63 degrees, sunny, the tide is going upstream
Maybe
the scope of your vision is narrow,
the field is wide, memory may falter,
movement, persistence, diminishes
distance between remembering,
words will come in baskets
no barren day or empty life
even dreams have voices
do not cease
to take care of yourself
Rise, go, where nature lives.
Should I listen to others
who want to change me?
They have more imagination than me
I might have been influenced by some
but by persuasion, not by dictation
I listen, observe and decide on my own
Until she comes reciting her poetry like a song
I forget I have a pain in my ear, need a biopsy.
“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.
I walked to the river before noon. Mrs. Abstract was doing her aquatic exercises in a friend’s pool.
The day was sunny with a warm breeze. Other walkers were enjoying the day. The fishermen were patient. The boaters were in full colors.
Happy Independence Day.
May be it’s to answer a call or blind fate in finding something
You decide to hike the Appalachian Trail.
The trail is kind to the brave and humble
The pain and sweat and determination
Stay with every step in solidarity with others.
To reach the summit the climb becomes steeper
You have to grab handholds firmly
And pull yourself up with steady upper body strength
In the thin air your heart has to persevere
Your legs gather the steps almost like forever
You do not lose sight of your stamina and purpose
Till a shout of triumphal gratitude.
You are in your nineties now
Seldom mention the deep meaning of your accomplishment
You often smile when someone talks about hiking or a climb
You walk only two to three miles a day.
Questions when I was a freshman
One has to have affection for those who do sweat producing work
They grind their way
The results, decent and laudable
Worth of respect and smile
And who can say, they will not chase goats for a game or
not write a guide for the perplexed.
Can you be loyal and articulate to an attachment you revere?
My heart is as peaceful as the snow falling on top of the trees.
Ordinary Things
I will not need a hammer
to make a yogurt
I may need a loom
to weave a tapestry
To find lost civilizations
I have to dig hard and deep
The ordinariness of routines,
struggle and perseverance
The devoted hours of monks:
prayers, sleep, work
I will have to master my hands
may not need a trowel or shovel
to work my way through
to find a needle, diamond, or poem
hidden inside a haystack.
“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.
A time of windy days, of falling leaves
Trees of fertile, intricate roots, anchored
Rarely do we enter the woods
As if we are afraid bears or snakes may cross our path
Thursday afternoon or any day,
Any ordinary day, is a day of sauntering,
Luminous time of spending an afternoon
Without concern of looking backwards
Not to imagine but to experience kindness of time passing,
To experience ourselves vulnerable and alone sheltered in the woods,
I like to think distant birds return because of me, a selfish notion of enticement,
Dreams die not because of unimportance
Though lustrous, their solace is celebrated no more
If you are struggling just to survive, are you missing much of life?
I encounter the homeless and heard of refugees
They crowd the margins, tiptoeing the edge of the cliffs,
The deep sea below and jagged rocks.
Each morning they look for a clean place
to be alone.
Life of abundance, life of scarcity, life of loss
And the liminal spaces between
What are the life’s possibilities and questions?
Intense experiences challenge the boundaries.
Solirude. Tumult. Arrested time.
The book I’m reading, page 37, asks,
“What’s the measure of your worth?”
Priceless, I shouted.
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