of crash the rainbows in
the undergrey at raining
with the undone angry
sitting thresholds linger
stormy passings wet
my granite sharp face
—in need of a shave might
the added phrase be—
yet, soon comes our clover
the clover carves thunder
in the laying down we
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A fever of climbing, each foot thorned on ossified remains of the other selves of his, those forgotten parts laying wasteshattered on this hill of broken dreams.
Cut hands, his own slivered bones shredding flesh to ribbons as he crawls his pile of human debris. Sunlight at the center, high above, mocking. It is not obtainable, but he has his own Sisyphus path, and that path involves the play of light and shadow with his burden being self — something far more weighty than stone.
A blink away of bloodstained sweat, he looks away from the improbissble past placed there in the fore. There is no sense in entertaining goals. Goals imply a chance at success. Success brings hope. Hope? No.
Right arm right foot left arm left foot, shudderdream quakes and shakes, and involuntary scream. But still, he carries his leadself up, an empty skull of his staring from the hill. All the whispers shout encouragements, but he cannot remain still to gather them in.
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Every once in a while I find myself cruising comfortable on the highway of life, so I take off my seatbelt and kick back in the convertible as it hugs the curves of the road and I think to myself, “Wow. It’s been a pretty smooth drive lately and I think—”
Then there is an unexpected road bump that sends me flying out of the convertible, and all my motivation to “git ‘er done” (because, you know, I’m feeling the groove of life’s tunes) evaporates like a fart in a strong breeze. All that’s left is me wondering if I can at least stick the landing and not soil myself in the process.
I tell you, there are days that I miss being an underpaid barista in a no-name espresso bar, cranking out some of the best damned shots that anyone can find in town (even if they can’t find this no-name espresso bar). Ahh, to have that self-esteem back. Wouldn’t that be grand?
Instead, consulting: The job where every task has a potential hidden pitfall…
If you have worked both professional and blue collar jobs, which do you have a better relationship with? If the matter of income were moot (“you won the lottery!”), which would you choose?
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winnowed of wind
we shed our chaff
over long seas to carry
our selves to elsewhen
even midnights fade
when woven of windsong
where our souls
do dare go at wilds
take a souvenir if
that you must to recall
but, as such, memories
are nothing at all
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Since last week, I’m been very much in a Barrett mood.
It’s been a while since I last listened to Madcap Laughs and Barrett, and I was only slightly surprised to see that they had been pulled from my streaming service. It seems like albums are chronically coming and going, especially when they are from acts “across the pond” [Syd Barrett joins Jesus and Mary Chain for albums I can’t listen to… at the moment]. Without super-simple access to Syd’s solo albums, I opted for Pink Floyd’s Piper at the Gates of Dawn album to tide me me over until I could either pull up my MP3s or find time to find a quality upload of the complete albums up on YouTube for me.
Listening with “fresh ears”, it strikes me just how much Syd indirectly and directly influenced some of my tastes in music.
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those halcyon days
we slipped beneath
wrapped in wave
and calm, in the before of
those days we summered
tangled in locust drone
in high elms lagging
speaking softly in
summer fade with
our ghostselves in haze
waiting for to begin
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I used to be really proud about how clever I could be and how much information I was able to amass in my cranium.
The past decade or so, however, I’ve been discovering how liberating it is to be the one asking questions instead of being the one who “knows” stuff. And how freeing it is to let “knowledge” slip away when the information does not have an immediate and proven need. I can always ask the questions, or read something, again and — sometimes, even — I learn something completely different when I learn something “from scratch”.
That means I can often reread books, for example, and see the story or the information with completely new eyes. Or find a new technique to troubleshoot a problem.
Forgetting doesn’t have to be the horror that some folks make it out to be. Memories are not something that require preservation. They may give you joy or feel useful, but there is no real reason to cling to memories, or that joy, just for the sake of remembering. Or is there?
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through the pass
we may yet recall
all of those parts of us
long since forgotten
Another rune poem of mine, where the rune is selected at random.
Today’s rune is berkana, which has a core meaning “birch”. Birch are often the first trees to populate areas after a forest fire and, by extension, are associated with new beginnings, purification and rebirth — all of which tend to be related to the eternal feminine.
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come the drift as
voices fade away
the taste of ash
'cross my tongue
distrust, the taste
of dream
bone hands stolen
of twilight childe
hold onto me, hold
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i am held apart and
the words said
are not for who
am i say i may be
rejoined if held together
in arms tenderly and
whispers the wind
my name am be
still crushed flower
under the snow
waiting to come of spring
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