The past are things I do not know
The present are things I can not touch
The future is a cat in the act of jumping
“Deep in your soul you don’t want to be the last.”
I decide I will go south
To master something I have to comprehend it first
I will carry a camera with a simple admonition
“How can I make them blind to my presence?”
The fresh thought of wanting
The eagerness of eating an ice cream cone
Hastens arrival of summer
As if it can be done by magical gestures
I’m thinking of supernatural, the miraculous.
I will fold my hands
And sit still, in silence.
There are those extraordinary hours
When you feel the approach of the beautiful
The moments when imagination is at its sharpest
When you see only clarity
Awe can be incomprehensible.
The ice cream is melting
The buds remain buried under the snow
I’m running very fast to catch reality
And tie it down.
Where are you?
Length of Stay
There is no more boredom or uneven walk on the hiking trail
No more mere acorns and colored pebbles from the riverbed
A new day of catastrophe’s widening reach
Wearing a mask wherever one goes
Suspicion of catching the virus when traveling, talking with friends and strangers
Living in narrow corridors
A suffocating feeling, counting the hours
Waiting when the end come?
With fear of being left alone and contagious
Today I walk to the river
There is a pink breasted bird flying from one branch to another, from one tree to another tree
Tweeting and communicating in a high pitch bird talk
I see a fisherman attending to his line
The fish has not touched any of his baits
But living is not all about intensity and patience
Not all about uncertainties and business hours
Life is also about the every day simplicity: corn on the cob and opening an umbrella during the rain,
A good book, kind thoughts, and Beethoven
And kissing you goodnight.
Walking around the kitchen, dining room
She notices words on boxes, objects on the walls
On papers lying around the tables
She hears the sounds, sees images, juxtapositions
She remembers her mother
making wreaths out of corks
She arranges her own
Made of mushrooms and marshmallows, crackers and fruits
She remembers when her mother took her to an art museum
They saw Monet’s paintings of haystacks and water lilies
She remembers her mother
took her and toured a pineapple plantation
She imagines Monet painting
rows and rows of pineapples
How about rows and rows of olive trees
Will he get tired of them?
She wishes she can ask her mother
She will know.
The blossoming of what one solitary heart can attain
Each time one opens the window of dawn
The abundant praise that comes out
The ordinariness shaped since ancient time
A rhododenrdrone, mountain goats, waterfalls
All offered to be touched, uttered, experienced,
Makes one bolder to leave the shelter
Shyness can not remain hidden
The dialogue of senses climbing each step
To attain the summit of expressions
The confluence of thousand stars, a constellation
We are the new arrivals
The vastness seems to be always there
We think they will last forever
They are evanescent as we are
But we try as if leaving a hint
Of what we are.
Book notes: I’m currently reading, Underland by Robert Macfarlane.
I finished reading a long poem, A Part Song, by Denise Riley, about a grieving mother after losing her son. Also just finished a book, Time Lived, Without Its Flow, an essay on grief, also by Denise Riley.
Calamities, distant or vague
Bring tremors to the mind
Where do you want to be
When the sun goes down?
Can you be anywhere,
Ubiquitous like the sun?
But the mind though untrammeled
Can not occupy all spaces.
A fisherman bruised by absence of fish
Will pursue with ferocity
Any hints of trout presence
In whatever weather or distance.
He will not be deceived by color
Or pitch of whirling waters
Or exasperated by any sinking thought
The oars are focused, desire is steeled.
Does begin the intellectual incarnation
A reverence for beauty and truth
The universe forever expanding
I’m feverishly reaching for your hand.