many lives but that is the way it was and will ever be, and then all that out beyond ourselves, the sky, beyond, there is so much out there outside our snow globe…
the house unto which you are born…
in this house of seven gables
my crown
I wear
three pair one
from these windows, these portals
there stares
the observer, the owner, the visitor
contemplating the street
the sun, the trees
sidewalks buckled under root
curbs so artfully formed
like molded cliffs
assessing the neighbors
all locked behind doors
dwellers in dwellings
seeking more
but just that fatal one step
one move
the other side, of that front door
to leave the confines
into only what was seen and filtered
not heard, tasted or felt
from within these membranes
these walls
that contain, and protect
one specific flavor
one specific intellect
notes… we are in our own prison, we have freedoms but at some point there is freedom from this form, and none of us know what that will be…
and you thought traffic was not inspiring…
I try to distract myself when stuck in the ole traffic, which seems like my groundhog day to various degrees, this morning I had thirteen miles to go, yes 1….3… good old Waze told me route 9 was the way, I know very well where I was going, but I said what the hell, threw caution to the wind (gee, what a rebel I ain’t) and trusted the phone thing to control my life… and… 45 minutes later I arrived, 13 miles… in 45 minutes, you do the math, I just laughed, serves me right trusting an app over my personal local knowledge, but man alive everyone swears by the thing, tomorrow, I will see what it says… and take it under advisement only… in the meantime, on the way home, I took a better route, made good time, and some words popped into the ole noggin’… these would be those…
“traffic hypnosis“
a concrete bed for me
the subtle lullaby
as I drive by
light posts
every measured feet
shadow cast
blinks past
spokes of the sun
so yeah, traffic might not be all that bad… sometimes… rarely, mostly the bane of my existence but I might as well muse as I measure distance…
orphans…
something I do from time to time, I post works I have abandoned or not finished (to be honest I just am not good at going back, I like to create in the moment)… maybe they will spark upon the mind of someone else, or maybe they were actually finished unto themselves… so, here are a few, snippets, if you will… thoughts? always appreciated.
(1) “jumbled”
for-give
for-get
to-give
to-get
the words have lost all meaning
(2) pure and incorruptible
true love and children
the fuel that ignites the soul
the hope
the future
all within
(3) do I reach the bottom wave
and feel the beach
upon my brow
succumb
until I drown
(4) sapling in a frisbee
just being this form
does not mean
you were meant to fly
yeah, I have posted it before… but man I love this album to pieces, it is a mental exercise, no, a relief, it checks all the boxes and guides me to interesting dreams…
and she devastates me so effortlessly…
‘rogue’
lies with the eyes
if only I was so talented
she levels me without speech
destroys all my reasons
shatters my walls
crumbling
knees buckling
not literally but underneath, she knows
consciousness wrecked
suave turned sweat
notes… you’ve been there, helpless and stopped cold in your usual bullshit, the bullshit that works with everyone else but not her but she likes you anyway, it is more a perception, a feeling, a tingling, that “ah ha” moment, she gets it, you, THE YOU, you can stop pretending…. but you don’t… to a point, you should…
it had to be Yew… (a post, revisited)
A revisit of THIS post with all my notes, annotation and the like, sometimes my water runs a bit deeper, sometimes I am just an ordinary schmuck…
upon Llangernyw Yew
so you grand tree does thee wait
guard the dead and call them out *(1)
in st dygain’s yard beyond the gate
there you wait, date to date,
on the promise, all hallows eve *(2)
all the world’s ear leans towards that tree *(3)
not wanting to hear that prophetic voice *(4)
and bear witness to angelystor, no, not by choice
for role is the call of the dead *(5)
might your name, might be read
do not be bold and curse the land
for bear you will with Rhobert’s hand *(6)
and know now that halloween has past
your name not whispered cross those limbs
from the depths of that ancient root
you are not called back bound eternity
under that shadow of Llangernyw Yew
First off the tree is perhaps 4,000-5,000 years old, pretty awesome to contemplate.
(1) This is all about the Legend of Angelystor (“The Recording Angel” inspired by St Peter perhaps?), which, according to the Welsh tradition twice a year (once on halloween (2), so I thought emphasizing that was best) the spirit would announce the names of those from the parish who would perish that coming year, the legend stipulates that those who cared or dared to hear the angel’s decree would gather under the east window of the church to hear the proclamation (3,4,5), of course someone does not believe in the legend and fiercely denies it (Sion Ap Rhobert), well, you can figure out what happened to that guy (6). So, basically this is a poem about some tree…
Shades of My Garden 