Down to darkness I descend
as the hand of grief extends
horror called me to this door
words of sorrow stain my lips
slip through my fingertips
scatter ‘cross the cellar floor
the black depth hides my tears
I am haunted — filled with fears
my spirit broken evermore
dark waves of misery
are rising like the sea
I am stranded on the shore
I am lost — I am alone
confusion grips me to the bone
terror chills me to my core
something wails my name
I have finally gone insane
it is the end for me I’m sure
is this really what it seems
or has this all been just a dream
but again I hear the roar
I pray I’ve been asleep
in a dream-state dark and deep
please — let my eyes soon open
let this nightmare spell be broken
and a new sun rise once more
if not — god’s mercy I implore
The murder of crows
rain from the skies
swarm the earth
caw and crowd wildly
a chaos of cacophony
a frenzy of undulating black
tearing at a shadowed heap
drawing more closely
I see the object
of their mania
a body
a lifeless body
my body!
my eyes jerk open
waking with a start
shuddering a fevered sweat
I’m tight
in this nightmare’s grip
no alarm
need bid me awaken
this day
a fumbling for the lamp
follows moments of confusion
sitting upright
I slow my breathing
wipe dry my brow
then
throwing my leges
over the edge of my bed
I stumble my feet
into my slippers
and slowly rise
from the soak of my mattress
still shaking slightly
I tug on my robe
amble to the kitchen
take a cup from the shelf
and pour chamomile tea
it’s brewed ready each morning
by the wonders of technology
retreating to my office
to my chair
where it waits
welcoming
in a pool of soft light
buffering the pre-dawn dark
I sit
sip my steeped motivation
quietly peeling away fog
that lingers still
clouding my mind
residue of this fitful night
somber
I’m pleased to be awake
to be alive
grateful for the peace
for the deep quiet
of early morning
finally
my thoughts
begin to un-blend
to gather
slowly they sort
in colors of my dark mood
melancholy greys
fear’s dark ebony
the purples of pain
blood red of anger
the violet of regret
and sorrowful blues
it’s an incomplete spectrum
stirred by this morning’s
reflections on death
on my mortality
recently threatened twice
by my failing heart
then under the surgeon’s knife
these bleak colors
shoulder in coldly
crowding my reverie
pondering my plight
cursing this recurring fate
I struggle
‘neath the weight of my uncertainty
of my heavy insecurity
a riot of emotions
overcome me
crowding in
like this morning’s madness
of the imagined murder of crows
I seek clarity
I reach for my laptop
my escape
my refuge of resolution
my canvass of language
I slowly lay fingers
on keyboard
in the spreading saffrons
and corals of dawn
I begin painting
deep indigo
At last fair summer soon arrives, just in time to resuscitate my sense of humor. The winter rains still stubbornly linger. But soon the sky will remain sunny and clear, as will my lifting mood, stirring summer dreams in the golden warmth. I celebrate this season of plenty.
The seeds push sprouts through the rich warm earth, as nature cycles to this time of birth. New buds pop forth through ready limbs. Mountain streams run fast and clear as nature’s curtain lifts on this magical time of year — as the veil lifts on my sweet recall.
Bird songs will echo through the greening trees to serenade my reverie. The heady fragrance of summer will carry on the gentle breeze, as the bold hues and rich sounds of this beautiful boisterous season fill my soul to bursting! Rockin’ my Adirondack — joyous is my heartsong!
green leaf on blue pond
turns in golden summer sun
red bird softly sings
This piece deals with the strange duality we all carry with us through life, the unique contradiction between the person we think we are, and the “many” varying persons others perceive us to be, from their experience of us, as filtered through their differing individual perceptions. Fair or not, convenient or not, we are “judged”. Our lives are impacted, to one degree or another, every day by how we measure up to each of these interpretations of the “I” we are thought to be. This includes the “I” we perceive ourselves to be. Which one is real? Which is valid? Or is any one of them truly definitive? The phrase “I am” presents a fascinating philosophical quandary.
”Ask not, who are we — existentially, we are me.”
When another
tells you of yourself
you’re shown the dance they see
your outward choreography
they hear not the music
that rings true within your mind
that leads and drives your steps
to your inward dance — they’re blind
others see a reflection
not the light that shines inside
that illuminates your soul
to guide your steps and stride
so, are we the “I” we know
the self that we so treasure
or are we in fact — another
the one the others measure
if the authentic “I”
be the one outward shown.
then we are in fact — the “I”
to ourselves — not known
for surely when compared
the majority story shared
is of the outward other
the one seen by another
and so we live our life
cloistered in this outward other
and live this life alone
even when by many known
for the “I” that’s outward shown
is likely the “I” that’s not our own
to be truly known is an unlikelihood
we are all so easily misunderstood
G olden lady — just who are you
a beauty sure to mesmerize
so seductive as to scandalize
your my every dream come true
I’m spellbound by your magic eyes
I’m in a trance — you hypnotize
a stare of comely crystal blue
floats low above a sensual pout
you hold my soul — I’ve no way out
tongue-wet lips smolder passion’s hue
blush painted by your master hand
such masterstrokes you understand
I’m captive — nothing I can do
I’m quite hopelessly addicted
my sweet angel — you’re so wicked
golden lady — just who are you
your my every dream come true
a stare of comely crystal blue
tongue-wet lips smolder passion’s hue
I’m captive — nothing I can do
This is the last known photo
of my amazing inter-galactic
multi-dimensional flying Ghia
and surf buggy supreme
it was taken immediately prior to it
hurtling into the milky way
leaving on its journey
‘cross the crystal galaxy
to travel to Talurus
to mine the golden god tears
that puddle and collect
very near the lapis covered
temple of temporal fire
at the cliffen’d base
of the pearl forests of argus major
all I know for perplexing certainty
is that following the day
my legendary magic Ghia
was to have reached its cosmic destination
star trader — after star trader — after star trader
began delivering me cases — upon cases
of gilded crystal teal tear fall
with notes to count clearly — and index
then prepare them for the prophesized return time
when the wealth of our small band of ghiaphytes
will be shared with joy and life-changing impact
among the fair and faithful who served well
despite incredible improbability
by waiting — believing — and holding to the truth
passed down ions upon ions by the ole volks
foretelling the coming
of a mysterious wonder wagon of dreams
