"ciphered" poems
This morning, between two branches of a tree
Beside the door, epeira once again
Has spun and signed his tapestry and trap.
I test his early-warning system and
It works, he scrambles forth in sable with
The yellow hieroglyph that no one knows
The meaning of. And I remember now
How yesterday at dusk the nighthawks came
Back as they do about this time each year,
Grey squadrons with the slashes white on wings
Cruising for bugs beneath the bellied cloud.
Now soon the monarchs will be drifting south,
And then the geese will go, and then one day
The little garden birds will not be here.
See how many leaves already have
Withered and turned; a few have fallen, too.
Change is continuous on the seamless web,
Yet moments come like this one, when you feel
Upon your heart a signal to attend
The definite announcement of an end
Where one thing ceases and another starts;
When like the spider waiting on the web
You know the intricate dependencies
Spreading in secret through the fabric vast
Of heaven and earth, sending their messages
Ciphered in chemistry to all the kinds,
The whisper down the bloodstream: it is time.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
~
gold-encrusted jewels dance
on sun-drenched ocean stacks,
his rugged rocks etched deep
by her waves from far beneath,
and Pacific’s gusty breath;
his wind-swept islets burn,
aflame in sunset's dying embers,
like a lover's siren call.
his chiseled keyholes waiting
for the ciphered piercing rays
to collide in rushing tidal spray.
unlocking sunset's golden hour...
surging forth then quickly fades,
as sunbeam fingers slowly slip,
beneath horizon's sultry lip;
dusk unfolds in magic hues,
molten rose turns scarlet blues,
night descends as one by one,
we raptured star-kissed lovers
disembark this ferris wheel;
the curtain falls again,
with sea and rocks
rehearsing lines
to play again another day.
this their theatre
of the night,
performed by two alone,
beneath the moon
and starry sky.
~
*post script.
our last time through in 2004 was a blur on our way through to San Diego, an exhilarating ride for certain, with all of its bends and curves experienced top down in a convertible, but hardly doing justice to Big Sur’s stunning scene in mere hours; we told ourselves we simply had to return.
it took eleven years, and this time we spent a full five days and nights along Highway 1, towing a camper and slow-driving south from Monterrey all the curves to Morro Bay, exploring just about every hike and lookout in between; and in so doing, validating our return in a most satisfying way. Big Sur is officially off our bucket list! her sunsets were particularly rewarding, especially two... one enjoyed at sea level, from the sand and keyholes at Pfeiffer Beach day use area, the other delighted us from high above the ocean waves, seated at the picnic table of our cliff-side camp site at Kirk Creek Campground.
a most refreshing time to recuperate and recharge our spirits; five glorious days of disconnection, reconnecting to nature, each other and best of all, life at the speed of sunsets and star gazing; evenings spent round the campfire with no cell, no i-pad, no laptop, only the light of the fire, the stars and that sparkle in each other's eyes!*
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
Do you know...
What families are made up of?
What cousins plan to do to you, behind your back?
With whom father was having those long conversations over the phone?
What happens with some of the best friendships?
Why loving a lover almost always only hurts?
Maybe we fail to decipher this world
Maybe this world fails to express more simply
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
Who are our fathers and what have they done with our trust?
Each time we reach through the root our catch is fruit we've been denied.
A shadow is a strange but welcome bedfellow for a
Recluse here in the silicon boneyard,
End of line for the scavenging harbingers.
At night the freaks come out to work crafting
New and fleeting marks on an arcane slate
Over wires the naked emperor built.
Now the host succumbs to the flames it fed;
Sore eyes for ciphered sites.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
24,720,437.
(give or take a few)
minutes in my life.
the number is profound,
but it's not that easy
to break a life down.
i'm sure there's a calculation, that covers the basics bits work, eating, sleeping, abultions.
but, to bring the moments
to the minutes,
thats a vastly different thing.
how do you count the moments of brillance
that burn bright,
on the horizon beyond and before.
those moments of pure kindness,
or blind and ****** ignorance
that elicit change.
the joy of the moment,
the rage of a second,
the hours borrowed
in worry never
yet to be repaid.
how many minutes
wasted or not fully tasted, devoured to quickly.
those seconds we fumble,
in awkward silences
or those we waste
wanting more.
then the hours of breast beating or simply bleating
are they lesser in importance,
than, the days
lost in thought,
or in grief,
time spent,
begging for relief
from a heart so, so, sore.
remember the weeks
we sent packing,
the fox or the bear,
or the lion and the tiger from fear's flimsy, fragile door.
months of not belonging, then, the longing
and finally the lounging
and laughing,
when tickled to our core.
the tock of the clock
when we are too cold,
or too hot or just not...
quite right.
time that keeps ticking, while,
we are sticking our noses where they are not wanted.
time spent watching
from afar,
minutes of small talk,
hours of deep and meaningful,
days of young love,
months of expectancy,
years of togetherness, decades of love.
a delineation of seperateness,
eons, immemorial
of eternity.
these are the times,
of my minutes,
my moments of grace,
i want these,
ciphered into,
the fabric of time.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
I'm uttering auditory caresses on a payphone, short changed
baying for blood with clenched fists as though blood has congealed in the palm.
Time passes and the mechanism sets into motion,
beeping sounds, sirens for the sentient beast to be feed.
Coppers flung loosely into the gaping mouth,
slowly realising the distance in the echo of the voicemail.
Terrified due to the subdued paroxysms deciding to undulate,
the robin looks to me, for its prototype as the breast swells.
I'm looking in dreams for an escape,
an alternative phantasm, our oscillating hands through the tulip field;,
But I’m scared as our love is falling into sepia landscapes.
The robin sheds its feathers like deciduous leaves and lapses into clay..
Wake up alone in stained bedding where it seems I was not always in solitude,
it's like the sinews of my dreams were torn and you fell within the corporeal world
as I slumbered, unloosening the rags in which I slept, letting me hold the forms of you
that I wish I held, the ones I lost so long ago, and when I am conscious
I beseech you to stay; I'm losing the fragments of who you were and you're losing words and
I’m losing myself, an appendage wilting, disconnected from the whole.
I'm still here, payphone to payphone, I left my charging device at yours
but I'm too scared to knock on your door like it were my own jaw,
and how many dreams have I opened that door to find you there,
you ******* magnolia beam, you lingering sunlight, you nefarious glow,
opened the door to find you there with your hands yearning for me, talking to me
in a ciphered rhapsody, a fading voice in a crumbling periphery;
the saturation of dreams through reality.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
-------- 25,729,437--------
(give or take a few)
minutes in my life.
the number is profound.
but,
it's not that easy, to break a life down.
i'm sure there is a calculation, that covers the basics bits, work, eating, sleeping, abultions.
but,
to bring the moments to the minutes,
thats a vastly different thing.
how do you count the moments of brillance,
that burn bright on the horizon beyond and before.
those moments of pure kindness or blind and ****** ignorance that elicit change.
the joy of the moment,
the rage of a second,
the hours borrowed
in worry never yet, to be repaid.
how many minutes wasted,
or not fully tasted,
devoured to quickly.
those seconds we fumble,
in awkward silences,
or those we waste wanting more.
then the hours of breastbeating
or simply bleating.
are they lesser in importance,
than,
the days lost in thought,
or in grief,
time spent, begging for relief,
from a heart so, so, sore.
remember the weeks,
when,
we sent packing,
the fox or the bear, the lion and the tiger from fear's flimsy,
fragile door.
months of not belonging,
then the longing
and finally
the lounging & laughing,
when tickled to our core,
the tock of the clock,
when we
are too cold,or too hot,
or
just,
not quite right.
time,
that keeps ticking,
while,
we are sticking our noses, where
they are not wanted.
time spent watching from afar,
minutes of small talk,
hours of deep
and meaningful,
days
of young lust,
months
of expectancy,
years
of togetherness,
decades
of love.
a delineation
of seperateness,
eons,
immemorial,
of eternity.
these are the times,
of my minutes,
i want
ciphered,
into
the fabric of time.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
(a piece from high school (I’ve been reorganizing))
I am simply at my worst these days.
Wild and unpredictable emotions rush on me - it's a place where the layer of control and composure are very thin.
This school year has been an endless working, always desperate, collection of days.
Each passing week seemed to unmask some flaw in me.. Like peeling a rotten onion.
Emotionally, spiritually, I’m drubbed—I droop like a hanged man.
It's not the work—I survive (piano) competitions and academic battles as if by some brand of magic..
No, it's more.
I have lost my goal. Like biblical engineers raising the tower of Babel on the plain of Sennaar, I am struck by a lack of focus. My direction, my original plans, seem shallow—I stand purposefully gelded.
It's worse because I'm somehow so much less who I want to be.
Like an asymptotic curve I constantly miss my ideal. I am hunted, internally, by my own inner voice, that ruthless, pittyless, seeker of perfection.. it lurks like the prowling wolf, stalk bent walk.. sifting my every thought, my every action for flaws.. until like the wing weary hunted pray I could almost welcome the killers warmth for sweet silence
In a mood somewhere between cowardly and courageous I finally approached my mom..
In a speech from the scaffold, I told her of my black, tight, treacherous spiral.. of my doubts about everything.
I expected the worst.. a disappointment, in less than cryptic, ciphered messages, a slow sharpening of her claws on me for endless shortcomings..
Instead, I got miracles..
as if rigid constellations had shifted.. an atmosphere of freedom earned.. and at least for that moment, the mom who used to sing me awake in the mornings as a girl.. and a delicious summer of rest.
.
.
A song for this:
Everyday Is A Winding Road by Sheryl Crow
Cruel To Be Kind by Letters to Cleo
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_02.mp3
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 2:11 PM UTC
and let the many winters
catch my tears
as fountains in my hands
before the next spring daffodil
that i might weep
to the irony of a harem;
oh the shame to receive such
bounty as such described of koranic loot.
my heart unto all
in song of downfall among dwarf
within hmm to man's hum ciphered
as the story be told in man's tongue,
yet be it, dwarfs' loneliness
*the pipes were roaring,
the winds were mourning,
the trees like torches
blazed with life.*
then dumb fool i too,
to have broken with sabbath into
every single day,
and lay claim,
laid claim i had
written this versus
in the arc of covenant obligations
served only by the cool of the riddled
grip of the impressed finger,
of dwarf above man, of, of the echo so in longing missed.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC