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?

My Levels of Knowing

My Levels of Knowing

Fire, smoke and interruptions

Surround us

I found a pebble in my pocket

The entrance to the castle is open

My grandfather does not travel

He often takes me fishing

The guards sees us

We smile and walk forward

My friends are engaged in birdwatching

My grandmother sometimes  hides broken pieces in the closet

When are you returning

Inside the castle with its grandeur, we are lost like kittens

We can’t rise to the day’s heights or adapt to the hours

I accept the brevity of a flower,

I am getting older.

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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New in town

Sweet blackberries and burning woods in the fireplace

Are the last words in my journal

My backpack is beaten up and old

I’m in a new town

When is farmer’s market?

Which I have to find

I will meet the local people

Meld with their activities

I have to find someone soon

To fix the holes in my pockets

Before I’m flooded with losses

Which may not be able to count

I’m afraid I will be overwhelmed

But I will not be helpless.

 

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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Time in the woods

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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.