Tag: think

driving to work observation (an addendum to my last post) …

driving to work observation (an addendum to my last post) …

by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment
Photo by Mitchell Luo on Pexels.com

and for all my bluster, and flowery language, inevitably the world reverses course, something about a bloom on a rose I suppose or colored glasses in the same pose, for today the world turned (as it always does), I guess I would call it a ‘heavy rain’, for it is, with weight, there is probably some technical term but I am certainly not a meteorologist, at least not in this life mix, the once lovely pure-‘gelic snow of a day or so ago is now reduced to sludge, and choppy dirty flotillas of mini-icebergs worthy of a titanic miniature collision, stark white has turned dull grey in best case, and worst case near chimney-innards-soot black, stained by the dirt of roads and travelers by of all ilk spilt upon the canvas, once gingerbread perfection has now fled, from roofs – swiped swaths of vanilla icing missing, stolen by wayward fingers of solar and wind, a receded white hairline revealing flaws and spent youth or the truth of time reality, the shelf life of pristine is a delicate phrase, and the rain, local buckets of spots, the kind of rain that always winds up with a huge lumbering drop in your eye socket as you walk out the door, because, because it just does, or a big slap of wet right on your bangs that bend and drips that branch forward down your face before you manage the escape scramble to the car, then the inaccurate art of getting the wipers at the right speed to match the pace of rain, they never are, so you settle some where in-between, such is life, the dance of compromise rather than the exact right, which makes perfection or sheer beauty that much more of a delight, since the visual has left the dream maybe my ears are more attuned, not the sweet soft calming silence mid storm swoon, now I hear every little thing, every drop, as I park to embark to my office confines, I hear the world siphon into the sewer drain, drain, I should not let the drab drain me of drive, for I am alive, just muddled in the middle of snow becoming dishwater soup in a cafe serving up grey, there will be better days, for there always are, and if not, memory serves, serves them up warm… if I just close my eyes, think on the sun, two dollar neon pail and tiny shovel in hand, molding castles to serve this little lord of the sand land, waves gently lapping at a moat’s door, far away from this, and I can feel the sun, I know I can feel the sun.

notes… as I go so mind my goes, dig it… dig it…

a reflection on the perfection of eleven… (stream of)

a reflection on the perfection of eleven… (stream of)

by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment
Photo by anna on Pexels.com

outside the norm, or the deca-box, a beginning step over such, just higher than the range of given usual merit, a singular number, a backwards forwards road, twins, towers bold by bold, the power of one number can equal two, so unassuming in elegance, not the first or last of the calendar, nor a remarkable time of any days to remember, outside of america, that is, the essence of being outside, the one, or twin ones, in the major arcana ruled by the sun, a lion’s pride, an ego’s ride, the enchantress begs the gifts, and quells the lion’s maw with her own paw, allowing for the spring of heaven to emerge and flow forth, an elven spring, even a broken clock chimes the gateway twice a day – so what call’s us to notice, and delve into eleven and the eleven realms… who knows?

my photo… my view from my desk… on a good day

file this under things you write as they hit you, sitting in my office (photo) peering through the blinds, the soft parade of bright red underbellies like child drawn crayon whales, of clouds passing just over the house across the street, providing a stark contrast to the black-barren limbs of a tree, to the left of me, from here I can not see the asphalt, or debris strewn about on the street, not even the empty bus stop or garbage drop, no my mind is free for a moment to flee to meander within the clouds slowly so slowly sliding south, darker now, darker still, the red has faded to a purple gray, in this space, I could dream to be as free from the every day, one day, floating in the resonance of silence, or so I imagine this to be.

Notes… I am playing with numbers here, look up 11, I am not going to link to everything this time out that I was riffing on, just go to your fave search engine and search “meaning of 11” you might be surprised, or not, or maybe learn a thing or 12….

yes, the winter *”*

yes, the winter *”*

by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment
Photo by Hui Huang on Pexels.com

from minute to minute, I suppose, I can not track my mind to the finish line, I do enjoy the comfort of snuggling burying into bed, fetal form, to gather warmth, or throw on that old cape may sweatshirt, the elastics at the sleeves have seen better days flapping loose like old flagpole lines @ the shore, but of course this sweatshirt comes equipped with a joey pouch for my hands, I walk out to take out the trash to the assigned bins, ‘hello, mr. winter‘
for I feel his breath on any and all exposed flesh, after last night’s raging gale, there is really little doubt, perhaps a spring like day might mount here or there, but not for long, the trees are close to bare, the town has come and picked up all the leaves left out, the wind meets little resistance now, across this land, I pause, the late afternoon sun now matches what colors there are left around, a snapshot, it will seem like hours and all will be gone, barren, the steady march into soft sleep, hunker down, the days grow short as the sun is just that more out of reach, other sources of warmth become the key, hunker down, soon, the white age of morning captures the dew, clothing and rituals will change, a trade for hot soup from lemonade, the shore becomes still, silent, empty, how things seem so much more empty when the crowds are gone, I wonder what the gulls think, they vote with their feet and beaks, they have moved into the suburbs and the towns, I wonder if those strip mall birds think lowly of their beachbound herds, trading a parking lot for the roar of the sea, I suppose survival is the more preferred aesthetic, but what do I know of birds, only what I observe, tonight in tongues comes a frost, a blanket, an incantation, a charm of making, that white beard that conceals the color green until what is left of the sun warms just enough, you can never plug all the holes of inevitable, surely, all comes falling down if you try to stem the tide by self as a boy, better to gradually be seduced than to outright drown, I dream of the beach in winter, so here my dream walks.

thoughts… from the porch. ” ” ” “

thoughts… from the porch. ” ” ” “

by David Koblentz ♥ 0 Leave a Comment
Photo by Raychel Sanner on Pexels.com

the howling winds
yes, the cliché, like a freight train, but I must say, whoever coined that phrase, was quite correct, I saw the line coming in on radar, somewhere over Dingman’s Ferry just an hour ago, now, as predicted quite sitting, over my homestead, I sat out for a bit, enjoying the sheer raw power wind, found a spot not quite so wet to take it all in, seeing my newly planted bamboo bent and flailing about surely gave me pause, but things and trees have to learn after-all, I did however batten down whatever hatches I could, the reports of 60 miles per hour received and understood – and felt, what few leaves survived the autumn culling will surely not survive the night, and thirties temp in the forecast later certainly have snuffed out any oxygen left in hopeful lungs of summer, or spring, or whenever this began, the holidays and days that never were, the stalking virus seemingly an eraser of time (where did easter, 4th of july or halloween go?), things changed in a blink, kind of standardized but never slowed down, for children I suppose it might be worse, a stolen summer, a time in life never to be realized, how important things like 9th grade or 8th grade seemed, a prom missed, and there were, no second chances there, children have such strict avenues until they are out in the world embarking in their own canoes down that river… the roaring continues, but now rain has come to play, no place safe, well, no place dry to stay, save indoors, so I retreat, still, I open my window just enough, to invite a piece of the tempest thus, the TV is out, all the better, I have power, tough life I have no doubt, I can only imagine the spectacle such a whip coming through caused in a frontier house of old, wind finding every little crevice and racing through infiltrating, gas lit lamps flickering, threatening to go out and bring the dark veil, huddled in a patchwork waiting for the wind to die down, I romanticize this scene, only because secretly I know my modern convenience provides me the protection to watch the beast thrash about like I am watching some show, the sound though, the sound, my eyes deceive me as I watch a car drive down the street with no sound, I am sure the sound is in there, somewhere, in the blender, but damn if I can make it out, all there is, is nature’s voice, a roar, a throaty steady bellow racing through the leaves fallen at varying pace, stalks touching toes, why does this enthrall me so? maybe I am jealous, I can not conjure such magnificence, I only get to be a witness, but such things are better than not being here at all.