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.
yet the laughter of a playground chatter of simple times for summer’s early friend has disappeared and even the yolk of death ousted for a child’s smile of walking pets in this backwoods jungle gym of civilization chalk scratchings underfoot graffiti lines and tags color
notes… yeah, I am old school, metal head, rap, OG hip hop, classical, electronica, ambient, alt…. do I surprise you yet? nah… pay attention, I got all my kids in detention but pay attention they are all in attendance just they can’t all be present for this romance, so… I have walked the streets of suburbia, and I also know all the worst parts of most towns… not many people have my shared experience, I go from Bed-Stuy to the Upper West Side, from Toms River to Franklin Lakes, from Hazleton to Center City – hey PA, south bronx, got ya, people forget and lament, laurelton and the rock beach away, out of the reach of bay ridge… I travel all of it… (ahem, I really do…)
*and this one is staccato pace… the poem that is… just so you know, I do things in purpose, I am not some enigma, or a puzzle, is there layers ? sure… but for me I want at least some visceral before you start peeling the onion, so….. have at it. and thanks for any and all those who read me, I do appreciate your thoughts.
and there, on the ground I was not expecting you to appear a ghost of oak and passed a flash, lightning grasps the synapses a bolt, a soul past a page again revealed, open tome and harken back, for she was alive then there is nothing in this domain no tree does remain near no, this can not be here, not now, how? nowhere in this cradle of maples exists there was one but gone the years, in creases the sun, decreases, the sin but to live longer than those loved a traveler stained tattered remains somehow stronger in the ruin steel hardened under the constant cause of wounds circumstance, fate the great ghost oak awakens the gateway, a marker to this time of dying so oak moon; I know- so oak moon; I beseech you, I seek you among the long of nights for the respite of demise may you grant wishes upon, whisper just whisper out, existence.
notes… sometimes the smallest things trigger a memory, this one in particular, I remember the day, much like today, not very remarkable, not very suitable, an early december rain, as I walked outside, I remember the crack, the flash, lightning arcing into that oak tree, the one that had always been, for at least my short life, FLASH! and the lightning arced out into the old basketball pole into the ground, the hair on my arms standing, the shock, well, the literal shock of being right there, seeing the death strike that killed that majestic old oak, and I remember her under that tree, and now all there is, is a patch of grass, not even a nice one, or uniform, many years have come and gone and the earth seems to hold the scar like my own, stump to root gone for so long now, but that little stretch of lawn, a scar, strange, maybe we are returned to dirt and something of us remains in that part, eventually it will all be plowed or something else, a street, a house, but for now, a reminder formed by the earth herself, and today, a subtle reminder brought in by a breeze, I literally do not see any oaks around but there was a singular leaf, a note, left there for me, and then these words came to be….
(for those new to my blog, welcome (and where ya’ been?), I write and post almost all in a whirl, off the cuff, the vast majority of what you will read here is done in one sitting, like I am doing now, flowing, that is how I do things, if you like? great, I appreciate your time, thanks.)
a cup of tea, for one just the thought of an actual formal tea set brings pause, brings calm but I have never met, such an instance just on the tele, as they say the tea-totalers, that is our neighbors once lords and ladies; and why do I not think of japan a barrier of language, perhaps
I was thinking the day was dreary but I looked up and there is sun the mix of peppermint and honey on my tongue is like a sauna, the sun draws out the steam fills in, I can imagine the release of water evaporating on the rocks the audible nature of transformation
I am glad tea is not instant or at least not mine directions, steep for awhile time to contemplate a pause, a calm
notes… am I drinking more tea these days? well, yes, yes I am, maybe it is a ritual that will keep my head on straight in these crazy days, I have tried talismans of various sorts but right now tea seems to be the brakes I need on speeding forward…
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…
is it possible? I feel different today (and yes my coffee has settled in), I mean, I always feel different after a few days off, but something, something has shifted, I feel it, I swear it from the bottom up, toes up spine down, is it days of optimism (ahem, and rest) welled up? perhaps, has not the usual office grime whiped off on me enough, yet? the dreary drive through driving rain (check), am I different from just a few days ago? what has changed? not much, really, something about perception versus reality I suppose, but … I just don’t know, I feel different, hopeful, even downhill among these moguls thrown out in front of me like field mines in all our lives these days, all is well, hell, not anything has changed really but a sunrise in my mind, I spent a few days dreaming, now, you might think I am joshing, no, I literally spent a few days involved in lucid dreaming, an experiment, to the best I could manage, or drive, I visited Hawaii I tell you, certainly not but my mind touched that spot, surely, I can not describe how I did thrive in that environ, especially since it was the whole cloth creation of my imagination, never been to the real place, regardless of the weather outside, the actual weather, there I resided, for a time, snuggly warm inside the real, closed my eyes with a purpose, guidebook in hand mind, as to where I might go, my own ship to steer, and so I did, some of this was mundane, arguments over meals, details about rooms, the usual insane things in our normal day to day even on vacay, but other times, I was indulged, to see friends and former, others and lovers, the never hads and the used to be familiars, it was all there at the fingertips of instant writing memory, as I went and experienced, and so real, what makes it less real? I woke from excitement, anger, passion, and rolled over for more, as the hours went, a day spent, in another world, somewhere I had not been before but could populate so easily with my mind, a charm, the shore, the breeze, the personal interactions, conversations happened, all of the recall, I could quote chapter and verse although, I wrote this journey as I went and came in REM worlds, as real as spent, and today, back in that chair, that desk, that office, I look out my window, birds traveling from rooftop to rooftop… (as have I)
“…in pieces slide, pieces slide out, we are a puzzle with nothing to solve but ourselves.” – some guy aka me
I stand at the gate and the song my heart sings is of the moonlight I stand and I wait for the grace of your hand to cover the moon the roses are blushing, a moonlight seranade
the stars, how they glow, and tonight how their light guides my dreaming, to you, my love, do you know? of course you know, my whispers in your ear streaming, like the meteor shower above this earth, and these heavens combined, has brought this; a moonlight serenade
let us stay here, as long as time in this place of mind, a valley of shared dreams you and I, our hands the circle of space and mind all else remains frozen but our waltzing eyes
so let me not wait to drift to sleep, come to me in that tender dream meet me at the gate, so to sing a sweet lullaby, a moonlight serenade the song of my love, as dreams are only life as made my darling, my love; a moonlight serenade.
(now you tell me, how and where I went, and I might flash you a postcard, if only you can see it)
against the setting, purple rippling sky reminds, in countenance shadow doth reflect I dream of your form with empty hands out-stretched; my body swells with starvation in the famine of the death of sensation (your touch), illusion bores and marks the eyes falling on to moon lit-skin, an ache born upon the conscience of time.
in distant mind voice reflects to listen with my eyes the song of your words upon my ear (as I admire how they escape from the supple valley of your lips). the many places of daily travel warm (and light) with the presence of your candle’s glow and yet cold as the lands that separate live souls; with hands entwine and walk the path upon fantasy rides the thoughts of man, Upon that gallant-fanciful steed might glide the miles in memory; -but yet what warmth does this night-shadow bring? The song to sing in faintest past and yet all is owed, on to the future.
palm upon palm, (might I flourish for a moment in your scent) falling hapless rather than to this lament I drift to sleep amongst the fear of dreaming- and do I deny what my mind decrees? The ancient charm of dreams pulls so heartily at my ropes and binds, dancing and prancing logic and delirium In all the cotillion-; embraced, and all the body waits for the texture of her naked skin baring against the dew that forms; contours are the guide of hands instinct as the guide of minds, And sweet sufferance is this bliss un-achieved in the day-light hours, finds the night to write a script of wish, a castle from which to survey and capture lands beyond and afar from worldly reach, and yet lucid as the life a picture framed in the eye of mind a committed memory, in a curved line.
Notes… generally speaking my works I post are 96.2% off the cuff (a totally arbitrary number made up for this post, but you get my drift), this post is certainly not, this is something old, pre-me being the blog hound dog that I am these days, if I had to guess this is in the neighborhood of 15 years old, something I wrote and stowed in a box, with other poems, which I might reveal, given the feel, if I feel like it, and I might, I had this typed out and folded up stuck in an old book, it was always one of those I ‘liked’ straight away, the title, the whole darn thing, I am sure my fellow fellowship of writers/artists out there get that, there is always those that you just ‘love’ right off the bat, and this is such a dove, I did alter it a bit, given my modern taste and flair, or whatever I am doing these days. So, hope you enjoy it… As always your thoughts, likes, and adulating praise is always appreciated… any good non obvious habanero chili recipes are also warranted… (damn I love the hot chilis)
I do not know if I believe in a kingdom without a king or a monarchy without a queen or a fiefdom without a thief. a puppet’s head propped on a spike, proper from towers to tillers lest the hands forget; the rise of a river from up on the mountain slides fed deep from the mother underground wells ripen fruit spent before, spent on high to grace life on down the line, by line, the line but drains out into a bog a stinking cess of rot quicksand kills, I’m told but the bog is a python squeeze and swallow charm coils wrap, breath is shallow and all the while glaring down from gilded hill the sound of glassware ringing singing songs borne on broken backs from where all bones wash white so this, I tell, is civilized life
Shades of My Garden 