Meaning of play

I’m sorry I have not posted for the last 5 days.

I spent my time on chess

Playing by email against 4 opponents

of two games each

I lost track of time

hours of concentration

It’s not surprising I forget

parts of the day or meals

What should a bird do

when flying over colorful meadows?

Discordant

The birds flew south

Walking in the forest

I heard silence

With echoes of sadness

After you left

The books remained unread

Arranged on top of each other

In alphabets of absence

Some words are missing

In discordant conversations

The strings were adjusted

I was able to sleep

After a very long wait.

A month ago.

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What Will Happen

What Will Happen

What’s like to be stranded in a place surrounded

By foreign language and echoes of history

Will fear envelope you? Maybe not.

Will you be like a child, free

To roam with pocketful of whims?

A universal mind, a child with no habits

With a dimension of willingness

To try, to listen, to ask questions:

How do you say hello, good morning

What ‘s your name? I’m hungry.

Gestures lead conversation and laughter

What will happen?

Complicated things will become simplified

Pull a string, turn a knob, a story will open

In ruins or splendor, devoid of boredom,new

A genius of a child,

Poor or rich, afraid or fearless

Forever curious, sometimes naughty.

 

One voice rises

Above all the mingling of street voices:

Sunset is coming.

Come, share our table

Simply feel at home, my friend.

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If Birds Can Talk

If birds can talk

Like on my other days

I perched that morning

On a flowering fennel along the river.

I saw you coming towards me, holding

In your left hand a walking stick,

A camera in your right hand

I waited for you to get close

Close enough to take my picture

Before I flew away.

Like on your many other days

You might not notice or remember

The little things, good things

You could do

For others.

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Simple gestures

In a simple gesture lightning stirs my imagination

Inhabiting my days with rich territories of things to see

And what will I imagine

Like a refrain of raindrops

I wipe my face dry for only a moment

Violent storms come more often

A landscape of astonishment

You follow the floods and shrieking winds

With a camera, a pen and fear

You don’t withdraw

Pursuit is a new form of courage

As an adult I can select certain things

I can eat river-bank-foraged yellow sorrel  flowers and wild fennel

There along the sidewalks and river banks 

You can forage nutritious weeds

For your table and elevate your taste.

And a promise you will do it againl

The Path

“We just arrived,” say the fishermen

“It’s a Siberian huskie,” he says.

“They become cold easily,” she says

Both dogs are wearing colorful sweaters.

Day’s radiance lifts my feet

I meet them in my walk 

The same path every morning whenever I can

As if I’m trying remember each column of trees,

Their abundant leaves and shades.

 

I often think of Camino de Compostela.

I hold with interest Appalachian Trail.

I hear the sounds of hot air balloons overhead

I better get going

Thoughts can escape

I can’t separate appearances and their contents

The dogs, fishermen, river and its tides

One doesn’t have to wonder where poems come from. 

 

The walk brings life to life.

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Birds in flight

Last week Mrs. Abstract and I visited Gearhart, a small village next to Seaside, Oregon with some friends one of which was celebrating her 80th birthday. We occupied a house situated  on the bank of an estuary. Every morning I woke up early to glimpse the sunrise,  stayed all day watching the high tide comes to the estuary. In the afternoon we watched the sunset.

There were many birds that came ove to the shallow pond left by the tide. It was a relaxed five days with clear and temperate weather. We told stories while sipping wines and eating home cooked meals.

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