She has a dimple when she smiles
disappears when she is sad
I stare at the absence
I admire the presence
The monsoon comes predictably at certain parts of the world
It cleanses. It drowns.
What shall I do with regrets?
How about the the somnambulists?
They read a book while walking
stumbling over gnarled roots and dislocated stones
They are like somnambulists who fell asleep in a library
They are friends with different temperaments
Books are their common bond.
The polite separation is a complete break
Noticeable absence doesn’t restrict
Not a relief but a freedom
I can walk to the country
Practice my photography of landscapes
I have been wanting to learn aperture priority.
I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone
Leave me a message
A pause from blind wine tasting
Then walking to an open amphitheater
Empty at the moment but with a promise
Live performance and an audience in two months
That’s how we look at time
Flowing, not always unbreakable, sometimes sidetracked
Returning back at the table, a new flight of wine
It’s harder to know the correct vintage and varietals
Noticing mixtures of tiny deviations
We are students of perfection eager
To extend the reach with misses and recoveries
Without showing true ignorance
We faintly know how to breakthrough
The boundaries and gain insights
To master the test of senses
A simple title of sommelier
Or it can be to master the erotic pantomime,
The courtship of the birds of paradise
We will all receive a slice of blueberry pie.
The clouds are mute, silent and still
I’m convalescing from superstitions
the force propels, distracts, destroys
notions of certainties
Finding three pennies while I’m walking
a trout for every cast
3 paragraphs to bring in the orbit
vignettes I place in a porcelain bowl.
They come unbidden like insomnia
and derail delicious daydreaming
I try to be consistent
We only fail when we try hard
innocent apprehension of work
like looking for remains of dinosaurs
We do not barge in with our eyes close
like dying with curiosity,
an idiosyncratic expression of pleasure.
note: I’m enjoying reading Moby Dick and Manhattan Beach. I also started reading The Art of the Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl.It’s a busy day. I finished reading the other books.
photo: Napa River
Weigh each word like gold
cobblestones and rutabaga
a poem is born
the fiddler gathers his fiddle and hat
random kindness from strangers
a sandwich and a drink
Dark clouds gather
Leaves start scattering
A dog barks, then another
Hurried steps on the walkway
Porch bright with lights
A door opens, closes
Audible voices of flash floods in a canyon
Like a cry, a scream
Like ripping of a dream.
A thousand steps to the library
A thousand steps to the river
How can my mind sit still?
Seize the day
A box of mushrooms,a bundle of asparagus
Today is Farmers Market day.
Will you camel ride with me in the desert?
Will you elephant ride with me in Thailand?
How can my mind sit still?
the art of swimming
between strokes and form
she arranges tiny leaves floating on the pool
a fan, mountain summits, aurora borealis