#creativeduringcovid-19

* eyelids - pried open by sunlight this morn

with its radiant, gentle appendages so as not to sear my retinas in the process;

nice of it to do so - i thought.

if it has to be invasive it behooves any interloper to consider the fragile psyche of a pre-caffeinated camper, mid dawn - after having been ‘sprung forth’ into daylight saving.

it's near criminal the jarring adjustments a modded society asks of its nodding variety;

talisfolk tasked to first, find uptime - for commerce’ take,

losing their unrehearsed, oft' sublime downtime - for goodness’ sake;

not once, but twice - on the anno.

* stepping out of our cocoon, beholding light from a half-hidden moon;

cherished lungfuls of bracing night air that we note - if by rote - always seems to be there

as this meter & rhyme scheme turns from the right, after trending - to my taste - just a wee bit too trite...

accenting an extended dig into the myriad ways we navigate as morsels in an existential stew - better yet, roasted hops in an artisanal home brew, or like a national IPA - only with our own DNA...

go figure - the props & aspiration rendered by the merest shift of respiration sources, adrift in circumstances tendered by our verdant, blue orbis with green sprites on any given moon, monday thru sunday nights, invigorating poets  & erstwhile loons gazing at the sky, answering the call...  any random, hazy evening’s sprall - you're not crazy - believe me;

* swaying,

nested within an unforgiving environ;

fraught but fortified against inclement whether.

though the when may someday buffet us,

* promises of daylight pale against night’s foreshadow,

how it blankets myriad secrets told undercover

as lovers in the throes... uttering praises to each other

in rapt respite from the malaise everyone undergoes,

eventually.

when the veil is torn, laid asunder by a soul willing -

risking it all - to see, to know, never caring if or what the rending

may leave revealed, cover shorn to the unsuspecting world below

in harmony

with chirping birds, bees pollinating, oblivious to the vagarious fate

which befalls man’s affairs, beneath the veil of a virtuous moon

* far be it for me to co-opt a self-evident proposition - but:

it's winter in America.

as said Gil Scott-Heron years ago, but within a mere stone's throw to this unforgetting mind & uncrying eyes for so many years

now tearing over fearing the worse case’s scene with nary an overture to truth or what's pristine, pure & not hollow in the land where woke folk get broken & the creepies get followed by fellows who bellow, but don't care 'bout tomorrow; all for short-sighted gain no matter how great the inflicted pain, over the poor souls evicted from the house of cards they built,  now withering like chard amidst all the guilt spilt,

by louses turned mouses fearing stints in the yard, 'longside grizzled killers doin’ time that’s real hard -

per the taskmaster’s plan - who don't give a damn & will shiv you bamboo style, like old Vietnam...

i’m ending this swerve to go back to penning the pilot theme here:

how America’s weather forecast’s devoid of any cheer,

& finds a cold front movin' in from the right bearing rain & a troop storm in the path of its sight, closing off stoops to any new view, crew or progressive milieu;

so we’ve got to bring heat & light in sentient phasers of knowledge, with lasered erasers to our philosophical cottage; 

enlightening, not frightening - like a college pledge night, seven seas sailing in a quest for the light; topical in phases, nautically trending a tropical oasis of thought & deeds, seeding an stout onslaught in screeds;

facing the climate of fear, rearranging shades & changing furnishings of the dear - at heart;  burnishing all our undercooked parts o’er flames of chipped charcoal for starters, in a karmic frittata of focus & ardor;

marinating our parts in heart-healthy feelings,  fresh spices & spliced with the promise of healing;

* one way or another, we'll busk amidst fog & sturm

burning through smoggy synapses mental lapses, booby trapses ( thanks, Gollum...)

to ring the big bell, jump up & grasp that brass ring, drink from the supreme sippy cup held by wannabe queens or kings.

instead, i say, diss their bupkis & fear not you intrepid taskers;

this day and age you needn't assent to any ersatz masters of the gloomyverse & associated doomsplayers for pay;

curse the fools or pity them - either way - the declaration of your independence says in a voice so sotto voce...

hew to your few fine-tuned, furried friends bending your ear, instead of your rear end without a informed consent;

then continue onward, heav'n bent to assay, if not sashay on down the line, knowing all the while that on a cellular level - you'll be fine...

* seven years ago i was ten years younger.

like it was yesterday, seems - i remember...

put on my hat, coat & gloves set out into the storm,

snow up to my waist;

afterward,

like an intrepid logger, sank down into my enveloping chair

leaned & flipped backward into - the incomprehensible;

awoke to your face, smiling

handing me a warm mug of tea: a toddy & a vitamin;

i drank from one, gulped the other set the mug down, set back and...

fifteen white pillars, in a semicircle - rose up & towered over me

standing anchored around concentric rings in a tiled, patterned plaza;

from outside my peripheral, a glowing 6 foot, egg-shaped orb slowly began to waft my way

accompanied by a faint, bell-like 'sparkling' sound as it approached

of a language - i can't truly say  i heard, but received,

somehow - in my head reconfiguring, now

to a unified sensory perception organ melded by the glow.

the orb got closer,

its glowing increased until all that flooded my field of vision

was light, interminably...

until it began to fade & i saw...myself sitting, awestruck - now glowing...

looking up at......me, standing there, pillars framing my background,

as the egg shaped orb   from where & how i can't fully say,

to this day

wafted over to seated me, while some 'voice' said, or intimated, or transmitted...

'the light is yours, now'

& the rock began to morph back into my trusty easy chair...

when you looked at me, strangely - asking:

"what did you see out there, honey - in all that snow?”

* this snow won't rain on my parade of warm thoughts & feelings

no matter the height its drifts may be blown to

trying to cover closely-held truths deep beneath their surface.

should you be prone to scratch that insistent itch

of your imagination's insinuation & healthy fascination with my

digital paginations, know this:

any creation requires thought, preparation, after some initial inspiration

so despite an inkling to make it official, i'm thinking of a quite nice plan to bake

in a pan, a particular kind of cake, which when tasted, will elicit a rare chef's kiss;

reserved only for the finest things, favored by the finest lovers of life's golden rings

among others & no greater bliss than to duplicate the exhilaration savored after the first taste, but - in this case - the fine, labored chains of a love gone amiss