the shades of slumber
the spectrum of sleep
the wabbling wonder
has once again tilted seas
for once again the blanket lies
out upon my yard
a quilt of life
patchwork stitched – then gone
Tag: the nj poet
cykle.
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…
palaces in plain sight.
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.)
in a simple mirror found…
‘the birdfeeder‘
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.
the why (to ponder)
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 ?
purpose in words
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… (stop and watch)
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.
perspective, the mirror of life
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.
the N, the Z, you sea…
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.
of war.
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…)
Shades of My Garden 