more poems...

sleeplessness...

2012-01-16T08:46:00.021-05:00

protect [me] from harm:
your chant invades my room, day and night you intone
a single phrase echoes trying to lull me to sleep
sonority, discordance, tone upon tone,
I lie awake caught mid-air between sleep and wakefulness hour upon hour,
a brother replaces your intonation with changed tonal quality
but the message remains the same:
protect [him] from harm

bloginfo: 'protect from harm' was a government initiative of chanting for a week
blognote: a monk chanted 24/7 for the first three nights of my stay in yangon

breakfast conversation...

2012-01-16T08:43:00.002-05:00

welcoming us to myanmar...
our yangon host sits with us at breakfast table
over juicy fresh papaya...

she converses with us
ever so softly here at 'golden guest' easing
us into the new culture

spanning language barriers
dorcas brings us full circle; asking questions
while honoring non-politics

listening carefully to our needs
correcting those she can and offering solutions:
gentle welcome to a gentle culture...

blognote: see website of guest inn here
blognote: more pix here

another return...

2012-01-10T10:33:00.001-05:00

The breeze, a surprising chill,
danced across your grave.

A visit today, midday, the first
since my return from another continent
where your spirit followed me.

Back and forth, through space and time;
fall there arrived in rain,
spring here in sun and chill.

Sitting on your last resting place
remembering your madonna smile;
keeps me on my journeys
knowing that your presence senses mine
and mine yours.

Note:
Found this today while packing for Myanmar

HATE/LOVE

2011-12-29T11:43:00.002-05:00

HATE is a voiceless explosion

LOVE is a wave of a word

One reverberates off the object/person attacked

The other swims languidly from person to place

Happily HATE bounces off but the echo stays around while

LOVE swims round the room adhering to the object of its affection

Four powerful letters in each; one sound for

one emotion; so many resulting consequences

LOVE is my word of the day…

Hawaiian Music

2011-12-27T02:51:00.002-05:00

"Sweet Leilani"

'You are my paradise completed,

You are my dream come true!’

We played Hawaiian music all during that christmas season

as you lay in the intensive care unit of the hospital.

We didn’t know you were dying; the truth was never shared.

You were afraid of the images on the television and

so we played music, Hawaiian music, the music you loved.

That music is playing now.

You will always by my sweet Leilani!

December 26, 2011

2011-12-26T12:32:00.002-05:00

Is the world a better place this morning?

midnight christmas mass a memory, wrapped
presents opened, the roast beef carcass
awaiting leftover recipes, gifts to be returned,
the christ child a day old, the shepherds gone,
magi on their way, postal workers celebrating
their day off, treadmills filled with overweight
revelers, carols silenced on the car radio,
boxes of cookies sitting and waiting for a
neighbor to walk in and help us clean out,
departed loved ones are still in their graves,
ennui setting in for the week before we try
again to fill our empty lives with joy, waiting
for the new year’s eve party, the new year’s
gathering to reminisce about the past year,
make resolutions for a coming stretch before
we once again find ourselves in the throes of
a christmas season, could we not live the
season all year, give presents of love and joy
to family without a price tag for each, could we
not rejoice in the simple gift of life, by this time
next year some will be gone, maybe if we are
lucky a new birth, not the christ child, but the
progeny of a family heritage will be born, we
come and go in a pattern we can’t understand,
we grieve and mourn and rejoice all in the
same time, not knowing which will come next…

A better place or a different place? I don’t know!

Christmas 2011

2011-12-23T14:50:00.001-05:00

Alone again, alone forever

It seems forever now!

These seven years apart…

Thanksgiving 2006

2011-11-24T19:39:00.004-05:00

each year the table changes,

another soul goes missing;

yet we give thanks

gathering together to celebrate,

praying, eating and rejoicing

and we give thanks

beaches recede, ice caps melt,

innocent peoples die in vain;

yet we give thanks

a family reborn, reformulated,

new roles, new parts to play

and we give thanks

rain beats against the windows,

autumn chill attacks the room;

yet we give thanks

a turkey aroma floats overhead,

hours to prepare this meal

and we give thanks

where have our lovers gone

we question, oh so silently;

yet we give thanks

but we are complete here now

and for this instant happy

and we give thanks

bloginfo: I was handed this poem today to read as Grace for our Thanksgiving meal. I had forgotten I had written it.

you reached for me...

2011-10-28T14:08:00.004-04:00

you reached for me, arthritic hands, stretching across the bed
attempting to grasp my wrist, my hand, my arm
whatever you could manage to enfold in your tightly held fist
and then slowly your hand relaxed and softened

my wrist became your pillow, your solace and perhaps a lover
long gone; caresses bordering on sensuality in
adjusting my shirt cuff, my jacket sleeve, the ring on my finger
carefully, repeatedly, with rhythm all your own

sitting up in bed now, reaching for me with your other hand
I spoke softly to you telling you to sit back down
and then the cry, the keen, the wail that broke forth from your
throat went quickly out of the room for all to hear

hard touch, soft touch and then that sharp cry of wildness
first the grip, then the caress and then the call for
help or signal of distress; each cycle a different time span
repeated through the darkness of the morning light

cadaver, corpse

2011-06-29T14:38:00.003-04:00

cadaver, corpse, dead body bereft of spirit
cool to the touch, a soft umber tone to your waxen body
I feel the need to pause, to reminisce, stay
the room is still and quiet with distant nightly traffic sounds
cool air flows from above surrounding you
in your nakedness, what is left of you for all to see/perceive
to shroud you is my duty but so a privilege
for you did not know me, your stay was short, your death
a surprise to those who accompanied you
to a haven, they thought, an asylum of caring where you
might slowly pass away and let them grieve
but you called your time, mere hours after your arrival here
and now I slowly, carefully take hold of you
rolling you into your shroud, your white cocoon of death
in order that you be prepared for all to see
and grieve your passing and their loss for you chose to go

Hallucinations

2011-06-14T10:56:00.002-04:00

Hallucinations of a dying woman:

‘It’s a flower!
No, it’s a leaf, see the stem.
No, It’s a flower!’

‘Two, four, six, eight.
I’m dying.’
‘It’s a flower!’

Where are you in this scene?
I cannot understand
But listen to your cries,
Your struggle, your argument.
What is this flower
Or leaf you see.

I cannot separate the sides
of your argument:
A flower versus a leaf.

It could seem so trivial
but in your dying it is important
to find the answer.

Again, ‘It’s a flower.’
and ‘I’m dying!’ You need to know
the answer before you go.

questions to ponder...

2011-02-09T12:31:00.002-05:00

if you are erased from the present

does that mean you did not exist in the past

if the connection is severed

was there some bond that cannot be overcome

if we don’t speak of you at all

will there be no memories lurking to haunt us

if we don’t care about your being

were you really important to us back then

if one is afraid to even remember

what will happen when I pass away

will I then too disappear from this very family

I bring this poem back on the eve of your death six years ago......

wounded

2011-02-08T11:29:00.001-05:00

John O'Donahue, the Irish poet and philosopher, said: "There is a place in you where you have never been wounded, where there is still a sureness in you, where there is a seamlessness in you, and where there is a confidence and tranquility in you."

All you have to do is go and find it,
All you have to do is search for it,
So believe in the beauty of the idea
But I don’t believe that place exists.

I am still searching………………..

Thoughts on Dying/Death in Chuuk

2011-01-27T10:58:00.006-05:00

A white dove had been nailed to the door of the sixth grade classroom and its blood had dripped down to the sand. There were no students, no native teachers, no one except two scared American teachers. The dove was a sign that the people of Sapuk Village did not accept the new terms of student eligibility. Enrollment numbers had increased far more than was anticipated and the Education Department had just made a new ruling concerning maximum age/grade eligibility. So many students wanted to attend that the upper grades were over capacity. They were on strike and I was at a loss to remedy the problems myself.

I decided to return to the Moen District Office, back the way we had just come. As I left the main campus of the new school and turned onto the seaside path, I knew immediately that I was in trouble. The path, clear and passable just minutes ago, was crisscrossed with cut banana trees. These trees lay across the path as far as I could see. The saying that ‘self-preservation is man’s first instinct’ proved true. Not even thinking to turn around the safety of the school, I proceeded down the blocked road. My motorcycle at first easily jumped the cut trees. They were, however, strategically placed to make it near impossible to go at any ‘escapable’ rate of speed. Jumping and jumping my way to safety through the jungle, I was caught in an one-way escape route. The thing I most clearly remember is the silence that accompanied me through this flight. Rounding each corner I longed for the sight of a clear straight away. The next bend brought a new obstacle: rocks propelled from the jungle side across the road. To complicate matters, it started to rain.

The rocks were thrown without a sound. Music rushed through my head; an adventure movie in the making. But this was no dream, it was an attack on my life. I now seriously began to speed up and jump higher and higher to continue my journey back to the safety of numbers. A large rock hit the chain guard of the cycle and the engine temporarily skipped a beat or two. This caused me to fly up into the air losing my balance. In straightening my course, I saved my life as a rock flew directly across the path that I would have taken.

There were thoughts of dying; what would happen after my death? This was going to be a painful death. Would this be an instantaneous death or would I suffer greatly. Bleeding on a jungle path was not the way I thought I would die. But then I had never really thought about my death before. If death was imminent, I could accept that, but the process was the point that was going through my head. The process and the outcome: this must be the core debate. Why can we accept one and not the other?

Bleeding from my anklebone, rain soaked, in my disposable rain cape, I jumped the last banana tree barrier and found the home stretch. Fast and furious, I sped to the District Education office. This ordeal had taken only fifteen or so minutes but seemed an eternity. My arrival, bleeding and soaking wet, was met with quizzical looks

The next month it was time for my home leave after working on the island for two years. Everyone was sure I would not return. I did return after a summer to try to understand the frustration felt by the Sapuk people wanting the best for their youth but dealing with a bureaucratic system. Since that day I was called by many of the Chuukese: ‘he who the Sapukese tried to kill.’

Spring 1966

too much death...

2011-01-04T13:20:00.006-05:00

there is too much death in my life these days…

too many renditions of ‘amazing grace’

too much incense, too many incantations

too many lives condensed into obituaries

too much grief and far too many tears

too many good-byes or lost opportunities

too many memories flooding your mind

too many funerals and memorial services
too much time for musings on your mortality

there is too much death in my life these days!

in memoriam:

Marion Donovan 12/31/2010
Joseph Lugo 1/19/2011
George Collette 1/24/2011

End of Year Dream

2010-12-31T10:17:00.006-05:00

I meet a new friend or someone I knew in the past

A new house maybe in Spain in the countryside

He wants to show me through the house

We enter and proceed through a long hallway

Or linked rooms, going through doors

Some open and some closed; they open easily

The journey through the house becomes faster

And faster until I am running or skimming along

This is a very happy, exhilarating experience

It builds and builds, I say ‘this is just like an orgasm’

When we come to the end there is a small bedroom

It has a window with a view to a small garden

There is only a little furniture in the room

Next I need to go to the bathroom

But there are no facilities, a water storage barrel

Is outside and I use that and then we leave the house

We travel back the original path toward the road

Stepping around piles of varicolored dog feces

I am barefoot, but was I barefoot at the start?

I am not upset by my journey back, I wake up

blognote: my interpretation:

This is the perfect 'end of year' dream. The same life with new horizons, new openings and a new course of self exploration awaits. The future is exciting [an orgasm] while the past is odiferous [dog feces]. Even the end of the journey is picturesque [window to a garden]. Next year will wonderful!

bloginfo: Click Interpreting My Dream* for website info

Hallways: To see a hallway in your dream symbolizes self-exploration. It is the beginning of the path that you are taking in life. You are going through a transitional phase and journeying into the unknown. It also signals spiritual enlightenment, emotional growth, physical prowess, new opportunities and mental passages in your life.

Door: To dream that you are entering through a door signifies new opportunities that are presented before you. You are entering into a new stage in your life and moving from one level of consciousness to another. In particular, a door that opens to the outside, signifies your need to be more accessible to others, whereas a door that opens into the inside, denotes your desire for inner exploration and self-discovery.

Christmas 2002

2010-12-22T11:27:00.003-05:00

I f e a r w e l o v e e a c h o t h e r f a r t o o m u c h
s e t t i n g t h e s c e n e f o r f u t u r e l o s s
s a d d e n e d b y a t e n d e r n e s s i n y o u r t o u c h

o n e m u s t p a s s o n b e f o r e t h e o t h e r
t h u s b e i n g h e r e o r t h e r e b u t n o t t o g e t h e r
t h e r e a p l a c e I c a n n o t y e t e x p l a i n

t h i s p a s d e d e u x c a n n o t b e d a n c e d a l o n e
y o u n e e d m y b a l a n c e m y s u p p o r t
a n d I d o n e e d t h e l y r i c i s m o f y o u r g r a c e

a m o r n i n g 's r i t u a l s o f t a n d w a r m
w i t h i n t h e r e l a x e d h o u r s o f u n h u r r i e d d a y s
r e p l a c e s t h e f e v e r e d s e x o f y o u t h

m a n a n d w o m a n , h u s b a n d a n d w i f e
h a r d l y t h e r o m a n t i c f a n t a s y o f p u l p f i c t i o n
t o g e t h e r f o r s o m a n y y e a r s , a l i f e

w h i l e c h i l d h o o d m e m o r i e s m a k e m e w e e p
y o u r h a n d a c r o s s t h e p i l l o w e r a s e s
t h e e n c r o a c h i n g d e m o n s o f m y t r o u b l e d s l e e p

c r e a t e a s o l o , p r e p a r e t o d a n c e a l o n e
w i t h a m e m o r y o f o u r t w o b o d i e s
l i n k e d t o g e t h e r f o r s o m a n y y e a r s i n t u n e

b u t l e t 's s t a v e o f f t h e t h o u g h t s o f t i m e a p a r t
l i v e n o w a n d l o v e , r e j o i c e a n d s h a r e
f o r t o m o r r o w o n l y m e m o r i e s w i l l t a k e u s t h e r e

bloginfo: this is a reposting of the 2002 poem I wrote for Jean Elizabeth Thompson Foran
blognote: she passed away in February of 2005

an ode to uninflated inflatable christmas lawn decorations

2010-12-21T12:44:00.001-05:00

past piles of dried out leaves

awaiting curbside municipal pick up,

reminders of autumn splendor

blow across lanes of shoppers' traffic

front yards littered with dead elves

spills of plastic, deflated

waiting for a nighttime oxygen fix,

colorful blobs trying to breathe

splendor of the night, morning blight

these elves, santas and reindeer

describe the season in its plight, so

showy, bright and ultimately false

bloginfo: written in Miami several years ago

blognote: why don't they just keep the fan going during the day?

thoughts on kobashi...

2010-11-30T09:30:00.008-05:00

thoughts on the art of kobashi yasuhide...

…across the way, the divide,
I could have seen your loft had I known,
or understood, or cared in new york city

and now I begin to understand your genius,
the journey you took from far to near,
and back again...

…the plumbobs, so cool to touch,
lived nearby in chuuk,
in my friend’s house,
where I learnt of art and of artists

we played with those creamy ceramic orbs
reconstructing their view
as our daily emotions guided us to create…

…a lily-haired woman sat in the dark
in a drawer in aiea heights

and has now emerged to flaunt her beauty

along with her flower-haired sisters…

...totems, totems everywhere;
muted colors rampantly stacked
stark symbol upon symbol,
thought upon thought, texture overlying texture...

…a pipe sculpture contracts/expands at will,
our will, to conquer space;
contained yet reaching ever outward

and now it sits imprisoned in a lucite cube,
downtown honolulu awaiting its february escape…

...the ceramic pieces I knew not then
but do enjoy their place in your history

fashion comes as art-fashion wanes
but your outcomes will ever remain…

…and now my pride and joy,
the little man who peeks at me
in my cottage in a cooler clime

as his big brother sits upon this museum wall
reminding us of the duality of life…

…this museum display will soon be replaced
but memories of you, kobashi,
and aiea and chuuk remain for me…

bloginfo: This show was held in Hawai'i at the Honolulu Academy of Art in November, 2010
blognote: The pieces belong to a friend and I am familiar with so many of them as they hung in his home in the Pacific.

a presence... a form...

2010-11-29T21:28:00.003-05:00

I feel a presence, I see a form

who are you, are you who I think you are

sitting on the bed facing away from me

your back a black shadow three times now

why this visit now, why after so long

you come to be with me or haunt my days

whichever it may be, it frightens me

I do not welcome this being into my life,

not now, not ever for I have contained

my loss and do not wish to reconsider

your presence in my life as an embodiment

of your past life for here I am alone

in this new place, this new cottage abode;

there is no room for you here, so stay away

and I will visit you where you lie in repose

waiting for me beside you and I will come

when called but not before, this I do in love

and not hate but fear of what changes you

could cause in this my new, fulfilling life

blognote: This vision, apparition, was probably the result of reading The Blue Taxi by N. S. Köenings. Majid's widow Hayaam visits him in the same way I was visited.

2010-10-05T11:13:00.003-04:00

Last Train Home - Documentary Trailer

"Taste the bitterness first and the sweetness will follow."

we strive to do our best and yet

our actions may

seem selfish; we try to raise our

children to be

what they want to be and not a

fulfillment of

our dreams or examples of what

we could not

accomplish - so look gently on

the past

katonah museum

2010-08-12T18:18:00.005-04:00

don’t take this happiness away from me;

my core, my being, is aglow

the warmth overtakes any sorrow that I

may have hidden far below

a trip to cuba, but in new york, katonah

filled me with pride in what

I saw, experiences echoed from the year

before, artists unknown

but glimpses there of scenes akin to those

I have experienced before

and today accompanied by an accomplice

who understood the lore

that the reason for my happiness this eve

reflecting on the trip, the day,

the time together, alone, apart, a door to

my future; a time to explore

bloginfo: illustration is 'The Raft, 2000' by Armando Mariño from the exhibit: "Cuba Avant-Garde" at the Katonah Museum of Art

stand firm...

2010-08-09T17:16:00.001-04:00

I stand between two worlds of pain

past and present -

so please spare me that other one;

the looming future

for this is not the way to end this life

there will not, cannot be, a dreaded

disease hovering

in your veins; for this will shatter not

only me but them

and they need you now and ever will

stand firm, rejoice in what you have

and conquer it

if it is really there; why do they treat

us like children,

the doctors, these rulers of our fate

written for Theresa

shattered...

2010-07-24T14:57:00.001-04:00

the past splintered

crashing from an unavoidable tilt,

blue bowl shattered

across the floor in jagged pieces

interspersed with white

of two ancient chinese musicians

family heirlooms gone

but then that family is gone and

shattered also, not to

be regrouped ever again, so this

is why the accident was

accepted so coolly

and without any trace of emotion

[so rare for me]

therefore I muse that it was not

only expected but

desired, yet another trace of the

past destroyed;

all these three pieces will never

be replaced but then

neither will you or they return

happy anniversary...

2010-06-27T13:14:00.002-04:00

I gave away a piece of you today

but you’re not here, you don’t know

or do you?

that tablecloth from the Philippines

you loved so much, had to have

and brought home and never used

I gave it to the refugees, the Karen,

my people now in my everlasting

search for identity; they will use it

for their communion table downstairs

in their makeshift church where they

welcome me; not unlike my travels

abroad, always finding a community

I gave away a piece of you today

and I will visit your gravesite later

won’t I?

and let you know that, without your

permission, I gave a memory to

make a memory anew, but for you

bloginfo: Today is [not would be] our 52nd anniversary.

blognote: The Karen community worships in the same church in which we were married.

fathers' day

2010-06-20T19:14:00.003-04:00

call me by my first name now

your mother’s gone

she ran away; ‘intolerable cruelty’

the courts say but

when I read the notice in the paper

I didn’t understand;

locked in a bathroom, we both

didn’t understand

the noise, the shouts, crashing

dishes on the floor

father relentlessly trying to get in,

why am I with him

not her, who suffered afraid with

me on the floor;

so my life went on and I learned

to survive, a man’s

world, so hard to describe the

feelings of hurt

because I caused this divorce,

I thought so at

the time, all the time, living in

the city in a house

where there was love, a mother

figure but not a

mother even, a maiden aunt who

taught me all I

know today, so when I think of

fathers’ day it’s

of an old and irish aunt who is

the one I greet

but she is gone and he stayed

in my life, a changed

man, wed to another woman

and then he died,

I cried but didn’t weep for I never

learned why

or how it all happened and who

was the guilty

one; I guess not I but still I will

never understand

thoughts on london town...

2010-05-26T13:20:00.008-04:00

servility, civility, which is where?
lost in playful boyhood youth, they,
not aware of distances sought or
brought about by asymmetric hair;
then come hooded, veiled and distant
women creeping along, unnoticed,
no scents, no sense to what I see

my black and white, more paris bright
than london blight; look left not right
mind the step, the gap, from here to
there - confused in direction, I am
so create a neighborhood [out of fear]
don't stray, no tube today nor tube
yet but cabs and walking will suffice

little jack horner sat on the corner of
tottenham court and bayley with a
café latte writing his tourist rants for
two pounds, twenty-five pence comes
a proud piece of urban real estate
passers-by bypass me hoping not to
appear in this my commedia dell'arte

japanese spoken on one side, chinese
on the other here in leicester square,
elephants guard each approach far from
the cows of west hartford green
'oh, the things I've seen' a quote not of
shakespeare, I fear, too trite but ringed
with triteness in tourist treasure square

I dare to judge, to form an opinion I
will soon erase, eta jfk, back to some
square sense of dotagic reality, mine,
and soon to habana vieja where once
again I write...........but never change
for change necessitates thought and
I can no longer reason my existence

Prokofiev c1960

2010-05-12T14:58:00.003-04:00

Romeo and Juliet, I choreographed that one [or tried]

Hours spent devising moves from a limited dance vocabulary

But I danced the other one...first the hunter, then the wolf

Never the lover, the brazen youth, but the comic, animistic anti-hero

And now in my mental curriculum vitae I mix them up.

But I danced all Prokofiev in my mind; I did so, didn't I!

COLLINS 5330 BLK

2010-05-08T16:01:00.002-04:00

alone I sat or so I thought...
prisoners disturbed my peace, my rest,
cleaning up the little park,
a bit of solace here on the waterfront

a grackle strutted by, a sparrow stared,
a toy pomeranian sniffed my leg,
her partner, a miniature also,
shrieked his haughty bark protecting,
establishing urban territory

the prisoners left the park 'detrashed'
driven off in a city van back
to where they have no solace, no rest
and I am alone again I think...

bloginfo: This is the little park where I go for a break from the restaurant.

bread pudding... [revisited]

2010-05-01T09:25:00.005-04:00

so goes my table grace:
'for companionship in a world of loneliness,
we give thanks'

bread pudding with caramel sauce
a solid sweet mass; sticky softness overflows the top
a gentle conversation tableside
dessert not the only joy at luncheon here today at home
a new home, yet to be two years,
a hidden perk, a benefit, a joy to aging:
companionship

blognote: Published in the CVOC 'Village Views,' Vol. 7.5 May 2010

disbelief...

2010-04-03T17:24:00.006-04:00

‘Faith requires a willing suspension of disbelief.

But that is a different thing from the suspension of reason.’

a resurrection, crucifixion, a mental condition

of religiosity

whereby I flounder in my burgeoning distaste

for organized

religion or disorganized religious thought, that

undermines

and underlies tomorrow’s Easter sermonizing;

so bedecked

they come, their biannual visit to be seen and

noticed, so

that we might think them engaged, involved in

matters of

the passion of Easter-tide, but who am I that

judges others

and cannot even, myself, suspend disbelief in

the presence

of a god that sent a son to supposedly die for

me!

bloginfo: Above quote from Jon Meacham’s review of ‘Thine is the Kingdom’ by Diarmaid MacCulloch in the April 4, 2010 New York Times Book Review

for the record...

2010-02-24T17:25:00.001-05:00

where is my record?

the telling of my life,

will it be found in the obit that no one really reads?

how can I be sure

to leave a legacy for others to see and understand

my days of grief over;

the remembering days

are here and now, to recall the there and then that

came before, journeys

to distant lands, recounting tales of island adventure

relate a story, tell the

epic beginning to the

creation of a new persona, the meaning of who I am

today so now even I

understand the why of who I am; the meaning of me

bloginfo: after “The Bang & Whimper and the Boom” from ‘Apparition and Late Fictions’ by Thomas Lynch and quoted here:

'The facts of life and death remain the same. We live and die, we love and grieve, we breed and disappear. And between those existential gravities, we search for meaning, save our memories, leave a record for those who will remember us.'

blognote: reviewed in New York Times on 2/21/2010 by William Giraldi

bread pudding...

2010-02-11T15:56:00.005-05:00

so goes my new table grace:
'for food in a world of hunger,

‘for companionship in a world of loneliness,
'for peace in an age of violence; we give thanks'

bread pudding with caramel sauce

a solid sweet mass; sticky sweetness overflows the top

a gentle conversation tableside

dessert not the only joy at luncheon here today at home

a new home, yet to be two years

a hidden perk, a benefit, a joy to aging: companionship

in memoriam

2010-02-10T06:07:00.002-05:00

time passes, time flies, time soars and then dies

and so do we...

JEAN ELIZABETH THOMPSON

3.16.1937 - 2.10.2005

'Leave me to mourn,

Oh, let me be!

I cannot mourn for you,

Nor you for me'.

[written July 2005]

bloginfo: This picture was taken on April 17, 2003 at the home of Roger and Masako Bellinger in Aiea Heights, Hawaii.

kyotomem...

2010-01-17T15:44:00.025-05:00

walking sheletered streets

cobblestoned underfoot

leaves piled artistically to

the side…steep pathways

to ancient bowered shrines

where prayer papers fluttered

in a cool transparent breeze

iced green tea in cool glasses

offered in a rough art gallery

where yamada-san reigned

measuring art in some cubic

centimeter price so foreigners

could export calligraphic messages

to innocent audiences afar

futon arranged on a tatami

floor where the children slept

after luxuriating in chin deep water

bathing/swimming/playing in a

ryokan bath oblivious to their

cultural heritage knowing only

the warmth of water on naked skin

a mountain top refuge with meat

grilling on a yakiniku, vegetables

charred and aromatic waiting for

four gaijin to enjoy… the dusk air

with koi pond view and caretakers’

cottage hidden in a swirling mist
of fog…kyoto…contented…memories

bloginfo: kyoto.memories.1966
blognote: pictures taken at cottage #2, CVOC, Cromwell, CT

traveling alone...

2010-01-02T16:40:00.002-05:00

"There's nothing like traveling alone to call the past up close.
In isolation, the mind teems with the absent, the gone and the long gone".

I agonize over this quote but it does not birth a poem!

bloginfo: Quote from 'Colors' by Kevin Oderman
published in Green Mountain Review; Vol. XXII, No. 1

blognote: The above I did find true on my November trip to Paris.

the emptiness of joy...

2009-12-20T20:27:00.007-05:00

is it the joy of emptiness or the emptiness

of joy that conquers and reconquers me?

five years ago last night, the first part of

a two month wait in intensive care units,
entering the sad twilight of your death,

to be the mystery, the unsolved infected

soul, a body slowly eroding, limbs becoming

calcified and stiff – a holiday season spent

mourning or premourning your lack of breath

when machines took over and did the laboring

for you but then they said you failed the test,

the test of breathing on your own – I remember

the fear in your eyes: no television images to

frighten you, no stuffed animal to come alive,

no music and then no touch without latex to

interfere – you refused visitors except us three

causing strife within the family, but to avail,

we, or really only I, became your guard, your

sentinel, keeping out those who would come

and see you fail, vanity they called it, but I

knew the reason – you feared pity for you were

so strong and rare and private, mostly private,

and then we waited and waited for your demise

and only after I recognized the death head’s

hovering over your bed and your dementia so

crushing a blow to me, your life finally drained

away – a last breath exhaled out the window

from a hospice bed while you focused on a spot

in space, or heaven as some call it, and died

fly away...

2009-12-17T08:13:00.002-05:00

many grackles feeding on the lawn

saw me in the window and flew away

a ‘group’ of grackles, black and shiny,

finding bits to eat on this cold morning

and flying away to warmer climes I hope

as I would do if had the chance to fly away

not remembering...

2009-12-12T19:23:00.003-05:00