aphickey's blog

You enter the room
later you will leave

We all do

Everything enters
and leaves

Even the concept of
entering
and leaving,
ebbs
and flows

Even the entering
and leaving
of concepts,
rises
and falls

Attachment seeks permanence

But no part of breathing
can be eternal,
for breathing
to work

once again
I did not click
on the ad
flashing promise,
an "old weird" habit
a "simple trick"
that will,
when practiced daily
"melt away the pounds"

although, I must admit
I am not without
curiosity

But if it were
really once
an effective habit,
what accident
of history
ripped it
from our
daily practice?

Path in the woods
in a foggy drizzle
dark green and orange brown
purple wild astors
white floating dollar plants

drips snap and crackle
on the fallen leaves
and tumble undergrowth
a light Kagan orchestra

the dog is eager
alive with smells
and the thought that
she might meet friends

what more heaven does one need
than this?

(Sept 29, 2012)

There are sounds
you come
to know
living by the sea

not just surf
and wind
fog horns
and bell buoys
groaners
and lanyards
against the mast
but engines

lobster boats
head out
at dawn

sailboats motor
through the doldrums

In summer heat
the pleasure craft
go chop and thwap
across the open water
disturbing the peace
but quickly gone

Sunflower yellow dawn
below dark grey cirrus strips
above a purpley chrome sea

the first most far east
cloud lip
kissed with gold
then spreads it's warm orange
hot pink parallel lines
like congac across the tongue
and down the throat
until the sea explodes with
flare's reflections

Some fall nights
when the clouds hang low
and the wind is just right,
sounds skip over from the
field behind the high school.
A roaring crowd
appears to cheer
ripe juvenile prowess
just behind the house across the street,
instead of miles away
and over a hill.
Last night was like that.
This morning
the fog
stole the ocean
right out from under us.
But it left
the sound behind.

A bird
hits the one window
in my office
that doesn't have
a screen,
(full speed,
from the sound of it),
and leaves a
greasy grey smear
outlined in fluff
in the shape of
it's head.

I look
at the ground below.
It lies
stock still,
for a moment,
then staggers
about.
Then sits
with it's wings stretched out to the side.
Then shakes and hops.
Then
flies away.

I am
humbled by
it's survival.

And reminded
to be persistent.

The story is writing itself,
in real time
Nothing 
can be expected
of it

It drags the past
behind it
History ripples
future's wake

Did you ever do 
what the teacher said
you shouldn't?
Light the magnesium
and stare

Blinded for a moment
by your own stupidity
you finally see

The wisdom
of experience
The experience 
of wisdom

still,

most,
of what happens,
surprises

The sun is hot
and the land thirsty
for tonight's storm.

the surf laps up
the stony beach,
a thousand
whooshing
falls
and eddies
fill/draining
in randomness
near
rhythm

pebbles knock
and tinkle
on shells
all
along
the ecotone

leaves
whisper

infrequently
a distant motor
brings
a lobsterman
to dock

sometimes
a twackity-twack
of pleasure crafters
driving drunk
or, just too fast

At dawn I came
upon a ring
of rocks
set out on
granite flat

hard grey light
on water mirrors
hard grey clouds
rock paper scissors

phragmities trumps loosestrife
and the planet mars

so close to us
that people all around
have rekindled
a faith
in cycles of
revenge
and retribution

why would a god
have to work in any way
more mysterious
than this?