she dials her father’s telephone number
she creates a scene of surprise after his dinner hour
he will put down the glass of cognac,
pick up the phone and inquire,
who is calling, his voice full and familiar,
the tone changing when he hears
love fragments she’s whispering.
Does she forget that he passed away?
She remembers she loves him
time doesn’t matter
her phone call, her invisible happiness.
When you meet her, if you don’t know
what to say, hug her
the “power of kindness” is subtle
she will understand, your arms
holding her close, she will hear
the song your heart is singing.
She ties tiny bells
on the hawk’s legs
Who is there? asks Hamlet
She tries to grasp realm of hearing,
wings will unfold space of possibilities.
I will find my Shakespeare
I will say the words loud, sitting
or walking where I am, my soliloquy,
seeking solace in understanding.
She will walk the hawk
teach it to fly, measure the sky.
Where we are we will not know each other
our paths will not meet
our thoughts may connect in devotion
our separate works on life and fulfillments
learning about grief and triumph,
devastation,and how to be human.
note: I’m still reading H is for Hawk by Helen MacDonald. I just registered for an eCourse, Shakespeare in Community, through University of Wisconsin-Madison. Romeo & Juliet to start.
The first thirty miles are mountainous and tiring
the cyclists surprisingly are energetic and engaging
their next stop will be a monastery
where monks craft beer, impeccably good beer
afterwards they will disperse to different pathways
the secular and the holy are both calling
some will don the white robes
others will continue their naughty ways
still others will ride the wind and rain,
vagabonds of faith and restlessness.
create your sacred space
invite and share with others
tea or tai chi
I’m real, not a hybrid.
My spray paint.I’m sorry.
It’s show and tell at the flower shop.
Last Friday, The San Francisco opera cast rehearsed
the Magic Flute with the first graders transforming a boy
to a chirping bird, a girl to Queen of the Night.
The wind sways their way
like hands of hula dancers combing the air
the financiers without their horns and samurai
scan the waters, circles swirling above their heads
their benevolent hands pulling lines
to change the glitter of the baits
not to confuse but to lure the trout
they think they will catch and release
meditating the river of awareness.
Tomorrow you will return to the vineyard cave
the barrels of red are waiting
the day of blending, the day of metamorphosis.
You take hundreds of photographs
roses, orchids, rhododendrons
in bloom, after the rain,
mountains, rivers, forests
misty mornings, sunsets.
Are you gathering a basket
of experiences against forgetting?
Or a habit to fill space-time,
a habit against “nothingness”,
against the dreadful fog.
A glance unites feelings and intuition
your eyes see the wonders of life
harmoniously happening in front of you
seize the moment to click the camera
a “decisive moment” to freeze time-
“a hand offering a crumb of bread
to a sparrow on the kerbstone.”
A photo lives, we pass away.