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.

 

 

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the mountain’s affection for the sunflower field

radical, abstract, abundant

folding laundry, looking at each other’s eyes

Speak

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.

 

Kindness

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

Like kindness.

The Garden

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.

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.

Where

Can you inhibit uncertainty?

Have you notice myriad of butterflies or bees lately?

Perhaps not. Are you curious?

Flowers are blooming in the sun.

Where are they?

 

My Thursday

 

During the last few days I have been walking to the river early in the morning.The day is cool and I need only a light jacket. Today is one of those days.

The path to the river has newly planted bushes like the English laurel. They replaced wild palm trees that become diseased easily.

The regular fishermen have not arrived. There are two gentlemen on the riverbank who are enjoying a conversation and drinking coffee.

The front lawns of the houses along the street are well groomed and have a lot of flowers. I don’t know their names.

I stop often to look at the flowers and take photos. If the fishermen are around I usually talk to them. Very casual conversations. Nothing deep or esoteric.

My walk takes me about 60 minutes because I stop a lot. Sometimes I carry a book and sit on an empty bench to read. I write notes in my mobile phone.

I’m reading currently 3 books: Aristotle’s Way by Edith Hall, Love and St. Augustine by Hannah Arendt and Dancing on the Spider Web, a new novel by Sasha Paulsen, the feature editor of our local newspaper, the Napa Register.

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Between a trodden path and the street

A steep embankment

A solitary sunflower grows

Facing the eastern sky

Kindness alone.

What else do you need to survive?

Should I explain