Strange fascinations

 

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Conversion

 

You were the Moon

And I the ocean

Your gravity pulled me in waves

Around the Earth

Inexorably towards

The point in space where

Heartlines cross

You pulled me upwards in tiny drops

Until the all of me

Hung in the air beside you

There we shone like polished silver

Until all the stars went home.

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2017

 

 

 

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The Melting Point Of Wax

 

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Unlikely bird

 

My heart was a tumbledown shack

In the black hills of despondency

My spirit a beat up old Ford

Spinning its wheels in the soul sucking mud

Every day my mind went fishing

In the empty stream of unconsciousness

Each night the bugs made a meal

Of yet another piece of my misbegotten soul

The day came when I finally railed

Against the helpless hopelessness of my futility

I climbed the mountain then and looked out

Across the endless peaks

And there, atop a pinnacle of stone

I saw you staring back with that same wild look in your eyes

I knew then I must learn to fly

But unlike Icarus

I would keep my head

I could not fall

There was no place left to go but up.

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2017

 

 

 

Synchronicity

 

 

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Noun: synchronicity

  1. The relation that exists when things occur at the same time

  

   I’ve always experienced a lot of synchronicity in my life. It comes and goes like the ocean tides. Often it manifests in small seemingly insignificant things like, for instance, a few weeks ago, I mentioned to Jersey girl that as much as I enjoyed the American beers I’d sampled, I had yet to find ‘the one’, a beer that I could think of as my old faithful as it were.

   That conversation took place on the day I wrote this piece in which I reference Frost’s The road not taken with its famous lines;

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
   That very afternoon, while perusing some of my favourite blogs, Frost’s poem came up again (sadly, I neglected to bookmark the blog and can’t remember now whose it was).
Then, later that evening, we stopped off at the liquor store where I came across this little gem.
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I, of course, had to give it a try and yes, it is now ‘the one’.
   As I said, a small thing but still noteworthy. I treat synchronistic moments like these as signposts which tell me if I’m on the right path and headed in the right direction.
   My most recent piece of synchronicity also revolved around a poem (and a lyric, though, sadly not a beer). I had just finished writing the text of my blog post on William Carlos Williams and was looking for a title and song to go with it (I generally take the blog title from the accompanying song clip rather than the piece itself – just a strange quirk of mine).
   I’d included several quotes from poet and critic Randall Jarrell in the piece and, as the post was also about Springsteen, decided to use his song Jungleland to accompany the piece.
I wanted to use the lyric The poets down here don’t write nothin’ at all as the title for the piece but had a feeling I’d already used it in a previous post.
   I went back to find it and, sure enough, I had used it on this piece essentially about my relationship to poetry. In the post, I reference the poem The Death of a Ball Turret Gunner – a piece that had had a strong impact on me in my youth – by none other than Randall Jarrell.
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   In a sense, the two posts were spiritual kin and yet, I’d had no idea until that moment that the Jarrell I’d been quoting in the one had penned the poem in the other.
   There are lots of little synchronistic threads woven into this larger one. For instance, Jarrell wrote two children’s books which were illustrated by Maurice Sendak. And Sendak wrote the very first book I ever borrowed from a library, Where the wild things are. That book’s visual style was a massive influence on my future interest in illustration.
   Even the fact that Williams and Robert Frost both died the same year I was born (just a month before, in Williams case) seems synchronistic to me. Actually, several of the people I would come to admire chose the year I was born to depart this existence; Kennedy, C S Lewis, Aldous Huxley – all three on the same day mind you, Patsy Cline, Jean Cocteau, and Édith Piaf.  All died that year.
   I don’t know what broader significance any of that might have, but I can say that the knowledge of it has shaped my world view in small ways and large.
Words and images are my own.
©2017

This is the day

 

One life ending…

 

No rain will fall today

No tears of regret

For past mistakes

Nor painful memories

From distant skies

The sun will smile down upon

This circle of hope

Glint brightly from these rings of completion

There will be smiles

Tears

And shaky voices

As the ghost of the old school principal

Watches on from the windows

The banished spirit of past longing.

 

 

 

 

©2017

All we ever look for

 

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Heart transplant

 

And so here I am

Transplanted

My roots reset

In richer soil

I spread my arms

My weary limbs

Gnarled finger branches

And drink deep of the air

The sweet breeze

Has a taste

Not freedom

Not quite

Replenishment

Rebirth

That will do

Well enough

 

That will do.

 

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2017