an apology

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

 

 

a search for solitude

she rises every morning
at no appointed time
misty, pearly white river
she will start playing her guitar
and sing the sad adagios
 
the past will rise in the mind
the romance, the travel,the breakup
she will sing the memory and absence 
she will  feel her body float 
like kalachuchi flowers in the breeze
 
the mist will lift its wings
she will hear from faraway, 
sounds of falling  water 
early light will gleam
on top of the tallest trees
 
the heart in search of a soul
the soul in search of a heart
the rain flows to the sea
harmony of present and past
serenity of the mountain top.

 

In search of solitude

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

 

eye of the unexpected

What is the natural surrounding of the mind?
Space surrounded by time
time surrounded by space
you’re  thinking if you should 
declare your love for her.
 
Don’t let your love wait
speak your heart, speak your love 
cars skid, airplanes fall,
bullets stray, “trains of snowstorms”,
you are at the eye of the unexpected.
Don’t leave your  love
undeclared, unfulfilled
frozen.
 
Inside the folds of “icy vortices”
deep cold comes swiftly
one will start to “fumble
and tumble and stumble”,
the mind gets jumbled,
“and mumble and grumble”.
 
One will start to shiver, “major shivering”
core temperature plummeting 
crossing the danger point
close to dying, death.
Hypothermia is cruel.
 

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.

 

 

things you are trying to remember

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.

 

Waiting

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.

 

 

love and other infinities

he 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.

 Image

(from the internet) photo: www.redtedart.com