"castings" poems
Contemplation is like fishing.
Often my reason fails me
and I cast out into the waters
hoping I can catch that vital energy
feel its power, its resistance, its strength
that is elusive
but I know is there
and those moments of connection
with that mysterious force
give me energy.
I am alive
so I keep castings into the ocean
knowing the elan is there,
the verve that takes me from my mind
to dance, to move, to swerve
in that moment of now.
Author’s Note: I bow in gratitude to Brian McLaren and Barbara A. Holmes for their wisdom that inspired this poem and kneel in awe and thanksgiving to all the fish I have caught over the years, for the excitement and nourishment – the life they gave me.
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 12:51 PM UTC
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Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 7:37 AM UTC
~
the smell of timbers,
aging in the sun and daily misting;
neath the shuffling sound,
footsteps of a man,
bucket filled with daily catchings,
the reeling in of memory’s castings,
of creosote's faint lifting,
drifting on the breezes;
of old tackle boxes,
of shrimp and lures;
the gatherings of hands,
ragged and weathered,
the collecting of years;
of hand-me-down hooks,
bobbers and sinkers,
the odd bits of dust,
gathered in corners,
pliers worn by use and rust,
save from drownings
grateful rainbows
one by one,
their too-short lives
extended with each
catch and release.
tired ropes wrapped
’round bent iron ties,
summer-time-baked...
cracked and dried,
by day's too old to count,
the numbers, the flutters,
since this heart began its bleeding,
it's journey beating,
floats of faded red and blue,
recall of a yesteryear
of a grandfather renewed;
the one-time, one-day
he and i walked
hand-in-hand
down a dusty road
to an old, wood fishing dock
on a grassy river bank;
dock and day long gone,
but love-scribed now,
deeply in this memory.
a day with rod and reel
when on a river long ago
a boy and a man,
an afternoon of fishing
to his heart listening.
a wistful day
of boyhood’s dreams
now in wishful haze;
forgotten midst
the growing years,
tumbling out in verse,
those smells, the sounds,
now reel out words
between the tears,
now catch-releasing,
a heart's docking...
and memory’s rebirth.
~
*post script.
funny, this memory thing... how we can be so not conscious of what lies ’neath its surface, but then is reclaimed in vivid, YouTube vision by the smallest sight, sound, or smell. with a childhood spent 8,000 miles and an ocean away from my home country, i have scarce few memories of my grandfather. today i am grateful to reclaim this one, a tearfully joyous recall of a six-year old's wonder-filled afternoon,
caught and released so long ago.*
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Hidden behind a myriad of
guises and castings of a
thousand projected distortions,
he brought himself
suspended like a pendant
detached
&
objective.
I bequeathed a
tumult of love,
tumbled down
the scope of
archaic collective conflict
that shook with a spiral quake like
the wakening of my
hallowed g a s p -
the corridor echoing of the first gallop.
Lifted the skirted veils of
celestial taffeta,
surrendered to the
feats and enchantments of
The Rider
who arrived on a
rogue wave,
crest and trough and
splendorous swells of
blue and white,
reverberating from
essence centre
like Doppler
outward my firmament fingertips,
cascading around the sphere
in astral star fall,
an overflowing cup of Milky Way
and melting atoms
into grains of sand
between the blended confines of
here and there,
escaped to the ever expansive space,
Empyrean emptiness.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Words form in your expression
of fluid emotion and air castings
so essential it's beyond the special
the mere figures of square or circle
your handicraft disturbing the randomness
an existence that calms yet stings
at the channel between the really spectacular
and my most beautiful imaginings
motion mixed with feeling to give breath vibrating meaning
sending my heart dancing to the tune of your waves
before the voice is even there to be heard beating
on the little drums inside my head where love's
stirring my feet into step with your presence
as you transform sentences into spirited rhythm
catchy and sharp so that inside I wince
with the vigorous release from realisation's thorn
that I never want to escape listening to your words
to what your thoughts don't say but start
in a gorgeously threadbare chapter coloured
through the artful lens you focus in and out
carrying and pulling me into amazing places
where the world unravels and dodges me
using the whole dilemma of clinging and races
to keep me gathering your loosely packed energy
I wish to grab you so tightly time ceases to flow
yes!.. over there's a gazelle leaving a gymnasium
as perfect as warm sunshine on crisp fresh snow
and winter's lion seems too slow to prey on autumn
you show me how to spring
straight out into a season
bright with mown meadow's green
so I pounce on you with a passion
which sent us flying and rolling to summer
into the fun of a hidden rabbit burrow
echoing with sudden peals of laughter
so loud that sorrow took fright and flew
while we hopped out to a brighter tomorrow
falling head over heels deep in a warren later
a one way maze built by paws for only two
your kiss the beginning and the end even better
a bobbing tail signals danger.. I follow
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
Beauty Is As Beauty Does
A Story by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
If enough people are interested I will continue with this series as a Book with chapters this one being renamed ...Beauty Is As Beauty Does-Prologue .
Beauty Is As Beauty Does
A Story by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
If enough people are interested I will continue with this series as a Book with chapters, this one being renamed ...Beauty Is as Beauty Does-Prologue.
In the dark recesses of the void, we call our universe a cloud was forming, one devoid of morals or intent.
The molecules came together under the thought processes of a malignantly minded old sorcerer, blended with his hope of a lasting endowment of centuries of learning and spell castings.
He was searching for a one to carry on his knowledge and spells of potion and this cloud could carry out the espying in secret as he wished...under cover of dark and thought...unless a spirit was descerned by another caster of woven potions.
Today in time was measured more by centuries and decades as the process took... its form...questing for the entity as this universe and others had been targeted for his type of Magic...sorcerers specialized in their trade and like all good practioners he had his fireworks shows with energy beams and potion majic mixed to control and manipulate the certain being he was working with...for power was the name of his gambit...the access and addition of as well as controlling in the sphere of a society...let’s just say he got his jollies from using others well earned energy..What they worked for...he stole and reveled in the process.
It just so happened that today...his cloud was in the vicinity of a planet known to the Magical world as Earth...Terra...this being inhabitied by beings in many dimensions and frequensies...it seemed to home in on a child...being birthed as a logical consideration ..So that; further study was merited
.Marking this beings location in the foothills of a hidden mountain range ...in the Tibetan range and former birthplace of a religious teacher known as Lord Buddha...Siddhartha...and a nice long history in the telling of the Monks who followed him...this time a twist a counter turn of the incarnation was a Female child ..Looking to be imbued with the same set of majical powers...and the beginning of another time and space of reign as the first...excellent time to lay claim to the mind and teachings of this ...ONE..Of Beauty.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC
In a night so black
as ash, fingers of white marble climb
up in circles
along the edge of the bed.
The legs do not only carry body,
but also silver sparks of light where
hands are touching skin
and where the dark is enjoined to a second place.
Life will find new forms here -
Castings pain, sorrow. But also a joy
- molded in the color of copper -
is slowly getting contour.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC
~
Fortress
Stone by weathered cobble I build,
calloused hands ache in sweet surrender
Mortar’d affection of a coalesced consistency,
mixed and blended, bound by love’s tether
Stacking to heights of protective design
Patterned on roaming hillsides, serpentine wanderings,
Lush green fields crawl, blue sky diversions,
as song birds whistle to the day
And I sweat, my brow now drenched,
muscles pushed to horizonary boundaries,
tattered clothes sway in late afternoon breezes
Still I push on, fitting, finding, filling this need
Something so precious as glistening morning dreams,
crystalline musings, fragile bisque castings
Destined for my world, beyond battlefield dawns,
sifting serene country settings…quite peace
The long day ends, I marvel at my accomplishment
steadfast and suited to defend in sunset flames,
turrets of observative reachings soar above
timber and heavy iron chain…gated sanctuary
Now my love you may rest…
beneath starry heavens and comet renderings,
upon your bed of satin feathered sighs…
For I have built this fortress…around your heart
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
It takes nine weeks for cement to cure
in good weather, and in bad weather,
years. It needs to be covered lightly
like a sheet over the face with a rebar
skeleton buried inside, the steel ribs
of wings cast into the settling stone.
The dust is the glue, it creates itself
and wonders how birth canals can
expand, and in nine months give way
to moving parts, to the sponge of organs
and cries so thick cicadas won’t
burrow there. Skin is merely
rice paper, not contained by concrete
but leaf etchings—delicate, illegible
scriptures buried in the archives.
Bars of light from the window push
around the floor there, as if they were
substantial, as if they had weight.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
i just want altars to be erected
at my bleeding feet
want black and maroon candles to bleed over
bones and antlers
and the leaves of gardenias and the roots of mandrakes
i want pomegranates to be split and ripped open
over alabaster castings of my bruised soul
and i want the phases of the moon
and the turning of the tides
to mark the eb and flow
of my faces from
gentle and sweet
to ripping open men with black tipped claws
i want wine to be poured over my mouth
and gold cloth to
pour over me
i want fires built to the stars
and feet dancing in my name so furiously the earth shakes
and the oaks move their arms
i want incense lit from the cracks in skeletons
and mouths to call my name
as hexes are cast and salt rings are drawn
and i want my hips to be praised
as the center of life
and i want men to walk in dark forests
and over black rivers
to count the stones beneath their feet
and to leave fresh bread on the thirteenth stone
to avoid my ravenous rage
but if you would just
love me for a moment
i could forget the rest of this
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Call me the butterfly maker,
for I the distracted crafter
often carves irregular squares
from changing planes of vision
into visual planes, flying
as monarchs migrating home.
Call me the snowflake cloud,
for I the cold observer
often molds objective droplets
from forgotten formalities
into memorable figures, coveting
as blankets embracing dirt.
Call me the stone sculptor,
for I the traveling poet
often lifts stone castings
from feeble footprints
into familiar portraits, beckoning
as mothers procuring peace.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
~
his ropes are worn but hold the strain;
they’ve seen far worse in wind, in rain.
his deck is bare, his winch is full,
his back and arms ache. yet again;
though soon his catch the hold will fill,
with hissing jaws and snapping claws;
reward of toil with traps of steel.
’neath cloud and sun, to dusk from dawn,
with weathered hand he works and sweats;
to bring to port ’fore sun has set,
there’s hungry mouths to feed at home;
a wife whose face his hands to hold.
in years still young, but days too old,
these seas have aged his weathered soul;
and eyes that peer neath bill-ed hat,
have wept as waves stole all he has;
not once, but twice they claimed his lot,
sunk to its bed like fallen stone;
but skill and luck his love has bought,
her prayers from home have brought him back.
of fable and of myth he’s made,
cup of saltiness with pinch of sin;
with baited traps he lays in wait,
yet knows he is the baited one;
for he’ll ne’er throw in these lines,
or trade his trusted trawler in.
a farmer’s life may suit his love,
but this she sees would be his end;
and so she lives each day in wait,
for his trawler's horn to sound.
this too she knows far too well,
one day his horn will sound no more.
no coffin nor a stone he’ll need;
the sea will bear him to that shore,
his lasting gift to her is them,
each child's face, his own imprint.
the sea his final resting place.
his voice to hear amidst the wind;
~
*post script.
an imagined crabber and lobsterman; with mouths to feed and a love he needs back home, owing much to prayer and good fortune, though even this has it limits as the sea's rigors daily tempt fate. these lines mused from my own castings of traps and nets... of harvesting the sea’s bounty for a mere weekend, with my lover near at hand.
https://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/05/magazine/a-speck-in-the-sea.html
pss. i am many months away and life has changed; these changes are still a work in progress. my goals too have been rearranged... death and hardship have that effect on us, though sometimes change that feels alarming actually takes us to a place of salvation; this being my constant hope! i make no promises that i am back, only that for now i am here, and have missed you and the sacredness of these walls.*
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
Well. We eat cake well from the Well.
Farmilar castings weld, fastens together
Winfalls gather from the wind
Wheat chaffless from our daily grind
Without husk and worrisome bustle
Bound together with we,
our wherewithal, the water
Wielding weirding ways
We make cake
We eat well from our Well.
Mar 13, 2022
Mar 13, 2022 at 1:49 AM UTC
Untruth churns in depths of elden castings
Falsehood turns the pacings, everlasting
Duplicity in everything avasting
Misinformation station
Take a ticket, wait, debate,
Assail, avail in love of liar's nation
Circuitous circumvention
Of mindful morsels of intention
Swept beneath the rug
No worth be mentioned
As suffering and death explain
The qualms and qualities
Of life beget to life in vain
Entrenched in their dualities
Thine incision thought deranged
Transcribed in abnormality
The pointed lance, in hands estranged
Whence masking actuality
So stir the *** of melting
For it may cool and thence congeal
It seems we're strung about and welting
Punished in penchant to feel
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 7:21 PM UTC
the flowers that grow in the dark
standing shyly alone
are the beautiful ones
that will blossom unexpectedly
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC