May be the path has more leaves now
Than when we passed by the day before
Your mind is somewhere else since your friend left
You are not paying attention.
But you still return to the river to fish.
Category: river
Little Things
Walking to the river is my quotidian proclimation
A morning with flashes of sharp breeze and exaggerated cloud formations
A fugitive or a caged bird
Life, a quilt floating in time, fertile and vulnerable
Always lacking in certainty
Piecing parcels together fuels the effort
Ages I scale are experiences of different personalities
Each stage has its own expressions and demands:
Writing, cooking, doing laundry—little things, mundane and sacred
The progression, a knowing like I felt everything
Fishemen, artists, lactating mothers, even geniuses
Want to live a real life of home.
Monday morning rain
A glorious day
The length of day
The day is new, let’s wave and embrace morning
Watch the fronds unfurl from sleep
Sun’s salutation, the first definition.
You are awake, look for the spider
Hungry and watchful and subtle
Experimentations in few moments of being:
A hole on the fence to see a world
Wide, bright, and far reaching
Turning a page, empty, eager to be filled
Words, sketches, and bouncing minds.
And you think the day is short
Whistle
I am walking to the river.
Sometimes I whistle when I walk Inviting the breeze to come.
The birds whistle to each other.
They hide within the branches of the trees when it rain.
Their wings become heavy when wet.
Some places flood when it rains.
Places next to a river.
Houses along a river.
Even after repeated floods people don’t want leave.
Some mountains have frequent fires.
People who live there also don’t want to move to another plane.
Some people have perseverance.
They have courage to resist.
The cool breeze comes.
I continue my walk.
Sometimes I think of you. I wonder of what you are doing.
I will see you on Thursday.
note:Color my heart with cookies.
A moment of each day
Thud, thud, the thudding sound
of a luggage sliding Inside the car’s trunk,
a car driving fast the curves
that’s how my head spins
when I clean the sink of unfulfilled writing promises
I will try again
a new concept of a New Year
to tell a moment of each day
a gathered thought, an instant click of a camera
not a memorized notion of what a day should be,
maybe a spark of enchantment.
Will it make the day meaningful?
Or trivial?
But questions do not meant to be answered
only understood.
I will begin today.
Note: Like a mantra I walk to the river today. The day is spring-like low 60’s, blue sky, flowers and acacia trees are blooming.
The photos from my mobile phone capture the moment.
The Last Word
A word of praise
For a blandest day
Can catapult self confidence
Can you have souvenirs
Without going anywhere?
Dimples show when she smiles.
The rain comes in January
Do not put you fingers
In the opening of sea anemones.
Lots to remember
She layers them.
One can bleed to death.
On the death bed
The most common is regret
All the postponements.
In lost conversations
She finds the missing pieces
How the bridges are formed.
One can read the sadness
The hardship of reconciling the past
The last word can be God.
note: The day is sunny, cool, and pleasant with blue skies. I started the day joining the other volunteers to pick up trash on the bike trail and along the railroad tracks of the Wine Train to celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. About 2 hours later after I got home I walked to the river.
The day as it happens
My day starts late with a walk to the river
Counting the black birds on the tree
They come down to feed on feeders
Thrown by a woman on the sidewalk.
Our activity continues to the downtown
Where children and adults parade their lanterns,
Light attires, jellyfish lighted parasols, costumes.
Their route passes along where lgihted arts
Are projected on buildings complete with music and narrations.
We end the evening under the huge moon
As if it falls down from the sky
Which is what one child asks her mother about.
The Seeds
The seeds get strayed from the garden
Travel in miles of air
The petals fall like kisses
Or is it kisses like petals falling
Landing on your hair, shoulders and dreams
And I waking remember the fragrance
Of the place where you once walk.
I remember you telling me
Not to get anchored in dreams
“Shape your future in reality,” you said.
The egret standing on the riverbank
Remains like a statue
When a boat passes by
The egret looks at me
as if asking a question
Will a rose remains a rose
If no one looking?
The friendly egret
The sidewalk where I walk
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