Quietly your self worth diminishes
like salt on a pavement
your voice loses its tone, forgotten.
Who will remember you?
A shadow in a system.
You cry. New tide comes,
covers the muddy river bank.
The white egret returns.
You survive another day.
Note: Last week Mrs. Abstract and I and our two friends toured Andy Warhol’s art Exhibit at MOMA in San Francisco, California. Very interesting.
Books I’m currently reading: Moby Dick by Melville and Paris, 7 A.M. by Liza Wieland, a novel about a young Elizabeth Bishop.
Drink your poetry
spread your voice like a sunrise
a siren to wake slumbering streets and balconies
bringing new pitch, efforts, and emotions
getting lost in crowds, fiestas, and promenades
Speak. Be a poet
Be vibrant like bougainvillea in the backyards
flowers overflowiing over a concrete fence.
Sometimes we walk in a painted drama
Or a recited poetry
Not hurried or loud
Like a leaf falling on a stream
There are things we don’t understand like shuffling papers
Or how we fold an umbrella after the rain
And we smile
We continue our walk doing crossword puzzles inside our heads
That’s how we miss dogs sleeping under the tree
One of us steps on his tail.
Where can light hide if it wants to hide?
Changing our names is like moving away, hiding or flirting.
Our eyes catch the light
Showering over a leaf
Like a prayer
Light has no tail or face
But a field, of attractions
A woman rises at dawn
An undulating line with three points
above and before the line’s endpoint.
Abstract inside reality
Reality arising from the abstract
Crisscrossing lines and several daubs of blue and red
Circles ascending and descending.
She rises at dawn
Pick some apples from under the tree
Art is simplicity, simplicity is art
Mrs. Abstract and I just returned from holiday wine river cruise of the Duoro Valley in Portugal. Visited many places and sampled port wine in every excursions off the ship (or boat). We toured many gardens. We were always drinking wine with food.
El Greco’s masterpiece which is located at the Cathedral of Toledo, Spain.
Mrs. Abstract and I toured the cathedral yesterday. Lots of hard walking ascending and descending narrow, small-stone covered streets before arriving at the cathedral. 11,000 steps.
You come sweet little bird, greet
Us this morning, good tidings, a spirit
To light our souls, to see
The essence in every moment
Days when flowers bloom
Or nights when glasses are broken
When strength rises from suffering
When hope remains during uncertainties.
Walking to the river is my quotidian proclimation
A morning with flashes of sharp breeze and exaggerated cloud formations
A fugitive or a caged bird
Life, a quilt floating in time, fertile and vulnerable
Always lacking in certainty
Piecing parcels together fuels the effort
Ages I scale are experiences of different personalities
Each stage has its own expressions and demands:
Writing, cooking, doing laundry—little things, mundane and sacred
The progression, a knowing like I felt everything
Fishemen, artists, lactating mothers, even geniuses
Want to live a real life of home.
The riverfront’s asymmetry is not amenable to metaphor
Colors are changing the horizon rapidly
The manuscripts lay unread.