The birds and flowers

I tried to walk to the river everyday.I stpo a lot to write phrases that come in my head, take photos, or talk to people I meet.

Three walkers are ahead of me: One going towards the river and 2 are returning from the river.

A reflection from a tree catches my attention. A spider web.

Afterwards I start looking for the birds. I hear their calls and songs during my walk.

I pass by clusters of flowers.

A fisherman in a boat comes around.

I walk the same path home

and find early arrival of ghosts.

The day is cool but sunny. The colors are starting to change.

 

 

Share this:

Sometimes you try to retrieve

from the rooms waning summer holidays of memory

harvest, dancing, night serenades

love grows with each song.

Today, autumn starts

crisp air, sun drenched multiple colored leaves

She has to remember again

the many ways to wear her pashmina.

Birds flying

Sweet spirit

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.

Somewhere

The clouds flee

the dew hides

the sun reigns

Not a scratch in the sky

Like a voiceless bird

Will you offer praise?

Wait, there is a haziness,

A thin false disguise

A fire burns in a forest somewhere

 

 

Little Things

 

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.

Shower me with colors

A moment

A cat is attentive

she knows

the hidden birds

Wordless Sunday

 

Listening

Sometime I am blinded of what I know

Prevents me from listening

At the end of the tunnel, I hope, is another way

And in the ocean, after I hoist a sail

The wind will pick up

And carry me to a wider reality.

 

I start putting words in my pocket

The birds start picking and scatter them

Some fall on front yards, others on the river

Fish snatch the floating words

The fishermen jump with surprise

People come out of their doors and greet me 

I feel embarrassed, I answer with greetings

I’m thankful, their dogs like me

Tomorrow I will take a basketful of words to the Farmer’s Market 

I will sit next to the mushroom grower

She tells stories about creatures in the forest

I will be a good listener.