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.
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.
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
the mountain’s affection for the sunflower field
radical, abstract, abundant
folding laundry, looking at each other’s eyes
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.
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.
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