Discovering Beauty in Everyday Life

A traveling thought billowed into my mind (I had a sad little broken-bottle life, till then) Long beaches full of empty shells with six-foot rattlers, so I hear Water moccasins down there somewhere, too Spiders and roaches. Which is worse? Not a sidewalk at all in the county Photos stick together in the mildew sun Thirty-six story spacecraft under Climate Control. No looking further than the front way out No window washing, locking doors Bouncing about like a shot without a sling, My soul was on vacation, so maybe that was it. Something took a nip and a tuck out from my life So, I trimmed up for the season, and I sailed back home. I know I should have taken up a life of crime but, the threat seemed just too hollow. I see the animations on the edge of time The orbiters are swimming too close to the light. We are all of us moths, when the flight seems right.

The sky was the bluest it ever was I know for a fact Since I have seen it everyday For better and for worse It won’t be as blue again I know for a fact It doesn’t matter In the scheme of things I love you so much in the bluest sky.

There once was a poet named LJC Who went to the edge of the earth to be sure what was what and decipher the signs about life, about death, about crossing the lines, About crossing her Ts about dotting her Is, what gargantuan tasks, truly epic in size. But what else could she do? She lost some perspective, and life interfered with a different objective! That’s about it, since there’s no telling how things will play themselves out, in the here and the now. Hang on for the ride; it’s too late to jump ship, grab your lunch and your knapsack and relish the trip! house  (not mine, but  maybe!)

There is no need No more empty places Warm, full with peace Undone by love I am Saturated January Full Moon Rising over Crestone (Larry Calloway)

Day filled with crystal windows, Double sided shadows, Bark wet from melting snow, Ready. Sap sneaking up the roots, waiting for a headstart incidental chance, Blossoms barely aware of themselves. It was the sunniest day. Dark travels, rolling across the empty highways, Sidling up to the day, Muddling up the after effects, Settling up the score.

Sneaking out the beauty in the stumbling places Seeing bright red brick under the tarnished  episodes Knowing for once the people underneath the rubble Unearthing the best in show. Just below Park Avenue & 97th Street

Buried in disappointment I set out to trace those wanton steps, their outlines white on white, no tea leaves left in a cup.. Crisscrossed traces staining, weaving patterns, losing track. Winter staggering, weighted with hopes,  insides icing over. But it was only yesterday! My honeyed heart! Dripping and sunny! Pulling summer apples from the nourished air, soaking up love from life like a wick. How could I misplace that happy glue that spackled up my soul? Where is the relentless sap that limbers up these stiffened winter limbs? My mind can see a thousand years, why can’t I see around that corner? On East 90th Street, looking West

Light separates us from the ordinary world, guiding us into the spirit way, pulling figures away from the ground. It’s a blue jay morning in the pinion trees, the dry sun shimmering with feathers, then it's afternoon, with the white cold sun tearing through the mountain colors. Evening comes, and it’s feeding time, deer muzzled in frost and silhouetted. Then night again, with its half-lit rooms and profile faces shining in the firelight. It’s midnight now, and the sky is splintering with stars, each one watching while its being sleeps.

It was just yesterday the skies were coddled grey, clotting in their pre-snow situation, waiting, waiting, maybe for dawn, with a new messenger at the gate.

Passion slicing into waiting cells I-ching tossing wake up dreams No more pickup-stix with broken spirits It is him, just him, that's what it seems A base note playing with a rare perfume A tangle full of top notes, singing Almost as though it were actually me Is this the way it ought to be This is the way of the inside me That movie-raptured side of me Chondrial self without the layers Dharma self, made up of chi Living in a palomino day Soaking with the breath of life sinking Into the sunny layer Into who am I am I me am I you am I Yes! Oh how I want that way to be Rusty leaves, dry stalks and slippery greens Pulsing with the drum of life Transparent with the juice of winter apples. Italian Garden, Conservancy Garden, New York Central Park

Rusty with life I flee the stainless streets, escaping to the border places, neon blinks through half a sign. Dark wood angles jut and flounder on their way to make up a house. Galvanized garbage can broken on the sidewalk, lid almost covering the mess inside. Loose wires hang over broken grass, holding on in the front-yard dust. Green planks cross-hatch behind the steps, covering the belly of the porch. Inside the floor is still swept clean; There's a curtain instead of a door. Hangman stalks the inside house, waiting for a turn of events. Across the Harlem Meer

Well I did want to talk about love, But there’s so little that I wish to know about it. Crinkling like tinfoil in bright sun, Folding over, captured in the new moon air, Creeping over the window sills, Climbing through the pumpkin patches. Sinking into the inner rooms, leaving copies of itself along the way Peaches covered in thick fresh cream Brown sugar cane and dark molasses, A grassy path in a secret wood Reflections on Second Avenue

These days I skim along the surface floating and swimming in the upper inches no snorkel and of course no weights and tanks. No clever bottom views for me, no sneaky stinging jellyfish no broken veins and vessels just below the surface of the matter. Floating along beneath the heady balmy moist warm sun I hear splashing out beyond the breakers. Do not drill down through soft torn pieces. Don't you touch that swollen, stick-like thing, tucked in the muddy bottom feeding maw; I said don’t stir it up! Silty billowy mud-swarms up like acrid dirty arson smoke, Spewing fires at the ragged edge of town, Freight train blowing, parallaxing paraphrasing paralyzing Hush! Soft waves lapping like they said they did. Skimming Along Lexington Avenue

Pasted to this  moment, longing for a sacred  life, Pinned to Earth, sewn like a button to eternity. Why all this tying down, when I need a new dimension? I’m staggering in the mud of it! Who needs Ten Commandments anyway? Seven sins and seven days, seven seals and seven dwarfs, So why not Seven Commandments? Did Moses get paid by the tablet? OK OK OK OK OK. Suffocating in loose packed piles of dreams, Drowning in a sea of living things. How many bottles need to break before I find a single note? Living under these inky A B C’s Fanning out of fountain pens, scratching, breaking, rubbing, spraying ink and flaying paper. Where is that blotter anyhow? Clementines and limes among polka-dotted things

The world is frought but I am not. Two Central Park Trees Falling in Love

“Would you like the Eyeballs? They’re our special today Sticky or slimy or choose your own way” I thought the young waiter was kidding you see So I said I’d take breaded with crackers and brie (tee-hee-hee, tee-hee-hee, tee-hee-hee). When he served those round balls they were dark at one end and they looked so alive I began to pretend they were olives or something, and not what they seemed when off in the distance just then someone screamed! “They’re mine! They were mine! And now I can't see!" That's a terrible thing to tease someone like me! I’m a delicate person and sensitive, too, It’s clear you are steering away from what’s true, You’re veering away from the matter at hand! Hand? Oh my gosh what has happened to you? Is it gone? Are you sure? Is there nothing to do? And just then within reach was a terrible screech! “There’s a crunch in my lunch! It’s a long bendy thing.,, No it’s not just a thing, it’s a thing with a ring! Agha agh! Gag-agagh,

I have a friend who lives in Forksville. Not one fork every now and then, but a fork deluge! A tempest full of forks! Eveywhere you turn, another Fork! Where is the road among all those forks? Fork here, fork there everywhere a fork, fork. Wait! Why not take two forks at a time? . Who would know if one fork simply superimposed? Why make these tough decisions? Take Both Forks! It’s so simple really. Calm sets in without a storm, Action pushes out reflection, Leading at last to satisfaction. Of a sort. Don’t you wonder now and then Where all those might have beens have been While you were waning melancholic Waxing upon the hyperbolic? There’s something in choosing anyway In keeping morose vacillations at bay There something in having a positive pull Of seeing the glass as perpetually full. Of sticking in optimism mode, Of trudging along that happy road . Why wait for another spin of the cards, Another day of fond discards, Another roll of the Ferris whee

The clock strikes the hour, that’s what they all say But is it eight? Is it late? Shall we call it a day? When we met it was spring with the buds being born Now it’s springtime again and I’m feeling forlorn. What’s in it for me, said the mouse to the owl “Come closer, you’ll see”, said the owl on the prowl. “You’re burning so bright”, said the moth to the light “Yet whatever I do you just sit there despite All my flutters and flitters designed to excite! Are you just too bright for a romance tonight?” If we all only knew what to do when deluded By fauna and flora with light bulbs included We might satisfy a grand plan or grand mal-- The heck with it! I’m going to move to Nepal. Things are better in Nepal,  there’s no doubt about this I hear it all the time, "Nepal is pure Bliss". Or perhaps a magic pumpkin patch will do  this time, It's nearby, that's why! And the weather is sublime. Bunnell Farm-- Litchfield. Connecticut

Anger sets the mind on fire, Dragging hot coals along the breast bone, searching for kindling, searching for a light to spark the white hot fuse. stabbing, searing, driving rage with icy calm, shooting bitter shrapnel, tempering the smitten soul, slicing through the broken worn out spirit, pulling the roots apart, exposing again a breaking heart, still striving reaching, craving for a sun, craving soil that isn’t caked with dead dry muddy quicksand, spiraling spinning, spitting, banging thumpity thumpity thump, thump, thump, thump There is no rhythm to it anymore! No inside shell, no place to go to ground. Nothing but an inside war torn up with foxholes, injured and shredded like a grated thing. How can a few remaining decades mend our very substance? Can I re-enter life again, with such a damaged heart? Oh gentle hope, I see you creeping in among the shadows!

Time flew away again It's dusk at the gated garden Colors are settling down Fountain showers blessings in the night