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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 

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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.

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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.

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Our activity continues to the downtown

Where children and adults parade their lanterns,

Light attires, jellyfish lighted parasols, costumes. 

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Their route passes along where lgihted arts

Are projected on buildings complete with music and narrations.

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We end the evening under the huge moon

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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?

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The friendly egret

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The sidewalk where I walk

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