Midnight ramblings

This is a collection of a stream of consciousness...nothing too special..just ramblings and whatever came to mind.

I tug on my sweater, she says, she starts with a story that never ends. Stagnant. Discontiuned. No they don’t have that item on the shelf anymore..they’re sold out..or we never carried it. They say..she said..you are dealt cards it’s your choice how you play them. You thought you made that up yourself..you thought you were so clever..yeah well I know the real you. But I tug on my sweater and purse my lips and hold in whatever because I am polite.

Snow falls around her..she says..she tries to start again..but this time isn’t any better. It’s last year’s magazine..outdated..thoughts turned to mold in the dampness of that cavern. Where crystalline dreams used to be swarming the walls..the rocky ledges of the cliff. We decided to take the path that no one had ventured to take..with overgrown thistles and the big black beetles. But then past the blueberries and further beyond that pile of broken stones..broken..so many things broken. No glue..no crazy glue..she asked I said I didn’t know.

“now it’s like rolling in a field of daisies” she tried to explain..to start once more. Here..it’s like this..you think they’re lovely and they have such welcoming shining bright yellow faces but then once you lay your body upon their leaves and the weight of it hits the earthen floor you might land on a stone with a sharp edge and before you know it you are backstabbed…such misleading and tempting and lovely. And then you expose your spine and it drills its thorns into the depths of it all..and you are paralyzed.

Remember that man we saw in the snowy streets of boston. Remember your apartment. Remember your neglect. Remember it was actually fall now that I think of it. Oh..that explains it.

And you wonder what time..zone it is. What if it was too many years back that I can’t remember anymore. What if the tape got too far rewound that it broke itself. But maybe this was protection. It fucks with you. I really does. That’s the job of it all and the fun of it all and the ridiculously unexplainable. But not like time travel like that one time that we time travelled in your attic. Like memories time travel..like 20 thousand leagues under the depths of the unconscious. Like blanketed fleece, buried in a macramé built to last.

And then another..reminded me of the science of sleep. When the felt ships sailed upon paper waters and the pony broke its leg. And how could I forget the tree where we found that silver can and we laughed. I captured you as a ghost.

Poetry and ramblings..

I was digging through a lot of writing files and found some things I had written in the past year..some thoughts..some rambles..some bullshit poetry:

Last night,
Staring out the car window,
Suddenly my shoes were gone and I was sitting in my thick wool socks on the sofa.
Reminds me of when we were time travelers
Painting your attic.

The rain falls like rockets to the moon but in reverse because they are traveling towards the earth. But they imprint in the puddles like a finger pressed in fresh clay…but instead the puddle absorbs them and they are no longer visible. Just as you left tiny imprints, tiny dents on my heart and being, but this new me, this new healing has absorbed them and they are no more.

This next one is words from you to me. That’s why I can’t relate to it as much as the others. I understand now. But I wish it were really you saying those words. Instead in my mind there is just a dust bunny where your words should be. Where you should be saying these things to me. How do I collect these cobwebs and dispose of the rotten fruit? It reeks of things past and memories I shouldn’t dwell on. If I clean up the mess that encompasses that space, then will there be room for your apology?

And you just squeeze your temples and then release and breathe like giving birth to thoughts you want to get rid of and release..or perhaps thoughts that are now positive and you want to birth them out so you can be born anew. Or squeezing your eyes shut like wringing out a sponge of it’s filth.

I love mining up memories and digging my shovel in places forgotten where the dust hasn’t yet been brushed off.

A Silly Babbling Journey

I wrote these words...kind of at random at they spewed out of my mind..flowing from my stream of consciousness..some of them kind of make sense..some of it isn't very pretty..most are based off emotion:

Fingers plucking on tiny strings made of silver..wrapped in gold..long sharp knife-like fingernails..dancing amongst the strings like spiders..tiny spiders moving in circles..producing sounds like raindrops falling into puddles.

Stone cold I lie..like a princess on her tombstone..fresh pearl skin kissed by the dew.

Footsteps amongst the soft green moss and the breeze of an early autumn wind. Would you stay?

Trumpets don’t look like trumpets to me..they sound like knives jabbing at the air.

You’re so very sad..and we were so very sad..we were time travelers and stone skippers amongst the fuzz of everything.

I’m sorry you couldn’t see it. I feel like I failed you and you still remain in a hole of darkness..with no nails strong enough to scrape yourself out or climb..instead..your nails are dull and they only push the dirt down the sides of the hole..covering and burying you. Perhaps once you’re buried..you will sprout like a seed once the rains come..and you will be born anew..a second chance..you will find hope.

Nestled

The sun has shed its last tiers of light

And now it is time to pass through the tunnel of slumber.

A chill brushes across my spine.

I curl into my snail shell and hide from the blue.

Enveloped in the blankets like a sprout in its bean.

Wrapped in a nest of feathery down.

Soon I will wait for the day when I awaken and bloom.

Another old seasonal poem of mine..

Vernal Song

Melodic spring,
Youthful, unsullied, immaculate.
I’m counting bees in my garden.
Wisps of verdant pasture sway in the distance.
It’s a grand ball of the fae,
A dance of heaven and earth.

The lady next door sets a table of porcelain.
She delicately folds the kerchiefs and napkins.
Embroidered with violets and lilacs.
Then she sits and proposes a toast to the sunshine,
And the breeze,
Which sings a tune of new beginnings.

How to turn a mountain into a molehill.

How much further until the peak?

You take another step but it feels like you're taking a million.

The windchill is getting too harsh.

Your cheeks are raw and your fingers are numb.

You don't think you'll last in this air.

Or lack of.

And you tell yourself,

What's another step or slip or stumble on a rock,

Compared to the last?

What's another moment you meet with the cliff's edge?

Just finish this one and soon enough you'll be home.

Curled up on the shag rug like a kitten.

Or sipping your cocoa with a bite of cherry pie.

Comfort will return.

One of my favorite poems..

W. H. Davies

Leisure

WHAT is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare?—

No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Si J'etais un Arbre-an old poem of mine

My legs are buried,
I am stagnant.
My feet and toes soiled.
I feel the grains of soft, brown, moist substance over my skin.
Sometimes small shiny creatures tickle my feet.
They carry many legs and their eyes are of black obsidian.

My skin appears quite dry, but it's merely just a shell.
A piece of armor to protect me from the elements.
From the howling wind and the battering rain.
It's my woolen sweater, my rubber slicker.

My arms are always outstretched.
They do not tire, for they praise the warmth of the sun.
And they reach out to the clouds for their precious rain.
They embrace the small furry long-tailed and the blue-winged.

Out of my fingertips sprout fresh, green and feathery foliage.
And in my hands I hold verdant buds which hide treasure inside.
The treasure in early spring is untouched by the air.
As the months pass, they bloom into streams of color.

In autumn i begin to tire and prepare for rest.
In winter I sleep, although it may seem I am dead.
Then spring will arrive and I thrive and bloom.
In summer I enjoy the sun and the peaceful moon.

Early Morning

Oh Hallo mornin'. I've missed you since I've been nocturnal.

Things that are unusual are beautiful. Sickly things are beautiful. People who look like spiders with their bony figures are beautiful. I like how the light dances on their bones and webs of skin when it's black and white. Lively, sunshiney things are beautiful. Golds and yellows but not like mcdonald's yellow. Budding greens and fresh cut fields. I forget what it feels like to drift off into sleep without force.

This lady bug needs to calm down. He's in love with the light in my room.

I want a cottage in the woods surrounded by wildflowers. I'd wake up and have morning tea with the sunshine and the sparrows.

An old Autumn poem of mine

Footsteps down a path of burnt grass,
From the fires that spread from the trees all ablaze.
Sometimes I wonder,
Beyond all the oranges, yellows, and reds,
It it might, by chance,
Catch a glimpse of white or blue.
But it's cold, yet crisp,
Crunchy and thick and deep.
Wool sweaters and leather boots,
Push away rainbow ashes.
It's visually burning but cold and fresh.
They say it's all dying.
I think it's beautiful.
It's like everything is getting ready for a costume party.
All the foliage are cloaking themselves in colors,
Perhaps just reflecting or absorbing different parts of the spectrum.
They dress up their xylem and phloem with carotenoids.
And then spritz a bit of cinnamon and musk.
Then, when the breeze comes to take them all away,
They take wing, and dance.




This is a tiny woodland frog I found last year.