“From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw —
I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone –“
“Alone” Edgar Allan Poe
High in a dying butternut tree, above the climbing bittersweet,
a pair of sparrows sat entwined.
Bobbing and pecking, with tail feathers visible,
they pushed and pulled, constructing a nest
from winters fallen twigs and kites’ missing strings.
Both unaware of the advancing wings on seductive winds
gliding in the heat of post-World War II victory;
with bold brown patches and brasso colored flares
flirting shamelessly with all the birds in nesting trees.
Mother: after laying her eggs, suddenly took flight on a south east breeze:
wings spread, open feathers, abandoning history.
Father: in haste, wondering who was first;
found in the chase, with another mate
in a steeple of an abandoned Christian church.
Four hatching, cracked through egg shells
in a nest below a large branch, in a dying butternut tree.
Small insects dropped, in sacrifice, as meals
to their gratefully awakening beaks.
Weeks passed in the aging butternut tree
providing shelter, meals, and summer comfort.
The first hatching, though weak,
fluttered, stretched, and skittered
to stand on quick strengthening feet;
to peek and seek for something he felt, was missing.
Something unable to find, something not complete.
Something to teach him about sky, ground, gravity
and all that scary in-between.
Innocence in the face of dilemma,
all of them eventually perched on the ragged brim.
Taunted by instinct and haunted by uncertainty;
to leave and fly, to land on air, or just plain fall and disappear.
Watching them teetering on the rim,
the brave-born, with a sweeping two wing lurch
pushed them off before him.
Falling! Falling! They fell then dipped into swooping grace.
Wings with instinctive motion, caught them in flight.
Never looking back, they disappeared swiftly
between the pines, the hardwood’s, and the butternut’s plight.
The last sparrow, now with confidence, excited without anxiety,
leaning chest first, feathers outstretched, he jumped too.
Falling much too close to the butternut tree
he became entangled in the vines of the creeping bittersweet.
Tumbling, swirling, crackling, he landed with a broken wing.
Oh mother, oh father, in his screaming,
he spoke not a word. It was only in their hearts
that they heard him fall.
Tags: Ambiguity, Existenlism, Growing up, Love, Zen, ~The Night Before Breakfast~
about the web, connected in intricate high wires
dangling, trickling inadvertently behind me,
as I walked through the pines
with a feeling I felt,
I had left!
Never touching the ground,
I moved with patience
on silk trepidation
—for a life, that insists
to be defined.
Me waking up:
The thread of my existence is never behind!
Nor could I manufacture a web;
that connects me to illusive time.
I Shook it off with a wiggle—
I had to grab something to protect myself
when you kicked me in the groin!
I collapsed in the shower,
wrapped in aluminum foil.
Bad bad puddy-tat.
Tags: Ambiguity, Existenlism, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Zen
Years have passed:
when we were young, we could tolerate physical pain,
emotional blizzards, and blinding rain.
We sought recognition, fortune, and sometimes illusions fame.
We chased stars in glittering summer nights keeping sentry for sunrise,
celebrating each dawn with a brand new name.
We could even cry, winning or losing, without forcing a fight.
We could talk, discuss, and compromise.
We recognize the beauty in unsuspected surprise.
We were always able to light a candle in the wind
Finding our way back home on sad dark nights.
We often laughed at ourselves. Believing that pennies
we flipped, fluttering to the bottom of wishing wells
We’d became Peter Pan and Wendy
never growing old. And, totally ignoring Tinkerbell,
we watch our directions flow.
Following our hearts and the work of our hands
we traveled roadways, highways, and paths;
where distance seemed far and time immeasurably fast.
We floated above concrete, soft tar, and beaches with ankle deep sand.
Even paths that were crooked and twisted in shallow water or on solid land.
We were always on each other’s map!
We frolicked in spaces that love only knows
where time, never existed;
along with places, where sadness, was only a short visit.
Eventually, I suppose, age and Peter Pan eclipses
those days, when we are young.
There is only time now:
when we are old. We sit with aches and pain.
Our clothes begin to slip or are frayed or they just don’t fit;
along with our recognition, fortune, and the reality of expected fame.
We wear sweaters and warm cotton hats on cool summer nights,
seeing only darkness as a distant fading light.
We Sleep uneasily on worn, thin but forgiving linen.
We, sometimes, forget ourselves with mixed memories,
stuttering on birthdays, which have evaporated in wishing wells.
We try to avoid being stubborn— guilt ridden for actions mistaken,
poor mathematical intelligence, slips of jealously, pride,
and recognize that we, as we knew, is we that is forgotten.
From steel to rust, from rock to gravel,
from coal to diamond
and back to dust.
The sound of muted bells tick off the clock, like muffled thunder
under the hoofs of deaths’ mercenaries; some from heaven,
and maybe one or two from hell.
We may shed a warm small tear, becoming a prism, to glitter
In the sliver of a waning moon; signaling with joy—
tomorrow’s brand new day,
with its bright sun chasing
A weathered Sundial’s ever-moving shadow
~The Night Before Breakfast~ Vol. I Another Draft Revision
Tags: Ambiguity, Existenlism, Happy New Year!, http://omukuvah.org/, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, ~The Night Before Breakfast~
Although I enjoy the ease of a sidewalk
I often preferred cutting across the lawn
I can only do one thing at a time
Even if takes me two
Or three tries
I was listening to music on my earphones
And found the sound unclear—
I adjusted the volume
I went to the settings
—no adjustment required.
Suggested, I plug them in
Did you find this helpful?
Yes, I knew I should be grocery shopping
A Writer’s Confession:
As a writer, I may not necessarily write about my own personal experiences.
Although they influence perception and understanding, they often are not themselves; the words that are written. They are only reflections of me as a writer.
My characters are in constant flux… as I… also see and feel my way through each moment—
experiencing what others and what I see, and what is being seen —what we universally have in common ambiguity. Often I am just a humble hapless observer making it written into words as only it could be, from the source of a perceptive and creative writer.
How are we able to see the darkness
in the center of the light
and be able to see the light
in the center of darkness?
We see its impermanence.
as in all nature
every day is greater
doing what you need
Tags: Ambiguity, Existenlism, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Zen
Thankful twigs, children of the blight:
Used as kindling from Camelot to Brooklyn, with ancestry in branches of Majestic Elms—
Extinct in the flames of purification they crackled and glowed in memories
Of the beautiful Main streets with bustling thoroughfares.
—when they, in regal tradition, stole the whole show.
Some interesting research digging around on the subject (for whatever, when it popped up in my mind) about the Elm tree… and perhaps I was looking for something about our future? Understanding and approaching it with history’s humility
No matter where I have been, in my heart I have always heard “welcome son!” And, I am as sure as my sisters have heard addressed— personally to them. The question that accompanies such a greeting is; where exactly are we? That we are being received and welcomed? And, of course, how our etiquette suddenly begins and our exit should end.
Rain falls hard on thorns
Roses soon to bloom perk up
Both will co-exist
Whoa, Silver! Here comes the black stallion to welcome the Pinto.
I sit here by the firelight of life, feeling old, tired, and worn out.
I sit proud with a peaceful heart after battles lost and won—
I notice the imprint of my shield, above the fireplace,
Nicked and gashed in gallant memory as history touts.
It has been sold. Two weeks ago. For bread, vegetables, lettuce, meat,
I am neither happy nor angry
Nor am I hungry.
Tags: Ambiguity, Existenlism, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Notes Found On The Refrigerator, Zen
You have always loved early morning light.
Raising shades pushing closed curtains open.
Each flash from room to room? Presence left bright.
I have followed steps morning to dusk.
I have watched you sigh with a darker sky
And laugh at the sun, for late waking up.
I have caught you in my afternoon arms
I felt your escape from curtain to shade From door to door, calm and without alarm.
Briskly from room to room almost a dance.
Occasionally you gave me a smile
with blinking dark eyes, in a quick side-glance.
Lost is the love that never can be caught.
Lost is the chaser that never can stop.
Note: Inspired by a modern sonnet by Robert Frost’s “Acquainted With The Night”. ( a must read for all future and current Poets, in my opinion :). The written poem is beneath the video
Tags: Ambiguity, Existenlism, http://omukuvah.org/, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, Love Lost, Zen
How shall I write about this moonless night? To go, I suppose, without eyesight. To free my mind of past mistakes that I stumbled upon in sunlight. Or, find myself with nothing visibly at stake—and scribble down experiences still bent, unable to make straight—Yet ,allows me—to fly over their fences—
Feathers carried in the wind
Land at season’s racing feet
Dancing their last dance
Tags: Ambiguity, Haiku, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/
(A poem in one-act. Characters: Ambiguity and Truth, )
( Light slowly goes on Truth, standing in rear of center-Stage at a waist-high potter’s table with clay to make a cup …he is constantly molding it.
Back-stage right… is a loud mixture of barroom gaiety of men & women, and an occasional burst of argument.
(Ambiguity enters right… from the sound of the crowd, embracing Truth, the sound diminishes in soft background noise )
How can I begin to insist upon
Your ears listening to a silent crowd;
Ability to speak above that sound,
Enlightened, without a sinister shroud?
Cacophony does seek meaningless sound.
Sometimes, but not often, harmony finds
Acceptance, sliding itself gently down
To resistant soul and in open minds.
(Ambiguity grabs the shoulders of Truth, pulling his right ear, whispering)
Fruitlessness and fruitfulness are akin
In the measure of wisdom’s balance scales;
As silence and the spoken word are twin.
Each undeclared, if truths intention fails.
I, will persistently speak within you;
As Ambiguity and truth will do.
(Truth shirks Ambiguity off his shoulders)
Speak neither of me, nor of you this day.
The sigh of shame is louder than whisper.
You have come and gone, beyond what you say.
You shake me, shook me within this murmur
Of finding your faults paled by bright spotlight;
Masking attributes, blinded from honesty,
Ultimately discovered without night,
On the stage of a bastard’s travesty.
Crushed by wheels and heels of mind’s illusions
You are stubborn, are strong in your dogma.
Actions forgetting strength of decision
Of what things are and what is in drama.
I will not sway for your understanding;
Abstract transition, false apprehending.
(Ambiguity grabs Truth by the legs)
Love me for my strong probabilities,
Fall so you can bruise in discouragement!
To explain yourself without jealousies.
Fall you mother fucker in compliment!
(Truth side steps Ambiguity, untangling his legs)
Get up from that muddling in empty space.
What do you find in disguised innocence
That exposes anger in demur face?
Align yourself without permanence.
Release your embraced convulsive action;
Such foam with disgrace of uncertainty
Burst into small bubbles of reaction
Floating in distasteful banality.
You have found your colorful residence
Excreted in loud and boisterous façade
Among the reeds and weeds of ignorance
Rippling in reflection of a mirage.
Silence Ambiguity, I agree
I cannot be, without you being seen.
(Both exit hand in hand back-stage right… into rising loud mixture of barroom gaiety of men & women, and an occasional burst of argument).
Tags: Ambiguity, http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.se/, Theater/Poetry