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
Sometimes you try to retrieve
from the rooms waning summer holidays of memory
harvest, dancing, night serenades
love grows with each song.
Today, autumn starts
crisp air, sun drenched multiple colored leaves
She has to remember again
the many ways to wear her pashmina.
Don’t be an island
No matter how pretty
How are you?
a halo of black curly hair
and your distracted face.
What else should I do?
Travel, maybe. Sit next to a waterfall.
Words are falling. I’m trying
To catch the mist, the water
Bursting with colors. Reflecting
On what it means, not to dwell on regrets.
Like birds that live in cages.
They don’t fly away.
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.