the lamp post casting light, the vacant footpath walkless, the boulevard unseperated, the passing truck barreling oblivious, the altostratus clouds so thin and uniform, the sky in fleeting twilight, the silhouettes of trees uncolored, the idle cement factory conveyor belt, the stark wind into my face, the flared nostrils of my breath, the smell of industry punched out, the ambient silence hearkening the sound of colors abound, this entrance to the melding night…
this pleasing moment in my life, of neither past nor future. but, to succumb within this moment. as if surreal they were all there.
drooping into nightness, wherefore vigor and freshness spent in task. become somnolent. coolness, darkness, all but shade and blades of grass; sustaining the white noise of night i am absorbing all quiet.
doth fully still; my soul pulsates, my breath confesses desire.
and heavenly dew finds me, my jaded nooks and tattered cranies patient dew, quench my folly, douse my sullied conscious, settle thee i accept thy lingering bath, saturated and washed of haste.
elegant sentiment, refreshed.
Author's Note: I spent so many years wallowing in discomfort. A struggle at times to feel normal, and writing about it. Seemingly to always be looking back at the pain. Even when looking forward to something in the future. I know discomfort awaits; i know when and where. Some time ago I started concentrating on wallowing in relaxation. Striving for the situation to harmony. How does one get there? You don’t. You are just there, like the dew. Dew just is. When all conditions are right, dew will collect on everything outside. I can’t demand peace of mind, freedom from discomfort or absence of want. I can however, get outside of my head and prepare myself mentally to allow for dew and a peace of mind to enter. This elegant sentiment is an exercise in that preparation.
I shall share this poem with acquaintances and strangers. I shall read the poem out loud. I shall ask them to walk across the dew in the morning without haste.
Take me to the place in the sky where hands are held. Take me to your bones. Feed me your gravy - the marrow of your mind keeps me alive. Take me to your attic of broken furniture holding memories of spent Sundays and the beauty of wood. I am your glue. I am the cobwebs on your longing. It’s my toes, they told me so. They’re waiting for you at the door with open arms. They see you as the footsie queen. Take me to the place in the sky where feet run free. Take me to the blue in your eyes. I am your pupil. Feed me your seasons, I will taste your ever changing moods. I will learn your recipe. Take me to your pic-nic. Your red and white checkered sunshine wicker grass basket and I will take you to my shady tree.
I am this fresh new day and you are breathing.
Author’s Note: folding away my forgotten journal in a desk drawer, that is darkness. i took out an old journal from the 90's to see what I was doing around this time of year. i was thinking about love, thinking about everything meaning nothing and nothing else matters, thinking that my future spouse is out there walking around somewhere. thinking that we've yet to meet. those were my thoughts.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/4198790397/ singing down to the soil beneath my shoes. my heart beats frantic like the wind. it carries me to the horizon and the sunrise listens. there is a busy new day waiting with a simple calm. i can tell by the way the sparrows flutter in the trees, by the way the colors blend in the sky. and I shall soon be to work.
of miles past bud vase resting in a dash flowers cut fresh funerals accepted white and blue different colors different days different people same outcome rememberance as i drive
Look behind the door on your way to the basement. There you will find primary implements of death. They were bought at a big box store three for a dollar. Does the color make it fun? Does the cheap price make it right? Does the place they hang imply guilty remorse or obscure convenience? Who would decorate their home with this carnival?
*i waited for the chance to meet her in the garden. an hour consuming summer’s beautiful display. children play, flowers bloom, hopscotch, blue spirea breeze ruffles the foliage. perfumes of russian sage broadcast and saturate my senses delight. the sweet nectar attracts us both. she arrives. to see her fine hair so golden by the velvet black sunlight. to know she frequently visits regardless of my devotion. to admire her form and dainty sip refreshing.
I am offered a glimpse, a fleeting moment in the shade. to blink not for want for a thousand words i silently stutter my worth; rendered invisible, of no interest. and as quickly as she came she is away.
Author's Note: I intended for this to be a poem by itself without the picture so I took the part "of my lense" off of the end of the line "a fleeting moment in the shade". The removed text appears in the original version on flickr, but not here. The poem is intended to be read while viewing the picture, but it should not rely on it. It should be able to be read by itself. Both are independent. Both belong with the other.
In the end, whatever you do, be devoted to it. Be passionate about it. Don't go about it half way with idle thoughts of other doings. Don't be concerned with what you could have done or what you should do. Don't worry about what you can or cannot do. Aerodynamically, bumble bees should not be able to fly. Do you think they know that? Whatever you do, just embark and do. The world needs more people who are in love and alive with passion.
Be in love and you will find your nectar in the blooms.
All these things unwritten, passing these moments I sit and ponder tranquility. What is it that catches the eye of Raphael’s little angels? These quiet times before bedtime, they hold the leisure of the child angels. Not that of great importance but, that in part, the necessity of sanity. With a sip of tea and an ill idle pen words of the moment pass. Goodnight.
Author's Note: Same today as it was back then. To sit in leisure with the intention to write and then to not write. The house is sleeping. For the most part the ticking clock reminds me that nothing has been written, regardless of the temperature of my tea. When tea is at the right temperature you want to sip it all. Why waste the best sipping time? I should sip it all. But I should not gulp tea. Why would I gulp Golden Monkey? It is a fine tea with complex chocolate undertones. I brew it by the cup. I enjoy the aroma. Well, writing is like that. Now is not the time to purge. I must scribe a bit and savor. Even if I don't write anything on paper, I must enjoy the weight of the pen in my hand and the feel of the paper underneath. Goodnight again.
The darkness and the chilling breeze was about as comfortable as strangers milling about without acknowledgment. I’m out of typical with urgency bent Apart from anchored freight
I have no idea what to expect But I felt like I needed to become evident
An occasional seagull passes by, The waves continue to sound regardless, And variations of a theme are practiced. Aside from now, this morning, as I situate myself observer of the routine. A customary sunrise.
From darkness, I feel myself passing through the blue hour into first blush of dawn. The blue water of a new era.
About this blue water sunrise thing. What’s behind the words? What do they really mean?
The darkness and the chilling breeze was about as comfortable as strangers milling about without acknowledgment. It was dark and I was cold. There were people fishing in the dark who were cold. I said hey to a guy and he just stopped and stared at me without a word. There was just this blank acknowledgment between two people out on a pier, in the morning before the sun was up, without any conversation or nothing.
I’m out of typical with urgency bent. I was doing something different in my grieving. Not because I wanted to. I felt as if I needed to.
Apart from anchored freight I’m celebrating life without baggage. In a way this is a visual metaphor for comparison and contrast between the ship anchored off the breakwater and me celebrating life without baggage. I mean, even after years of dealing with losing a brother, there’s still baggage. It was different to just anchor that baggage and, and do something different. To realize at some point in my journey that I may leave it behind.
I have no idea what to expect But I felt like I needed to become evident Just do it, even if you don’t have planned expectations and outcomes. Life is not like that. You know, if, if I never went down to the pier to photograph the sunrise, this, this wouldn’t have happened. This would have never happened. I would have done the same thing.
An occasional seagull passes by I was there from darkness well into the morning. That is a long time to stare at something. There were many yawns and many glances around. There were many different birds doing the same thing at different times; passing by.
The waves continue to sound regardless. And I don’t mean the…, the waves sound regardless as in they just keep going on making sounds no matter what. They sound regardless in the sense that they continue to make sounds like they just don’t care. They don’t care. That’s what I mean. No matter what, time keeps going.
And variations of a theme are practiced Habitual and ritual throughout time, both in art, and in life, practice desires growth. In order to flourish, art and life must be active. Art and life are growing entities that needs to be cultivated...; brown crunchy leaves don't flourish even when they're still attached to the tree.
Aside from now, this morning, as I situate myself observer of the routine I’m doing something different. I watched something routine out of my routine.
A customary sunrise. An exercise on how not to take this moment in my life for granted. With a glance it is just an image of a sunrise. Watching the evolution of the sunrise from darkness to blinding light, through moments of varied colors and slightly different tones, causes me to reflect upon my mood in a positive way. The sunrise happens every day. As many of them as I have watched, they are not all the same. Therein gives rise to the variations of a theme. The composure and aplomb between nature and self; above the fog and clouds, above the snow, above the rain, the sun shines. I consider that a gift.
From darkness, I feel myself passing through the blue hour into first blush of dawn. The blue hour is twilight. It is neither full darkness nor complete daylight and exists about an hour before the sun rises above the horizon and an hour after it sets on the horizon. This is an amazing time of day. If there is ever a way that being vivid could be subtle, then this is it. I couldn’t put my finger on the moment, but I could feel feeling different. The change in perspective was vivid and yet very subtle.
The blue water of a new era. Things on the horizon are a bit altered and may not appear as I once knew them. There is a swelling freshness to the aroma of exploration. The changes that reveal themselves in time could be plenteous. I see this new stage of grief as a new era.
-----Original Message----- From: Rebel with a Frog Sent:, September 29, 3:02 AM To: 'Friend' Subject: RE: You
I wrote this a while back so I could have my own prayer and not have to rely on a religious one. (I used to have a problem with church. Now, my mind is open to it.)
Salve My Jagged Nerves 1-24-91 / 2:00pm
In times of despair, 'Faith' is the word on my mind. That in my daily prayers for knowledge and strength, Gods' will shall have a moment of serenity to salve my jagged nerves, so I may see that everything’s going to be all right.
You can say it out loud if you like; I have faith in you.
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