Real heroes (haiku)

Honest to goodness

real heroes are before thought

occurs within them

The Ride… (from inside the womb)

I ride within the creation ocean

and feel for the variety of fluids.

The constants and the containments

settled beneath the pounding sounds

from up above me

and a cacophony

of quirky squeamish noises

from below/behind.

But mostly I feel for the nutrients

as chemistry,

as an environment

of emotional states

piped in and ongoing

as a confluent dialogue

of stimulus to me,

to my accommodating series

of responses.

I have no language for this.

I respond by acclimatizing myself

to the input.

I interface with this constancy

though unnamed to me.

I am trained by frustration,

nurturance, fatigue,

fearfulness, surroundings, delight,

anxiety and peacefulness

but never quite the stillness

or seeming of quiet.

I know of these things

but they are all unnamed.

They all have distinctions

as I have response

but nothing really of comparison

just different unto themselves.

I know them better as familiar

when they are happening

and forgotten when they are not.

Outside influences have a prominence,

increasing almost daily.

There is a kind of compression

but I know it best

as chemistry of feelings,

where I match

what appears to be near

as comfortable and comforting.

It is like all things are

a form of entrainment,

are an expression of me

as this is my growth, ongoing,

reaching towards a fullness

but I know not what that means.

Just a pitch increasing and rising,

a compression response

to what is around me.

Fluids, tissue, and structure,

shift and reshape me.

Some things are fairly constant

in small cycles of differences

and then return.

I hardly attend to them any more

yet identify with them

as sometimes me.

I hear distant sounds more clearly.

There is an intimacy

to what is around me,

very indirect yet familiar.

From time to time

there is a second environment

just outside

of my immediate environment

that has more variety

but also repeats itself

with great regularity.

It is not so above and below

as sounds by orientation.

It features close, very close,

and far away

while my environment remains constant

in expansive contraction.

This second environment is expansive

and varied,

less high pitched but more virtuosity

in the sense of variety

and complexity of elements present.

I don’t know quite what to make of it.

It suggests space

I am not familiar with

yet vaguely I am.

I have a widening lantern

of sense as I grow

that tells me how all these places feel

but I do not experience them very strongly

like the first environment.

Sometimes the two seem to be one

but not consistently.

As I move more,

I feel like I move physically less

but I sense more

of the second environment

as curious and interesting.

I almost assume the former

and reach for the latter in passing.

Sure the humming within me

is strong and resounding

as more of an orchestra

of energetic parts

present within me.

It feels complete as it is

without movement to express it.

It just is and I am of it

and also sometimes

in movement with it

but contained.

I attend to the subtlest shifts

in chemistry

as if it were flavor and taste

and make some association

with those elements

and the second environment

as influence.

I have no conclusions per say.

I have repetition.

I entrain.

I still feel separate

from this hum busyness

but I also identify with it

almost constantly.

In the very far

and very deep sense of me,

I sense others like me, close

but distant in some ways.

There is acknowledgment in like kind

but not by direct exchange,

just near and deeply similar.

I don’t know what that is

but it centers me

and I feel that if everything else

were taken away from me as stimulus,

that would still remain.

It is hard for me to turn on it

and notice anything

because it is of me

or the one who would turn.

So there I am again with no new input,

just there and beaming.

There is so much of it that is constant

and ever so slightly shifting,

never to return.

But I do not long for

or miss what just happened,

I have my next time as now,

so fluidly and so soon.

It is hard to be remiss,

there is so much going on

if I cared to be bothered about it all.

But mostly I am concerned

about the second environment.

It has my attention

most of the time of late.

I seem to have matched

the nutrient chemistry

of my first environment

and then embrace the second environment

as somehow complimentary to the first…

Somehow.

I don’t have details

but differentiation is happening.

I have empty sighs.

What do they mean?

fireworks' fumes (haiku)

late in the evening

the after-smell of July fourth

from fireworks fallout

Meaning is . . .

Meaning is

finding the story of you

inside the warehouse of you

said loud enough to yourself

that you hear it

even if you only know

you are overhearing it

from where that deeply occurs

sort of mindlessly within you

but it is the narrative being of you

rambling on about the doing of you

maybe even inadvertently penetrating

the awareness of you

that is pervading abruptly

both as the self-consciousness of you

together with

the sensate invasion of you

caught in the unending stampede

or the raging firestorm

or the still unexpected flashflood

or the whole life holocaust of you

venturing forward

second by second

as if grain-by-grain

falling through the resistance

of the hourglass neck hold

of unavoidable persistence

readied by the past

distracted by the impending

and blatantly materialized

into the nanosecond evidence

as ever presenting

a hurling counterpoint representation

reflected as your consciousness

depicting you

and the worlds of audience

and participation around you

in the ever ongoing tongue-lashing

ear piercing mental equivalency

called your meaningful life . . .

The duality of experience

All of incoming-experience

to me,

is like an eventful wardrobe

I wear,

in keeping my brain

active as a closet.

Some of outgoing-experience

leaving me

is like a musical instrument

I have fashioned

out of my conscious

and it ambiently plays

for the joy of it,

the joyless joy of it,

the timelessness that be,

outward and onward

until there is no out

and on is

with no space left to embrace . . .

Wealth out of being

Inspiration is a fertile field

for disappointment

to grow a wealth

of determination and resolve

out of being . . .

fingernails as tools (haiku)

fresh clipped fingernails

surprising you with your hands

not in long nail ways

Excerpt from what lovers say

a blade edge of attention

towards you

so delicately sharp in the traverse

seen high in the sky of our eyes

as a taut rope between us

yet forward faces

far distant from feelings

a myopia of backdrop wideness

strung up betwixt

pebbled with emotion

affronting each gesture of connection

thus far blocking me

with unseen ease

and the promise of confusion

sways and down turns

of unforeseen needs resolve

the pit of me

a molasses of my self

yet blessed with sight

beyond this circumstance

guiding blindly

over unknown disturbances from within

effort is as meaningless

as desire is a groping

it is a time tube like never before

where I thought

the blade to be straight and true

to safe ground

I call you

my invention of passage

has invisible hands of assistance

you so willingly agree

to represent yourself

my birthing your birthing anew

under each others’ watchful gaze

as what you do for yourself

is also there

two compelled

transform a helix dance upward

measured by the secret sameness

of heartbeats

by what the shape

of our breath will express

that this oneness will leave us witless

movement that cannot translate

as the dance is the faint of sureness

into a high canopy above

as the cellular of us

somehow letting separateness go . . .

felt tip pens (haiku)

open for business

in an unventilated room

uncapped felt-tip pens

Mind is mediation

Authenticity is personified imperfection in presence.

Bothering is annoyance trumping curiosity’s sake.

Compassion is the oddity of shared oneness realized.

Dreams are holographic cross-references exemplified.

Emotion is freefall and levity inside oneself.

Experience is the practice of reflective self-exile.

Faith is one dimension short of trust.

Genuine is a pretense of temporality.

Harmony is aloneness shared but not lonely.

Home is a relative predicament made calm.

Hope is sewing up the hole in your heart.

Immortality is . . .

Joy is permission for expansion.

Judgment is waste that floats.

Knowledge is power subject to manipulation.

Laughter is the essence of accountability.

Memory is broken bi-location.

Mentality is the ultimate metaphor.

Narcissism is personal boundary research.

Omnipotence is a human species character flaw.

Prayer is schizophrenia as comfort.

Pleasing is one deeper breath towards permission.

Quantum is seeing the forest nuance for the trees.

Revelation is the only valid expression of education.

Sorrow is a riddle as if you are a newborn.

Speech always lobbies against its source.

Suffering is a clan-destined continuance.

Symbology is safe-deposit-self-consciousness.

The senses are storytellers without topic.

Thought is the doing-exhaust from being.

Ubiquitous a state of consciousness not yet realized.

Victimhood is a method of going into the closet.

Watershed is every now’s hidden agenda.

Xanadu is a mindscape of beauty.

Yawn is an subtle electrical firestorm of the body.

Zest is permission granted for aliveness to occur.

family pet (haiku)

visit with close friends

their favored family pet

fondly adores you

Mary Kathryn Murphy part 4 of 4

(Remembrances from around fifty,

spent a day with her,

she was around eighty)

I found her to be

self-captive,

still waiting for God

to take her in the night,

with shuffled memories

and fading causes.

She was unrevealing

and repeating,

present but only in passing

and very settled in her story.

She had no real inquiry

and a peculiar attention

to her perception.

She was still wanting God to . . .

She had written notes

and directions for her death,

(kept under her pillow at night).

She was chillingly unaffected,

reporting as a soloist,

many opinions as before

but hollow within her now.

Her home residence

stares back at her separateness.

I, as a son,

am a distant third person

never to return.

There is now a wounded child

of her, without disguise.

She is less caution with less clarity.

She is living in the aftereffects

and the physical nuisance pains.

She at times was hardly here

in the same room.

I am rarely addressed

in the present by her.

She had limited conveyance

and little natural nurturance

or warmth to give or reflect,

not cold but dormant

and long gone.

She was somewhat pleasant

as a means but withdrawn.

There were things

still to complete

but nothing formal

or here in her words.

Upon finally leaving

after most of a day with her,

I felt a strong sense

of not seeing her alive again,

and this was so.

She did looked out

from her window then

but did not make eye contact

in parting.

For me,

it was conclusively inconclusive

same as many times for me before.

She is a child of the light

in a lifetime of difficulty

and her private longing

for herself, however insular,

was a remedy.

All mothers have profound impact

on their kids

even if inadvertent

by actions or by ambience.

I shall carry her life,

all of what I know

and feel from her

within me,

forward and forever

in my folds . . .