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Author Archives: jftoomey
Tazmania
Clutching cadaverous
for any protracted period of time
has a subtle way of seducing
an active mind
into fantasies…
of vigor
and return to robust health.
I’ll eat like an athlete
preparing for an Iron Man!
I’ll sprint like a cheetah
hurtling ‘cross the Serengeti plains!
I’ll train like a pugilist
pounding victory upon my chest
and hunt like a falcon
chasing the howling wind!
I’ll snore superciliously
like a lazing lion dreaming,
sleeping off’
a royal feast
and bask, like a languishing lauderdale lizard
thawing in the heat of a tropical sun.
To reunite with life with lust!
despite all good intentions,
these tall, concocted promises made
come seldom to fruition.
When imperceptibly,
the spirited cyclone catapults me
mindlessly,
back
Smack!
Square, into the middle
of a whirling shark’s soup
of busyness as usual.
Welcome,
to Tazmania!
waking from dreams
On occasion
I wake up not knowing where I am
I went on that trip again, to another planet
I think…
it’s the one dangling there
in the night sky
like a prismatic blue, crystal
window ornament
suspended, scintillating
the soft refracted light
of a flickering distant star,
where things flow flawlessly
one into another, organically, like jigsaw puzzle pieces
one moment, one thought, one whisper
…at a time
the one where I fly
like a thought without wings
over twinkling city skylines
and oceans vast with tall
salty waves’
metamorphosing haze
where I know every language
spoken
without a tongue to speak.
ears to listen, hands to write
eyes to read,
the one out there in here.
I don’t know where.
It’s the one like
a 20th Century Technicolor Fox film,
entertainment for sleeping,
story telling for the unconscious,
then I wake up.
slowly recognizing where I am
I reabsorb lessons
on how to navigate the impossible safety
of the shore,
by reading, what
I’m supposed to read
by writing, what
I’m supposed to write
by hearing, what
I’m supposed to hear
by speaking, what
I’m supposed to say
I take refuge.
in a cocoon-like compact,
feeling fortressed
by the freedom of its confinement
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Gemeinschaft
Ultimately,
it boils down
all
to the love
we share
in this infinitesimally
tiny pocket of time
together…
(High pitched screeeeeeeeeeching
scratchy halt…of black vinyl 45 RPM,
and
hallmark alert!)
But what about the hate and the fear? The confusion and the pain, the frustration, desperation, hopelessness and boredom? The pessimism, the envy, the cold indifference, petty jealousies and those rayless retaliations that seem surely to ensue? The over-stimulation, the heartache of betrayal, the disappointment for the dreams, despite the best of efforts, that simply don’t come true?
It seems not
so matter-of-factly,
to boil down
to any one particular thing at all
but rather,
to a simmering
Gemeinschaft,
of myriad universal opportunities
to learn, about ourselves
in the mirror of common human ground,
like a good hearty chicken,
rice and vegetable soup,
made with heaps and gobs of…
hmmmmm…?
Let’s suppose,
that it may, even likely
after all,
just be…
the simple sentimental truth,
that all of this…
living,
does somehow, miraculously
reduce
to the undeniable
bonding energy, of love
5:30 AM
Short of twenty
precious looming minutes
before the glowing, molten
orange daylight
bursts
upon a silvery twilit horizon,
beaming brilliant, sunny
mischievous morning cheer,
piercingly, raucously
pushing past
blackout shades and thick
burgundy velvet winter drapes,
onto this sacred, private moment
of lying
in the dark, in the silence
– breathing,
just breathing
before the peal of opening bells
and crushing pressure
to reach…
for starry fascinations of this busiest of minds
a slave, to checked boxes
Accomplishment
its own merciless trap,
pressure to produce
as though breathing the clean, crisp
autumn air
not nearly enough
to nourish this,
God’s masterpiece creation:
one man
Doing
and doing without pause
– uniquely American a cause,
of unchecked compulsion and capitalistic a sense of national duty
Kick! the bucket list far…
and out…
into the interstellar space of tranquility
beyond the moon
beyond the sun
beyond the Milky Way
To sit in solitude,
in peace,
without the merciless, imposing
squeeze of needing…
to experience everything
that strikes a mind’s fancy
Time for a vacation!
Homage to Walt W
Gradually I awaken
to the gratifying realization
that I’m as barmy
as the most
preposterous,
but thank God!
as precariously balanced
as the erudite teetering pundits,
who prescribe to us
what is sane
Leoni
chandlers
Beware!
of witty,
rapid-fire repartee
and self-satisfied, cheeky
cheshire grins and guff,
during negotiations of any ilk.
They serve but wittingly
to befuddle…
amused
incognizant sycophants.
Recognition
It’s happening more
– often now, in fact,
as I grow
in time
I recognize,
near effortlessly,
the universal nexus of conscious
loving-kindness
beyond the sculpture,
beyond the skin, beyond the chiseled muscle
within
the humid light and breath
of soulful
buoyant eyes
an embracing
piercing
electric force of tenderness
a corn flower gaze
of knowing
One
in another
Constant of Contentedness
Without knowing
the simple
puressence
of our being
we just might spend
an entire
addled lifetime,
believing
in a psychologicself,
– in the current
and changing
weather conditions:
partly cloudy,
with a likely chance of thunderstorms,
the one
who’s been trained …
– to react
bewildered,
by childhood events
the world’s conditioning,
by biochemistry’s
bumbling
flights of folly
The surest way
to know
the easy unrestraint
of purescent nature,
our perennially present
and essential
climatic constitution:
clear, 72 degrees
with bright, blue skies,
& a constant
of contentedness
is in silence…
in the meditative state
of communion
with things
otherwise,
unknowable
We Pine
the changing season
lures
a bustling return
to the great indoors
of popular
urban chophouses’
savory
succulent
fleshy fall
scents
of zesty
roasting autumn roots
of searing
peppery seasoned fowl
of sizzling
copious cuts
of cured tangy turf
calling salaciously
from wafting
open pores
of luminary masterchefs’
smoldering
kitchen doors
outside
lying
timorously
low
on the fledgling harvest horizon
the tepid
yellow
recoiling september sun
musters
all
its waning will
to embrace
condolingly
the biting
bitter breezes’ promise
of yet another
untrumpeted
insidious onset
of the grey season’s
lingering …
of icicles & north
easterly
piercing winds
in its best
of last ditch efforts
to clutch us closer
to the fire’s
radiant warmth
of summer’s
tender reliving
of silver stars
and August moons
of azure skies
and sandy dunes
of splashing seals
and soaring whales
of purple pastures
and wind-blown sails
of warm summer rains
and earth’s meaty scents
of greensugary-cut lawns,
friends’ laughter and laments
of dancing by the sea
and chocolate tans
of bursting blue
and pink hydrangeas
on the very same stem
of marauding burly bands
of wild turkeys’
pecking
at mornings’ humid
sweet and sour, high-bush
native
Truro blueberries
of fourteen-hour days
and a yellow-tail fox’s
gesturing gaze
in the reassuring glow
of a July
waxing moon’s
smiling,
knowing eyes
we pine
Musing Forward...Thoughts, Words by JF Toomey 