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Calamities, distant or vague

Bring tremors to the mind

Where do you want to be

When the sun goes down?

 

Can you be anywhere,

Ubiquitous like the sun?

But the mind though untrammeled

Can not occupy all spaces.

 

A fisherman bruised by absence of fish

Will pursue with ferocity

Any hints of trout presence

In whatever weather or distance.

 

He will not be deceived by color

Or pitch of whirling waters

Or exasperated by any sinking thought

The oars are focused, desire is steeled.

 

Does begin the intellectual incarnation

A reverence for beauty and truth

The universe forever expanding

I’m feverishly reaching for your hand.

 

Affection

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.

 

 

A moment before or a moment after

She has no troubles.

She has no troubled existence

She can’t immediately forget

She has many “for the first time”

she has not experienced yet.

The phrase ”for the first time” excites her.

How does it feel to sleep and wake in an ice palace?

She wants to spend the four seasons in different parts of the world.

She is almost seventy.

 

 

 

Three Men in a Boat

A constant

Then there is an ancient advice:

Have a “constant” everyday

even just a tiny ripple

a glance, a fold, a sliver, a tantrum

a constant of surprise 

everyday.

 

Don’t be an island

Don’t be an island

No matter how pretty

How are you?

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the mountain’s affection for the sunflower field

radical, abstract, abundant

folding laundry, looking at each other’s eyes

Birds flying

A day

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.