First Flight

Sliding from the top of a large white balled light post, a robin’s perch precarious,
Squawk, squawwk, squawwwk, another two birds work distraction from nearby branches.

Stray-kitty ponders the toy morsel, plump from its Ma’s attentive feeding, worms abundant in this riverside haven, fresh rains have top soil moistened for the savvy winged workers.

Realizing an apparent ground fodder, I whisk the tired but wide-eyed cat from its playful perch looking down atop the hill and the young robin, he seemingly content to let the frightened youngster alone.

Wondering if bruised or maimed, I make periodic health checks between coffee sips, chihuahuas wrestle, and some email, the morning sun shining obliquely on this hallowed solstice day.

Mom now continues mild mannered chirping on a branch above, a blunted worm hanging from its mandible, but the babe now not obvious, however her tenor convinces me that all is fine.

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The grass cut, winters sugars exhausted, the shallow plane making for either small two legged or four legged critters a chance to bounce uninhibited across the cool damp morning grass, mom dropping down to the base of a favorite box elder, bushed heavily by spring growth, that worm an offering to the youngster who emerges unscathed.

Popping up and down with relative joy, baby bird wanders in and out of the sun and into tall green grasses, mom demonstrating flight to a vertical branch in a nearby tender pile which awaits a blazing, her cajoling bit by bit, by day’s end, nubile junior has become a master flyer.

Eventually

Eventually, all fossil fuels on Earth will be consumed, their gaseous byproducts absorbed in the atmosphere, some sequestered to the seas.

Eventually, all fissile elements on Earth will be depleted, technology designs slowing that depletion,  reliance on local energy innovated with necessity.

Eventually, the Earth will not support the requirements of the human species, as procuring water, air, and food become challenging, persons of higher class will manage self importance as rights that dominate.

Eventually, the meek will become blessed and the Earth will be their’s to inherit.

Eventually, the Sun will cycle in death to engulf the Earth, all memory lost to those generations whose progeny escape to other habitation.

Eventually.

Trumpeters

Flying high, wing span impressive, organized as a vee, their path intercepting, the work to get to this stage of the journey, the last hundred miles, not by chance.

Instinct and intuition alone is not enough to manage any of the abrupt delays in a trek north, gravity, fluid dynamics, and magnetism in control.

Gone now from overhead, their trumpeting persisting in a blue chilled sky, a river thaws below, Poppy circling as a toy bone is thrown repeatedly, his energy perpetual.

Blue blue eyes bright, watching watching the sky above, curiously resolving, knowing knowing that time stands still when darkness appears, wide eyed he let’s go into the pause of time.

R.I.P. Pappa

Punked Beat

It’s a drab Saturday afternoon,  most are dormant and disengaged from workday frenzy, light snow layers the spotty slick ice, a cold breeze cuts through my snow laden scarf, unobtrusive to any, walking is slowed by a tested concern for falling.

On the fringe of suburbia,  middle class houses straddle the road, I walk river in sight, nearing home, supplies packaged in a backpack, my center adjusted, returning from a grocery run, an excuse for exercise the motivation.

Ears muffled by two hats, the outer woolen and billed, my cadence shifts with sounding beats, gangster rap pulsing moderately, the low bass tones coherent, “Thump  Thump  Thump,” a vehicle’s rubber tires pierce the frozen sand embued surface and crackle a casual approach.

As a turquoise tinted olive sedan passes, a driver hidden behind the half opened darkened smoke window murmurs “Bang   Bang   Bang,” hinting manifested superiority at the pistol grip of a gun, my sprawled bloodied body now lifeless,  crimson melting icy white below, the punk not missing a beat continues his troll for the others deserving of his righteous requiem.

Hovering Birds

A busy bird day, mid-afternoon, the widest variety, collecting food with a vengeance, curiously after an ephemerally dense snowfall which followed the short-lived strokes of the sun, the valley’s chronic cloud cover responsible for an atypical run of sunless days.

The buckthorn, one of two that remain purposefully for diversity sake is discovered, the seed of frozen cherries the goal, like hummingbirds one species hover for an extended time while picking that fruit one by one, the tree’s canopy buzzing with action.

A black oil seed basket serving so many who share the resource, queued and rarely simultaneous, but persistent, hopping branch side and smashing the hull to ingest, or caching seed for surviving the thrills of a winter notorious for lingering well beyond February and March.

I imagine for the bitter winter survivor its a day by day challenge to consume energy and to make water, to nest as blizzards storm, or as Orion gleams brightest in the longest and coldest of nights, certainly its not an old bird’s game.

It could be that my own two wings and feathers deserve attention, survival never certain, winter blowing hard can unseat the most taloned of birds, the most prepared of creatures.

Alter (Old-Age)

Alter

Das aber ist des Alters Schöne,
Daß es die Saiten reiner stimmt,
Daß es der Lust der grellen Töne,
Dem Schmerz den herbsten Stachel nimmt.

Ermessen läßt sich und verstehen,
Die eigne mit der fremden Schuld,
Und wie auch rings die Dinge gehen,
Du lernst dich fassen in Geduld.

Die Ruhe kommt erfüllten Strebens,
Es schwindet des verfehlten Pein
Und also wird der Rest des Lebens
Ein sanftes Rückerinnern sein.

Old-Age

As I reflect at an older age,
I am less bothered by the unnecessary,
I take pleasure in the brightest significance,
while anticipating the bitterest sting.

Whatever the circumstances,
any who have regrets remaining,
seek forgiveness with best abilities’,
learning patience when reprieved.

Anticipate calm when persisting,
as dormant pain fades,
living eases into death,
and memories become gentle.

Alter by Ferdinand von Saar (1883-1906)
Interpretation of Alter for David DeMuth by his son David, 12/2016

Obfuscated Reality

His tribe, progress slow
The damp shaded forest, a shelter
Fired warmth limited, instead shivers managed under wooded bundles
They operate the moist darkness content that morning has come once more
Never forwarding beyond despair, never breeding knowledge.

An ordinary voice rings the horizon, catching latent attention
Fatigued, shivering, capacity for innovation challenged, eyes open with desire
Standing at the forest boundary, souls trusting submit
Alien possibility resonate with the cadence of the approaching machine
Hardened angst obfuscating reality, the loudest voice is heard.

Sequestered fears resolve into hope by the believers
A daily march begins toward fulfilled promise
Bias, righteousness typically necessary by each convert
While the displaced carry on numbly
Harshest is the reality that truth and equity are not goals.

Almost December

The air so damp, a mild breeze, barely
Resonation between the tree’s tentacles, electric
A condensate of precarious drops, large
Falling with candor, below branch only, cadence
No signal of ice, the river racing north, nearby.

Potential lost

Was it in a retreat, a grazed shot fired by a rightful hunter
Was it a poached attempt, an arrow
Was a parasite responsible, or other malady
His gait no more, sisters wander skittish without that watchful eye
Youth lost, hazard unknown, progress deferred until another time.

Sunlight Dancing

The constant harmony of the river’s waters, reflected sunlight dancing briskly, vaguely green and resilient leaves clingingly flutter in an unusual warm November breeze, not a cloud seen, soon stars bright above a crescent moon, mars on her shoulder.

Matthew

Days before the announcements, where will he land, beating the crowd we stow basics for three days, adding ice to our freezers, a generator on backup.

Weathermen, civic leaders pronouncing danger begging heeded warnings, mandatory evacuations in reality subjective, considered by any whose probabilities exceed threshold.

Where he’s been, devastations, unbearably the downtrodden recanoider, striving forward after being stung by nature.

Where he’ll go is certain, to dissipation but when?

There is solidarity across disasters for those who have fought their own battles, while the inexperienced might empathize fractionally.

Let us pray.

Cave Hill

Said: It is tragic that we do not have ready access to each other, how I pine for that random weekday autumn morning where we might visit Twice Told for a coffee, a top down ride through Cave Hill, a lakeside duck distracted conversation, and a stroll past the statuous sisters.

Sphen: To remember those moments and so many more random times of joy, the quiet times without words, and the wonder of that silence:

Sabuda ala

Trotting Time

She runs, runs erect, runs direct, her cadence steady
Rhythm spawning contemplation, a mind focused
Past the blue spruce grove, alone, her dark two-tone drobe blending in ghost-like
There, in our presence, this unfamiliar runner trotting time away, step by step.

Heat

All those days previous summers lost to faded memory, some wrinkled others not, the exercise of long outdoor days, sculpting the fort castle inviting birds to feed, the constant pulse of a river running north, marking time that once was.

Skate

Doors of the rail car the only restriction, boyz emerging as opened, clunk click click, the eight bearings humming drag then a hook jump schradtch a thudded landing, smiling then circling back for another run, his buddy schradtch’n a thwack pumped he pounces on the board stopping as a Father and son snatch their sounding board / E line Denver

Snowbound

It was a late spring trip after a collaboration meeting in Oxford, measured events mimicking proton decay the topic, after jumping the channel Bill and I took into the Alps in a car, part of a five day tour, exploring villages, baguettes, and bris cheese cut and spread with our matching Swiss Armies, stopping overnight with each sunset where our Michelin map allowed, when deep into a long uphill road which we discovered as impassible, snow filling the span and blocking, yet melted, the wall being ten or more feet high, we retreated back down that long road in constant conversation.

Perhaps a Poem Written

Toward futures end, afterwards more honestly
In the ramblings consistently captured, with frequency and responsibility
Freed from the constraints of negotiated existence
Metaphors and description rolling naturally downhill, melting like heated ice
Self-deprecatingly the gods he is slave to are slain one by one

Perhaps someone agrees God is the fact that we exist
In that community perhaps that  their worships are otherwise

A provocative dichotomy requiring reason, emotion modified, while action seething disdain, retribution, and reaction becomes patience in exchange for digital longevity

Perhaps more reading becomes necessary .

The Book of Disquiet – 22

Absurdity is divine.

The Greatest

Seeing him mid to late afternoon near the University of Louisville’s student center humbly standing one afternoon at the rear of a short moving van, handing out the Quran, nearly no one around, must of been ‘85 left an impression that his intents were sincerely with love of humanity.

60 Minutes w/ Ed Bradley: http://www.cbsnews.com/videos/the-greatest/

Muhammad Ali / Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr.

Oak Tree

Pulling carbon from the air, his girth becomes established
His leaves young, supple but enlarged, fortitude signified
Branches bifurcate in age, breadth designed by probability and his curators hand
Eventual it’s canopy broad and strong, sheltering cooling providing refuge for an extended family of carbon breathers

Spring Leaves are Green

The frequency in thoughts of our unity exceeds belief 
I think of you all day everyday yes I do
Smooth chords resonating heart rhythms and soul
She said the silk inspired love, he agreed 

Hobo and Bart

Chocolate brown, showing grey, she manages at an appropriate distance, trailing 

Occasionally he has to coach, she taking every opportunity to saunter, but navigating as a reliable pair, a quiet dialog sustained

Once they cross the doubled  lanes,  she falls back gesturing to the bag man: “you know, the food is not all that great.”

Moons of Jupiter

First four, then three, now four.
Moons or cats or both?

Four then five, now six.
Deer crossing the Red River, their wet white tails dancing and reflecting a brilliant sun as they jet, foraging on an urban landscape now transforming to green.

Native Sun

A product of environment, triggered intellect in response to thoughtful solutions, patient and aggressive, but waiting, operating under restraint imposed by the normalized, commitment to country preceded by his accumulated travels throughout his home state, cities dispersed rurally, most in advance of global connectivities, a back turned to naive hope, as a native sun’s capacities are lost, progress slowed.

Life or not

Self important and lonely, granddad weebles mask-fully around the coffee shop where I sit.
Anxiety expressed when a brother, thin and food conscious is diagnosed for a heart transplant.
Fear for a beauty whose nose pearcing went awry.

Remaining conservatively dormant for longevitys sake allows for Saturday morning coffee parties where nothing is said; sometimes instead over drinks.
Only children matter in suburbia.

Ground gaming

At two he sits in Daddy’s lap,  pretzels, beer, third down replay, call reversal, then the game changing score, the youngster, bouncy yet robust-fully buoyant, landing back down on the leather couch up watches outrageous jubilance.

At six, balls are chased, kicked, catching learned, the sun blazen with vitamin D branding activity as necessary.

At fourteen, fighting biology and adolescence, he reigns approval from distant dad in showcasing atypical abilities in coordinated outdoor competitions.

At twenty five, college days behind yet tailgating emotions continue as resources  are redirected, armchair quarterbacks abundant, triggers of those bouncy memories exponential.

At forty, managers steer their teams toward production utilizing that prevalence, purple and white colored cake sliced as celebratory reward.

Each game binary in its outcome, a winner, a looser, no ties allowed, a three sided die exacerbating the dichotomies, and stadiums crumble by the impassioned.

Politics: go red go blue!

Supernova

From the medium a protostar coalesces, driven by gravity. In its environmental assemblages, albeit extended in time, pressure builds at its core, eventual is a hydrogen furnace, then balanced competition between that gravitational pressure and its outward radiation, thus are the majority of stars.

For an eternity, that assemblage of substance is the fuel that fuses into time, or age, for life as a star is ephemeral on a universal scale that our minds struggle feebly to digest. ironcore

For billions of years, she burns, gathering and expending mass, burning hotter, eventual is helium, carbon, oxygen, sodium, neon, magnesium, silicon, sulfur, phosphorous, and silicon, then in a finale: a core of iron and nickel.

For the magnificent, that core bouncing to a colossal giant and then to a cooling dwarf, or into a super-colossal nova as an explosive reseeding of its progenitor, permeating waves which jitter the interstellar medium and inseminating its progeny.

Working for Food

Water at four degrees expands, evident by a noted rise in the nearby channel, the Red’s frozen surface glaring, a murder of crow dancing on its surface. Two thistle loaded tubes underhang the riverhouse, providing early reinforcement for finch survival, brisk is the air, the sun brilliant, winter’s clime has arrived.
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His coat blonded orange, his tail perk and tall, running with the speed and elegance of a deer, bounding, but not with direct fear, more with an attitude of simple gaming, for after all Mr. Fox deserves the riverside as much as any of us.

Squirrel populations invite regular thoughts of an inconspicuous urban harvest for a weekend lunch or dinner, their regular rummages continue from yet another heavy seeding from the stately burr oaks that surround their plantation, my southern heritage inescapable.

Greys and reds, chasing about, climbing vertically then crossing the high canopied sidewalks, tree by tree, the smaller red’s being more sinister in their elected winter abodes, gnawing through facia board hidden behind a blue spruce growing on the southern corner of the house provides illustration.

Parallel to the Red’s freezing, longer shadows are cast by the pillars of the tall western facing windows of this riverhouse, as a rhythm of the sun’s intensity continues with only gravitational knowledge of this pale blue dot.

Scrub wood burns in the livingroom’s fireplace, two squirrelly dogs scrambling in the projected warmth, playing, learning about their own natures, the one recently added to contrast the other’s somber mood after being orphaned by Ruthie’s expiration.

Order and balance between the squirrel and the fox remain, both in an objectivist war of self-preservation, and while steering cautious of Darwin when outdoors, whether fox, eagle, or otherwise,  we share in the goal for unobfuscated survival.

Pouncing Pincher

Leaves falling in a slow descent on this sunny windless morning;
    aside, a glassy rivertop reflecting from another State.
Slow is this winters coming, or at least the falls demise,
   the reflected being late sprouted greeneries.
The house vibrating from the pouncing woodpecker pinching peanut kernels
    from within a copper wired tube intercepting the river’s view,
and which waxes this poetry.

Fox Bark

Spotting Cassiopeia’s, he shifted in his chair aligning the telescope a group would later use, the fire pit glowing, crickets hum.

An Equinox barely past, a rare eclipse awaits, on a crossover day he rescends galloping, as the fox barks again.