What’s life

The sound of whipping eggs
Energy mimics chaotic emotion
Of misplaced photographs
Critical point of dominance
Of contemporary thinking
And concepts emerge in avalanche.
You carry your imagination everywhere
Enduring the questions of survival
Writing stories in long hand
In the backyard full of bougainvillea
After driving through a dense traffic everyday.
Not a sweeping change
But a foray in symmetry in life
That is common and unnoticed.

Yesterday, the grill

Today the ashes from last night’s grilling
Of eggplant, chicken, and asparagus
Today is the gathering of heard stories from yesterday
Like remains of a town buried by rising ocean tide
I’m collecting them in a brown bag
They are read and being written.

I’ll try not to drop any portion on the ground
It’s not edible but may pollute the air
Shall I read it loud while gathering
Maybe the scattering will nudge late sleepers to rise,
Their existence acknowledge?

Both are bound to certain collections
A place for nourishment, for strangers.
I’m fascinated by possibilities,
They are concrete numbers, abstract in the mind.
They are bells to arouse a village
They create a sound, tuneless to melodious tune
How to find the thread through the eye of a needle.


ordinary things


The ordinary things that sing and comfort
The birds and my sandals
My morning walk expands my morning
Carrying a book and stopping
and sit on benches along the way
to read and maybe write a note or two
my feet and pages get along
like kindlings to start a fire.

My voice bounces in greetings
when I meet other walkers
their dogs running towards me
I walk and read and say hello
what other wonders do a day offers
to lift the spirits?

note: photo of the palm tree in front of the door of our condo.


The walking distance covered today
Is more than yesterday
The weight of creation
Is heavier every day
To bloom and to prune
Is an effort, work is always incomplete
You don’t have to apologize
You will finish it one day.

Why must I write

“There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple ‘I must,’ then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.”
-Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters To A Young Poet