I arrive
a village of vineyards and cobble stones
“a true connection beyond language”
But what are “quiet phases of life”?
Do people in the village possess any pretensions
or only know what’s true love?
I care when the East Coast is buried in snow.
I love you
I’m sorry I can bring only a pink opal.
note: Yo Yo Ma’s music for your heart:http://youtu.be/LtiIpIJ5J2Q
the river bends while you are not looking
birds return to their nests perched on the tallest trees
morning fog slowly blurs the mountain range
you remember since childhood
you may have difficulty finding your friend
she plays a guitar on the balcony
her house concealed near the river
when you hear her singing
you know you have arrived
to the voice of the familiar
you will understand the “torment of her heart’
why her desired artichoke-heart isolation
note: I cried for fictional characters. Do you cry for fictional characters? I laughed and cried while the reading the book, The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green.The characters lived their lives head on. A love story. At the end I cried more.
A few days ago I learned that my best friend will join the circle just like the fictional characters.
immersed in life
between the thumbs
the who and what
the fastest, where
accomplishing one goal
chasing the next
you lost the space
between breaths
the liminal space to hold
the sunset on your palms
one day, looking at the morning mist
you rubbed your eyes
you could not remember
the colors of roses, of camellias
afraid you also forgot
voices of your friends.
You have time
but do not wait too long
you may get stranded
by the receding tide
and too exhausted
to be frightened
You have time
to return to the roots of your narratives
to sip coffee, to listen
to the tribe’s ailments and pains
simply to be with friends
to drink and eat with friends
to share the hilarity
of oysters on a half-shell
or in silence, gaze together
at the mountain or the sea.
“Not what we have but what we enjoy constitutes abundance”.-Epicurus
The Substitute Teacher
The big tree fell on the school’s square
breaking benches and one statue.
The wind did not cease till dawn.
The students missed the shade.
They are waiting for the substitute teacher,
a reader with a sweet voice,
reading stories like a song.
She doesn’t want them
to draw gardens, bees, and butterflies,
or photosynthesis.
Think of matrices, play with curvatures
Observe an ant walk on a crumpled white paper,
Imagine a hen in a forest, she tells them.
“Throw colored water at one another.”
Where are the elephants decked with flowers, garlands
of pink and saffron, the street corners crowded with rickshaws,
aromatic “spice that comes from the stamen of crocuses”?
They are shadows of her moves,
Inflections of her voice:
mirrors and echoes
of a noble path she walks.
Before the end of one class
Everyone hears her says
“Don’t be afraid
of dragons.”
For one moment, she thinks
she sees a hesitation,
as if they see sparks,
tiny jets of flame,
before they grab
their backpacks.
from the pillars,
the bridge’s willingness
to bend
over the river
and allow light
from the sun
to spread underneath
the path where I
and others walk and bike
O, sunny day
but where is rain
to clean my soul
to return to the past
to retrieve what was once
discovered and enjoyed
~”oneing of love”
The little things
simple pleasures of ordinary things
peanut butter, Beethoven’s late quartets
moments as moments evolve
concepts not possessions
can make one happy
sweet moments of vibrant greens
cobalt blues, trees, giant
and slender, of Woldgate Woods,
sanctuary of affection
David Hockney painted,
drew “en plein air” changing seasons
“nicely phrased” on iPad videos, paintings
evolving slowly before my eyes
3 days before the exhibit closed
the little things, important little things
I love you, hug me tight.
(from the internet) photo: www.redtedart.com
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