Lives of Others

An orphan she has 

Few stories to tell, few attachments

How could she show passion,

Or care for someone

But she knows where ripe plums are, 

Which mushrooms are edible

Where to find spring water, safe and crystal clear

How to be resourceful

Habit and prudence and street smart

She starts learning the constellations,

Learns how to be afraid and be calm

She looks at the flowering vines,

Sleeps like an owl and wakes up 

To her full height, realizes

Distances between trees, between her

And trees, her and others

She is a distance of her own.

Things she cherishes, go away

Teaches her gratitude.

Her beautiful eyes say, thank you.

note: The book I’m reading: Ten keys to Reality by Frank Wilczek.

I will have surgery on my right ear next week. The discomfort is tolerable at the present time.

Sometimes I have to take some analgesics.

Retreat

Sitting by a creek inside a forest

Your notebooks spread out

Over stones and ferns

Sounds of tiny waterfalls accompany your thoughts

The dimension of your existence opens before you

Oneness of spirit, wholeness one song.

On the porch, one day

Someone leaves a small heart-shape  wood carving,

Another day, a sketch of fiddleheads

Or a haiku

Kindness from unknown neighbors

Who will later introduced themselves

Retreat in the woods

Finding new friends threaded with similar

Attitude of solitariness

Learning how to be present

In the moment, to attend

Slowing of time

A time to feel and touch the earth again

With its ecstasy and pain.

Games We Play

I have to learn about cricket

A refrain I have to learn one day

The English game popular in many countries

Unlike planting and harvesting aubergine

And what one can accomplish with dyes is phenomenal

The colors are so vivid

Very easy to understand and compose

That’s how the process of learning got started

I have now a beginner’s knowledge

An individuality and growth

I am more sensible, like learning 

How to use the proper condiments in cooking

Knowledge comes in circles and one can chain them

Not exactly a necklace but can be a bracelet

Very appropriate to wear.

To amuse myself sometimes I create new words and definitions

That’s not allowed in cricket.

Somewhere an owl is sleeping

In a tree in a nearby mountain.

I can’t explain everything

Though may not thrill everyone

But nestled between them is the word, wonderful.

CHOICES

“Joy like a river in her soul”, words of a young boy

Sharing his mother’s state of being. 

A town nestled next to a river

How does one tear down and build anew?

River dredging begins Flood Control Master Plan.

Town awakens, sounds of bulldozers and cranes, 

People wearing helmets working

Design to demolish, preserve, develop, convert

Empty complexes, aging structures, dormant land 

Long deliberations in what the town needs:

Hotels, shops, restaurants, or something abstract

Community park in summer turns flood diversion space in winter.

Building a promenade on riverfront, 

Passageway along railroad tracks,

Connecting Vine Trail, continuity without impediments

Collaboration with artists and role of the arts,

A time for coffee and twisted cinnamon rolls.

One accent, the Passages, a segment of passageway 

Once a haven for graffiti’s passion and restlessness

Now a channel for artistic expressions,

Vivid, vibrant, living project

Come, look, linger, get involve.

Walking home I hum a Dave Brubeck’s tune

I prepare smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich, 

A bowl of peach yogurt and blackberries for lunch.

I take my time. I do not eat with haste.

Like town dreamers, like my friends

I, too, have choices and concerns

Should I join the frenzy of high technology

Pulsing reminders of “constantly possible productive moments”

Or walk with artists and pilgrims in shared humanity

Learn value of life, bear the task, persevere?

In my solitary walk, my mind can’t remain still

How will the young boy paint the river?

Let image follow imagination like spells of delight

Art’s idea whispers, shouts, bends then leaps to clarity

A journey of praise of what one truly loves.

In art and life, one will leave one day, the other stays.

I will write my praise.

Musings on Sunday After Christmas

Hide in a shelter of trees in the woods and listen to avian conversations, sweet songs and chatter

Serenades in chants of love songs, birds flirting, time phrases

Simultaneous displays of affection

When evening comes, lie down on the meadow to ease you muscle aches and back discomfort

Watch the stars appear ten by ten until you can’t count them anymore

Your brain nudges the hammock of neural synapses connecting lifelines of attention and comfort

The fragrance of grass, beauty of flower garlands open your senses to a new chemistry

The body is intelligent in an unknown way and know what to subtract and add in wholesome well being before you yourself knows what’s happening.

Open space embrace with soothing air and mountain views like a sanctuary as if nature is speaking to you. And understand emotionally what the birds are singing. The secret is not what you imagine but what you feel.

You know you will need tremendous courage to follow your own rules.

Some songs and calls are fading

The birds are facing extinction

Encroachment in their habitats or human neglect

The birds chant offers a sense of place and time and peace

We are losing the outdoors richness when our winged friends leave or die.

Don’t abandon the birds, they are helpless pretty creatures and friends

If you don’t answer your questions you have to find one who can. Don’t presume you are the first one to ask.

Vulnerability

The story, in the telling, sounds unreal like a dream,she is there,

She is telling it like it’s presently evolving,happening in real time,

not extracting it from memory

To rise again when all striving seems to have been all exhausted is a man of honor and courage. I can aspire to be that man who participates.

First let me wash the the dishes. Unclean sink does not promise a good dish. A hungry man does not mean he does not wants to eat a delicious dish. 

Brene Brown says “vulnerability is not a weakness “. Vulnerability is like a tire that has to pass all kinds of terrain to show real character, it’s resilience.

Mrs. Abstract and I and with two of our friends went to Spain last year. We visited Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.

Old Age

Where will they hide, the feral cats?

Cranes have ancient places to migrate to

With years added to years one thinks

Of these things like pointed pursuits.

 

One idea takes hold of another idea

Like rising pitch of a siren hurrying to a destination

Cranes know where to go

And where to return.

 

Dreams can be deep in the subconscious

Will functional imaging know?

Subconscious messages wanting explanations

Who will quote them?

 

Somewhere new light is emerging

The eagerness is hard to stop

Shortening years do not dwell on losses

Not in darkness but in new striving.

 

Life is to be mastered and celebrated

Life can be full to the end.

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