BrIz ART AND MUSIC

BRIZ POETRY

I WISH I WAS LIKE MY DOG JACK

I wish I was like my dog Jack,
Such a happy go lucky gent.
He often wanders but still comes back.
And returns much more content.

I sometimes wonder where he goes, 
What does he do, how does he know?
When dinner is served into his bowl,
Or when I need to be consoled.

I wonder if his big old head,
Is an embarrassment with all that’s said,
About its girth and melon size?
Is he sad behind those droopy eyes?

Does he worship me like I do him?
Or is he unconcerned?
Does he ever wonder where I’VE been?
Or is that something still to learn?

Does Jack smile when he dreams of the walks we take?
Or the ear rubs he receives.
Does he share those memories that we make?
Sitting underneath shade trees.

I’d like to think, he remembers them all.
The frisbees and the tennis balls,
I’d like to think, he does recall,
Lazing by the garden wall,
Days with just the two of us,
Spent deep in wooded glen.
Neither of us in a rush,
To turn back home again.

I hope that Jack may sometimes ponder, 
All the pleasures that we’ve known.
Out in the fields and over yonder, 
As we’ve bonded and both grown.

Even if he doesn’t, that’s quite alright with me
I’ll just assume it wasn’t, who Jack was meant to be.
But looking in those elder eyes 
And by the tilt of that big old head
I wouldn’t really be surprised, 
He agrees with all I’ve said.

ONCE YOU TAKE OFF YOU’RE POWERLESS

Once you take off, you’re powerless,
You’re at the mercy of the Gods.
Before you air you must first beware
And calculate the odds.

Sure, the winds may be in your favor,
Every time you leave the ground.
But before you soar, it’s your behavior and more
That lifts you up, then brings you back down.

Years of experience and training, 
Must first proceed each flight.
With winds that are sustaining
And a horizon well in sight.

Many prefer to stay rooted, 
Most secure, most safe, most sound. 
But me, I am better suited,
To take wing and flap around.

Playing it safe doesn’t inspire us, 
Or challenge us to explore.
It doesn’t push, task or require us,
To seek and search for more.

Yes, once you take off your powerless
You’re at the mercy of the Gods.
But to daringly take, one’s feet off the brakes                                           Will boldly meet….and beat the odds.

WAFTING

Something is being carried upon the air.
Feint at first,
Subtle.
Indescribable for its ambiguousness.
Just a hint.
I am troubled that recognition does not come easily.
I raise my head and sniff the air, as would a Labrador who roots out something odorous,
Only, my long ears do not blow backwards in the breeze,
And I do not possess canine acuity of sense.
Still, something is being carried upon the air
It is not the usual stuff of my morning walk.
Not the freshly condensed dew that evaporates into the air as I pass.
Not the stinging salt that swoops in with the current like the gull that swoops in for its morning repast.
Not even the bread, freshly baked at the pastry shop where I am off to for my daily nosh,
It’s certainly not the coffee that emanates, as well, from the same brightly colored open door,
Welcoming those with its vibrancy as if to say, “you cannot pass, without at least a gesture of yearning.”
But those are all agreeable scents,
This is something different.
Not something fetid,
But still unusual.
Much like the smell of fear before an unpleasant task.
If there is truly such a smell.
Much like the wokeness of a premonition that is not likely to bode well.
If again, that is a thing?
Something is being carried on the air.
Feint at first. 
Wafting.
What?
Gone now.
 

THE QUIET PLACE

The quiet place is where I tend to be,
Quite often now.
Seemingly.
A room not made of brick or mortar.
Nor ideology.
Not held in place to any quarter,
Not bound by pageantry.

Not found near wooded treetops, 
Or in the meadows where I pause.
To take respite from anguish,
To ponder what the cause.

The quiet place allows you flight,
To soar among the birds.
It does not know frustration,
Like a poet without words.
There is no mountain,
High enough.
There are no waters,
Deep enough.
The vastness of the universe,
Is, not even bleak enough.

When contemplating cherished thoughts,
Occasionally a glimpse.
Of youthful times and nursery rhymes
Seldom realized since.

The quiet place shows no favor.
Gives no nod,
To gent or raver.
Has no means,
By which to save her.
Has no pause, 
To stay or labor.
Takes no sides, 
And shows no favor.

The quiet place is often brutal.
Attempts to blunt,
Are most times futile.

To think that one might try to steer,
A path by which one takes.
Will only show a way less clear,
With multitudinous mistakes.

This place of where I often go.
This room where sometimes I lay low.
The corner where I’ve space to grow.
I learn of things I did not know.
Where clothes are shed and I forgo,
The opulence of swank and show.
There is no reason, rhyme or flow,
But in the corner……
Willem Defoe?

Does my mind play tricks on me?
Is that truly Willem that I see?
Is Willem Defoe beckoning to me?
Is Willem Defoe, in here with me?

Then all at once he stands up straight, 
With his perfect hair,
And erratic gate.
I start to run,
But it’s too late.
Willem starts to pontificate.
He says, “kid, I’ve got something I need you to do.”
I say, “Willem, I’m not a kid, I’m older than you.”
“Never mind my friend, I’m sure that is true.” 
“But look here kid, I need something from you.”

“I’ve made some mistakes in recent years.”
“And now my accounts are in arrears.”
“It’s that damn bitcoin, as worthless as I feared”
I ask, “Willem……. how did you get in here?” But ignoring me he says, “I need to unload it”. 
“If only I knew where my accountants have stowed it.”

“I’m not a banker,” I tell my new best friend.
Then I ask, “How’d you get in here again?”
“Never mind, never mind,” he briskly shouts.
“Just show me the door so that I can get out.”
I gesture to a far spot on the wall.
And realize he doesn’t see it at all.

That’s because it’s not Willem D.
It’s not really Willem Defoe I see.
No, he’s not here hanging out with me.

The one that leaves through the invisible door
Will forever remain nameless.
But as he leaves I fall to the floor and shout 

“Willem, I thought you were brilliant in Shameless.”

And now in the quiet place, I seem to be.
A visitor less frequently.
I no longer possess the desire to go,
Anywhere,
With Willem Defoe.
 

A SOLITARY LIFE                                                                

I will never be lonely.

There are too many poems to be written, 
Songs to be sung,
Books to be read.
                                                                                      There are children to be hugged
So much music to be played and listened to.
So many miles of open water and shallow coves to be explored.
Hidden pockets of isolated mangrove creeks and diamond walkways where seabirds guard the entrances and squawk out warnings to the ancient reptiles that lay in wait.
There are lush tropical forests where waterfowl feed and take shelter from storms.

And oh, those storms.
Rolling in slowly, unnoticed.
Silent like the quiet, smooth tide they ride in on.
Rippling, lapping against the tenuously anchored boats in the cove,
Then quickly turned, crashing and tumbling to the shore.
A three-day blow.
The recently dampened, cooled air, gusting and raging
With fierce determination,
Around and into itself.
“Better tie down” shouts Bullynet Bill from a slip away.
“Aye that”

And now back inside.
The newly started paperback thriller on the bedside table is unexciting compared to the howling in the night, 
The violent rocking, the heaving, the groaning.
Old timbers shifting and retching from years of pounding seas and hurricane winds. Bells clanging and sails untethered and agitated.
Calling out as if Hades itself were beckoning to lay claim to all that is not overly secured.

And then:

Suddenly, still again.
The calm returns, 
As does the sun.
As do the gulls and herons,
Along with the neighbors checking for damage and debris.

The winds take much with them when they retreat, back from where they are born.
As if a thorough cleansing is needed…every so often.

I return to my solitary life once more.
But not lonely at all.
There are too many canvases to be touched with brush,  blank pages to be inked, photos to mug for and stories to be shared.
There are beaches and sandbars and jetties to be discovered. Oceans to be navigated and storms to be survived.

Hoist sail!
 

ON NIGHTS AS QUIET AS THIS

I think of you often my sweet love,
And of your tender kiss.
I pretend you’re lying next to me, 
On nights as quiet as this.

I imagine things are just the same,
And not of how you’re missed.
I dream our bodies are embraced,
On nights as quiet as this.

Fate is brutish and sometimes quick,
A rose in bloom too early picked,
A lovely candle, a burned down wick,
An awful joke, a cruel trick.

I think of you often my sweet love,
And how many times I have wished.
You will reach out with familiar touch,
On nights as quiet as this.
 

THE SITUATION I CURRENTLY FIND MYSELF IN

I thought I’d do something noble today
Like chess in the park, or a game of croquette
But a tumbler of ice, lime, tonic and gin
Is the situation I currently find myself in.

I leapt at the chance to early achieve,
And envisioned this day to be all I could be.
But a trifecta of horses; show, place and win,
Is the situation I currently find myself in.

A session of writing was planned for the morn,
A creative endeavor where ideas are formed.
But instead, first light filled with merry and whim,
Is the situation I currently find myself in.

Battalions of Calvary and brave gallant knights
As I ponder the novel, I’d next like to write.
But stumbling and bumbling, not sure where I’ve been,
Is the situation I currently find myself in.

I know I can salvage the late afternoon,
If I lock myself in and stay put in my room.
But a dose of debauchery, gluttony and sin,
Is the situation I currently find myself in.

There still is some hope as day turns to night,
Perhaps a novella or poem is in site,
But red lights behind me and the sirens loud din,
Is the situation I currently find myself in.

High hopes and accomplishments were my plan all along,
To start a new chapter or to write a new song.
But  nothing on paper or thought to begin,

Is the situation I currently find myself in.
 

AND GENTLY ROCKING

There is a warm breeze blowing wistfully offshore, 
I am on turquoise water,
And gently rocking.

This little blue skiff is but a moment in the magnificence of the sea,
I am all alone,
And gently rocking.

I linger at the place where I most find solace,
I am thinking of you,
And gently rocking.
 

A CLOUD POEM

Tonight, clouds hang loftily in the evening sky.
There is a constant breeze below,
But above a stillness that shows,
Much like a Charles Harold Davis painting.
Eerily, there is no movement, 
There is no change, In color or texture, 
Or dimension or size.
But oddly there is.
I am.
I know I am, 
I feel the breeze against my face,
I feel the tide lap against the shore where I stand.
But above,
Their course is imperceptible.
It seems these specters wait for me, and watch, as if,
I am somehow more interesting than they.
What hides behind those vaporous silhouettes?
What deeds will be done after the final slivers of light fade, no longer peering through their apertures,
Is this my hour?
Are clouds what are come for me?
 

MY LIFE IS IN CONSTANT MOTION NOW

My life is in constant motion now, 
I live on a boat.
No, I live on the sea,
The boat is just temporary,
Much like me.

Swaying, rolling, side to side,
My body lulls with each new tide,
Continuous from stem to stern,
Weathered hard as waters churn.

My life is in constant motion now,
I am my own captain.
I cannot pause or reset,
There is no time left for regret
There are no do overs, there are no lets

Destined, fated, fettered, trim,
Not motivated by chance or whim,
I search horizons near and far,
With billowed sails and sturdy spar.

My life is in constant motion now.
The magnificence is not lost on me,
I am aware the sun sets soon,
The planks are set, the sails are hewn,
The course is clear and marked by rune.

For surely sweeping is my journey,
I seek calm waters, in no hurry,
And just like waters never rested, 
And just like vessels often tested.

My life is in constant motion now,
I am that boat,
Out on the sea.