the four days- the cold barren the stark bare the slumber huddle survival; closed eyes; the gentle warming on western horizon land unlocked under toe slow awakening dawning eyes adjusting to the light stretching out up towards the sky blooming; hands palms wide to warming glory migration towards the water, the ocean holding on until the cooling and leaves fallen, loops on turn we then return to our station.
a scrap I wrote a while ago, I find them on various thumb drives, and I am surprised but what In find but then remember the vibe so… this is mine, all thoughts are welcome, I am a curious to find out the minds of others, it does not consume me, but it does have a sense of interest to see how I swim among my peers stuck in my same years of time…
within the salt’on sea the sky is slates of ice cracks ‘cross of bended light the sun’s but a dream far night for the warmth is the warp of gravity deep inside the core of that, the salt’on sea
in a frozen landscape, or a floating sea of ice, is there land, is there hope, is there life, the physics still exists in the gymnasts in such realms so let it be… imagination…
(as always your thoughts and comments are welcome and appreciated, even if you think I suck, that’s cool too, I do this as a posting of art, nothing more, I do not expect everyone to get it, love it, or even care… just putting a little piece of the me out there into the ether, and hey, maybe you dig the tunes.. I have a lot of thoughts about that… and I also write media reviews, so check them out, I am funnier than you think… well, at least I tell myself that.)
wrought iron ancient tower in look sold and bought at a garden center in years I might have forgot some winters to fill you up going bare barren for an entire season no good reason, just the passing forgetting to refill the silo forgetting t’was even there, at times the nature of gravity and consumption in the wind, swaying
a common winter night not an occasion to stop- so filled to the top and spilt over not a delicate affair no, certainly not like an old man in the park shuffling hands in a paper bag, for company more organized perhaps but much the same rouse much the same draw
and I can not control those who come who find this rest stop and sometimes a flurry a gang of rooks, a jail break frenzy romp rather than the gentle sweep and peck the subtle moves of anxiety the back and forth with caution of those who might be prey or at least garnish so little ones bounce from limb to perch or a big blue jay swoops in also on the lurch
sometimes I wish- to script upon the seed with the breed I wish to attract oh, silly me haven’t we all done this very same act? (in our own reality)
based on the real, just my bird feeder swinging on the tree outside my bedroom window and the implications there… life is a strange and wonderful thing. so…. what do you think ?
and for any noobs: (I promise to be gentle) I write in flash form, maybe my work is not perfect but it is a flash photo of what comes out of my mind and pen (ok, keyboard mostly)… so, just so you know how it works around here, this is all just me throwing my breath out there, so if you read all this, or any of this, thanks for your cherished time, I appreciate it.
drowning in thinking perhaps tired of inking these inklings epithets to dreams from threats of a new whirlwind a cascade due an avalanche down doubts weighted by fear the desperate climb out claws from down under pulling downward’sunder but I mustn’t- I mustn’t succumb I must fight for each breath for that reach for life regardless or… or… what?
notes: unlike other animal life we question our existence, but when push comes to shove we do fight to survive, mostly… mostly… are we free from the same death panic ? I doubt it, I am not, mostly in daily life I am but I know I look to the stars and see light that is thousands or billions of years old, does someone see mine ?
prayer from a distance does not carry on the air nor land or on the back of a feather the ocean may rise to engulf the poles but not even a voice of thunder can span the globe in one full jump
but the voice of many may be the boat of hope to sail so, I pray, still.
there is hope, and hopelessness… and yes, none of this may matter in this matter, but you have a choice, I choose to live in the sun, as best I can (and I fail more than not, but my choice is not the reason for my failure, my humanity is, such as it is).
your thoughts and comments are always appreciated, my friends.
the lost moments the bullet train that blazes ahead the day at work, all aboard, the pace is something to behold, or to dread, or to embrace, or to blink, and it ends, I try to take the lost moments and make them mend or at least carry, carry through like a photo or a token of a memory, or of something pleasant, the moment before I get in my car in the morning, before I hit that commute, throw my arm over the window and gaze, before that usually awful drive like bumper cars that never meet, except some do and that just causes delays for the rest, the sick game of in and out and the rush and brush, the lanes, the change, the tolls and the toll, so no, before I get into my torture capsule, before that trap, I take a moment, whether the weather permits or not, to soak in the sounds and sights around my humble suburban life, there is always something around, a least a squirrel, or a robin or two, something that moves, the tops of the trees in the backyard swaying perhaps, the smell of fresh leaves or grass, something, something is there to be grasped, a refuge from the iron clad and concrete monsters that await my fate, so take those lost moments, give them a home in your mind and heart, for even an instant can be the start, a mental locket and so store them there, and when the human jungle begins to encroach, fight off the inevitable with those lost moments.
bound to the ground even with the occasional lift off we were born with arms not wings but even the fine feather are bound to this air-o-sphere; unless, perhaps this is truly a heaven and the rest of life in the universe wish to escape to here.
out upon the silky sea a voyage be’ond discovery for out in that unforgiving grave a rock an outcrop once the roiling cauldron heap to melt the earth herself molten dreams roll conjured up from the continental shelf herself and here now cooled and tam’d these days spared the steam ‘don cleared the haze a seeking flock found peace and stayed without a fang ‘r tooth long in sight decided they were done with flight for why bother with a pilot’s trial on cliffs and yonder tuck’n’tail
notes… nah, I am not explaining this one… let it be mystery and fodder for imagination as this was a loose interpretation, of language and creation, on my part, in other news I finally reorganized my YouTube Channel a bit, so check it out if you please, and on Facebook I post things so, all that, if you like what I do, thank you, no, truly, I broadcast out my frequency and hope there are at least a few ears in tune, even if not, at least I am here to do it.. and that is truly enough, remember that.
upon that ghostly domain soldiers thrust out upon in waves left to die face down and drown and drown the days even after breath has passed foul tide and stench has raised the war sounds rise to cover the noise of the dead the dying and injured stead can the shore open forth and then absorb the horror of the last moments of men boys, men soldiers sent in thrown against the walls of iron cross with pure luck and harsh determined lock who might stand at last who might retain humanity, bound forever within these sands of the sights, the sounds, the thoughts of this calamity at hand– of man.
notes… this one was written after I saw Dunkirk but mostly I was thinking about Normandy, but war is war, the same applies whether the line is on a beach or a street, war is as old as humanity, sometimes there is no choice, but there is always a price. (plus I am an old school metal head who grew up on slayer so… there is that…)
puddles as pools as footsteps, the oddity of being on the dividing line on a map, always the corridor, wintry mix so they say, so it is, snowing one minute, raining the next, the pure white of barely an inch, devolves into ice walled pools that retain some structure, captured capsized footprints, preserved perfectly, for at least a moment, until the eventual slide into full on water, a frozen tide, lines that outline where I was just a second ago, proof of life I suppose, if however temporary, even those footprints on the moon will go away someday, I suppose, would I treasure those more, if I could ? more permanent than my little frozen steps across the temporary pond hopping in my driveway, all just a matter of the scope of time, the lens of passing, time, time has all the time in the world, and then some, mine just a fleeting trail of steps, melting into the ether, succumbing to the inevitable.