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.

fullsizeoutput_134fb

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.

fullsizeoutput_134fd

Afterwards I start looking for the birds. I hear their calls and songs during my walk.

fullsizeoutput_13500

fullsizeoutput_13503

fullsizeoutput_13508

I pass by clusters of flowers.

fullsizeoutput_13513

fullsizeoutput_13514

A fisherman in a boat comes around.

fullsizeoutput_1351c

I walk the same path home

fullsizeoutput_13510

and find early arrival of ghosts.

fullsizeoutput_13515

The day is cool but sunny. The colors are starting to change.

IMG_0832

 

 

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.

DDC874BE-9F7E-404A-B503-60B2C3689112

 

 

 

A day

BFE0C04D-F5BF-4FE8-B39C-DC4BA0F6FBA7.jpeg

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.

389DC28F-D662-4A75-B8B9-E99AAE26B77E

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.

 

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.

fullsizeoutput_1308f 

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.C2218A67-1C3E-43EB-ADA8-3F33436A0BDA.jpeg