Yodeling philosophy

He laughs, country songs are simply coffee 
heartbreaks, the cloying of sugar love ...

She thinks Hank Williams is the sound of
leaving Virginia, leaving Maryland, leaving
Delaware to board the Lewes Ferry

No matter how I struggle and strive
I'll never get out of this world alive

He yodels philosophy like she almost
always smiles until the poetry rolls off
her fingers andย  wrinkles the sea

The water sashays under grey nimbus.
He knots time into a pretzel and smiles
at the spicy honey mustard and ketchup
she pours on a plate. He knows
she hates ketchup.She knows, he knows ...

She points to the lighthouses, so many
line the sea struck hour like beacon guides,

or sirens that save from the sea, that's simply
a viscous burial for rusted feelings,the foam of imaginings.

This boat isn't exhausted yet and she floats
to Cape May on a whimsy, a breeze.

Yodeling philosophy:

Hank Williams singing I will never get out of this world alive

It was Hank Williams and Patsy Cline  all the way to Cape May. There’s nothing like country music to still you into the moment and everything is as it seems, as it is meant to be. The foam of the sea is simply that, what the pandemic ushered in, battles with the ephemeral shadowy past. We cannot make sense of ghosts and the demoniacal of a virus, so we write stories to them, wear masks, but the sea will swallow the foam.

It was delightful this morning, we cycled through the historic district and my vintage and creaky  hotel bicycle had no handle brakes. It was the thrill of childhood once more and I almost fell off laughing at that thing yodeling like Hank Williams ๐Ÿ™‚

The Sea Within

Introspection ~ riddled in holes
In that abysmal depth 
rests abject verse, stuttering
in profound exhaustion
of meaning. The hull
was riddled in holes
of a debilitating
introspection
and she is simply
a sunken vessel,
now, sea within a sea,
someplace the spirits
of the deep find
passageway through a once
air filled hold and
portholes of existence
lining those catacombs
of a saline poetry.

We were at the Assateague Island National Seashore last evening and it was the sound of the sea perhaps or the tiredness of an otherwise lovely day, I thought of sunken ships and also of the dead tree riddled in holes that I took a photo of, at Fort Lee Historic Park. It all came together in a poem that I wish to dedicate to mental health awareness month in the US.

Old memories good and bad are like sea creatures that move through the sunken Titanic of our minds. There is no forgiveness nor forgetting, just a momentary watery disillusionment knowing that the vessel isn’t contained, except in the arms of the sea. It is great to be a ship which sails yet be aware, that the ability to bob above consciousness is available to mere flotsam and jetsam too. Some vessels sail to fish food, others to the destruction of war or the appropriation of conquests, some are simply ambition of harnessing the naturally buoyant, some are ghost ships. There are all kinds up there and down here. Making peace with the darkness of the depths opens ones eyes to the beauty of seeing a buried universe, differently. No one but oneself in the amnion of Gaia, entombed or enwombed, a matter of perspective, I think the illusion lies in floating on murky depths. An eclipse brings about an adjustment of vision to actually see what the light blinded out for a couple of years, melding into the pandemic.

We can’t hope that this world will be anything than it actually is but we can choose to swim or float where we may and hope we never encounter often, that which may be a dangerous lesson.

Given that it is Mental Health Awareness Month in the US, I thought also to share this essay I received at Aeon today. It is about the warped self, on how social media makes us feel terrible about who we really are. It discusses aspects researched in Neuroscience and how the knowledge can be used in an empowering way.

On my playlist:

Meu amor sem Aranjuez by Dulce Pontes. The song seems written for the sea like most Portuguese fados are. Perhaps the sea exists for fados ๐Ÿ™‚

Graveyard shift

The blue screen speaks to my retina
even as Orion’s belt moves
at a diagonal across a sunless sky.

My finger tips feel their way
through work of the virtual that requires
I staple words with the braille of the times.

My eyes blink incredulously
at monstrous sleep for it harkens me
to the ‘other’ side.

As I dream of sleep
and sleepwalk through looming deadlines
synaptically connecting snapshots of intruding memory,

the only thing real now
is the mug of cold frigid coffee,
while the waning crescent of a globe weakly shines.

My body tries to reconcile
it’s separation from mind
as REM remains an acronym,

or of sanitized sleep laboratories,
or perhaps a forgotten boy band,
and I wonder if I am in a metropolis or a necropolis,

for the day has blended with night,
I need glasses to filter out scattering blue light
from a pixelated sky through metaphorical windows.

Am I in a spaceship?
The refrigerator holds rehydration fluids
and some material stamped nutritious.

Intra-planetary mates are sepulchral, auricular,
spectral, shifting shapes, changing avatars,
while on this unending graveyard shift

Mundanities of life in lockdown

IMG-20200523-WA0009

~ Art by Savio

 

Social Isolation has its merits.

My Father makes himself so useful around the home

That he and my Mother have made together…

No distractions, just an entwined pair

Pottering about the mundane in life …

Growing plants, creating murals, cooking,

Discussing philosophy, beliefs,

Long conversations with their children who will always remain children,

And short ones with the wizened grandchildren that seem to surely grow up.

Even grating coconut for a meal is meditative, collaborative and delicious …