He met a girl named An (Peace)

A girl named Peace

He nearly passed her by. But something inside his heart prompted him to turn back and went over to look at this flower. She is a tiny insignificant thing presenting herself alone in the cold. She is the only flower in sight. There is a flaw on the outside of the petals. He would have walked by without glancing back.

Yet he turned his head and looked and then walked back to her. He looks at her from another angle and takes some shots. He keeps taking until he finds a perfect angle. Then he walks home.

He has not come this way for 1825 days. This time he comes for a break from the snow land for the warmer weather. This morning he decides to walk. And then he sees her.

She is beautiful from one angle. So is a woman in the snow land. She appears in his scene awhile ago. He has captured a perfect shot of her in the camera of his heart and stored the precious glimpse of her soul in his treasure chest.

It is just a morning in November and they have only met for two months. Someone says it is her birthday and he asks her whether she wants a meal or a present. He merely asks casually out of polite goodwill. She replies that she wants neither. She says a breakfast will do and she will provide her own tea. He can provide a cookie.

A day before that morning he walks to the pharmacy and buys her a Disney Pooh’s card on enjoying the little things in life and be someone’s reason to smile. He then decides to make her a proper gift. He googles and finds a picture of her holding her beloved dog (who has reached his full age and died a year before she comes to this land) and pastes it on a piece of A4 paper. Then he finds and pastes on it a Rudyard Kipling’s poem on “The Power of a Dog”, using human friendship (with a dog) to illustrate the inevitable sadness of parting after an investment of sentiment.

On her birthday she brews Starbucks coffee and butters a croissant for him. They sit across the breakfast table (in a house shared among three housemates) and he gives her the present. He says, “Be prepared to cry.” She cries. He never asks her why. He knows why.

Then a stormy relationship attempts to develop and they both crash at the take off runway.

Like this flower he finds by the roadside now there is a taint which is so glaring in one angle. Yet like this same flower there is a great beauty in her that more than covers whatever taint she has.

I will remember you. He says to the corner of his heart where he keeps his treasure of pictures of momentary glimpses of beauty. Will you remember me? He asks in silence.

Does remembrance really matter? He tries to remember all the women who had tried to love him before. But he could not reciprocate their passion, unlike the playing cards which he handles so well. Which card is his heart, spade or heart or diamond? Then he remembers the lyrics of a song, That’s not the shape of my heart.

She gets very upset when he doesn’t say he loves her. She wants him to say it. But he can’t. It is a life and death issue involved and that’s why he cannot say it to any woman. Can she not see in the sadness in his eyes?

Somewhere someone says, there is no greater love than this, laying down your life for the one you love. No, he does not know the size of his love, if any, and certainly not to the extent of laying down his life for someone, he thinks. (How little does he know himself and this enigmatic woman An)

So here he is sauntering down a gentle sunny slope with a deck of new cards, and she, lost, two oceans away in the city of fog, biography and reminiscence and childhood dream, none laying down their lives for one another. In Ka’s dictionary, love means giving unconditionally without expectation , and even to the point of giving one’s life.

He walks home slowly and sighs, “This flower is beautiful to behold, but there is a distinct flaw. ” Still he has decided to keep the two pictures, to remind him of this sunny morning and his encounter with this flower. “I love you. Come home.” He whispers in his heart to the girl named Peace. (To be continued)

a girl named Peace 2

a haiku for a girl named Peace

coffee croissant shared

thug life mug handled with care

ignore or beware

“#Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge, #CFFC https://ceenphotography.com/2019/12/10/cees-fun-foto-challenge-vibrant-colors-3/

a nursing home blue and a poem

a nursing home blue

the call came

at uncalled-for time

waking in sweat

nightmare? you bet

no, a distant loved one’s quest

to rise from the stone-cold tiles

after a fall

no one recall

how and when and why

no one manages care

from thousands of ocean miles beyond

we come we dare

dear one you are not forlorn

loved one since recovered

what a scare!

Linked to Becky’s Polished blue

blue square and a poem: recalibrate and celebrate

See this window blue-shuttered silence

see the things that can be seen through a lens

but you cannot see the unseen

things like my lonesome way

sheltered in the coolness of the day

why look at the unseen you ask

the seen are temporary task

we tend to forget

and soon to regret

yet framed no longer behold

for i’m well and made whole

today i’ll break out and set sail

biding blue square farewell

o let’s recalibrate and celebrate

to great beyond ’tis well

@my best friend: the time for an old poet

leaf and life thought

The poet gazes afar as the two slowly walk,

Through a strait gate palm in palm they talk.

Now I am ninety-nine and you not younger dear,

Friend to friend, goodbye without fear.

Time to leave them all: sanctuary abode round the corner,

Old dreams of love and whimsy bliss that can not be

Reconciled with the ultimate Initiator and Sustainer of life

Artful tiled floors, Christmas tree, green attic, Jacuzzi in style, red waving palm, sunken secret garden, tinted glass canopies, white-washed walls, yellow brick steps and all.

Yes, we seem to have lived here all our lives,

Season to season, rain and draught, tears and laughter, colors and paleness, words and silence adrift as each decade drives.

I always liked to stay up all hours of the night,

Sitting alone by the green attic window star-gazing into the dim gentle light,

Crafting, designing, evaluating, fantasizing what mattered then,

A future of retreating retiring reviving resurrecting right.

Hearing perhaps a faint sobbing in your sleep,

Urging we must leave and sail across the vast blue deep.

Looking for a blue hope bird in springtime great beyond,

Never again shall we be contented with mere earthling’s song.

Hence in this poem I now give all to time,

To our new home the young country soon we come.

a dancing poet and a lass

a poet’s encounter

She never knew his actual age in an enigmatic bygone life

A somewhat suave soft-spoken man with poetry deep set in his eyes

Are you the poet? She asked when their eyes first locked

Seeing him standing out from the mundane lot

Why, his pupils like deep water reflecting hers

Why are you selfieing my eyes?

And what is that shinning in your palm?

Beg your pardon, lass, raising his right arm

Nothing in his open palm indeed

A magician that’s who you are, she exclaims

No, lass, you do not know who I am

Then tell me who you really are sir, she insists

No need, lass, you will know as you persist

Why, sir, why? She sees the gleaming hand again

I am looking for the poet they say who paints

His smiling eyes saddens shaking his head in pain

No, poets don’t paint, they dance

I am no poet but I too dance, she laughs

Show me your dance steps then and I’ll show you mine

Thus starts the story of two strangers, a poet and a lass who both love poetry and dance

O how they could dance

And soon both have palms that gleam and glow in the night sky

As beautiful words make their light formation on high

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

where the sky glues us

sky meets leaves
sky meets water
sky meets trees
sky meets people

Where the sky meets us

there is a quiet space

if you will just listen with your heart

you will find it not too hard

to love and not hate

to give what you lack

to resist

loathing

to desist

stifling

this super-bonding love

so thickly glues

us

just as the sky

so magnanimously

lavishly

glues

its

blue

on leaves on water on trees

on you and on me

where our lives meet, there is always time

“I haven’t written to you for a long time,” he scribbled in long hand, “it is not because I have forgotten our times. ” The letter came to a halt in the next white space, meant for paragraphs to be filled, stained with patches of water (something spilled?) mark. “It is Christmas Day and I think of you, standing under the tree outside my window, long hair blowing in the wind, with the kindest look in your smiling dark eyes, just as we first met.” Again, white empty spaces sprawled out where words could have spawned. “I pray you will soon read this friendly invitation and find time to meet your OLD spouse, waiting for love.”

On December 27 he received this —— She replied with a short poem/note below.

Where our lives shall meet

there is always time

icy springs to cross

sunny lanes to walk

yonder old hills for climber

a new river dam for fisher

neighboring wood to hunt

back yard red chili to plant

coops to mend

stocks to feed

glittering stars to behold

fluffy clouds for abode

two crystal glasses for us to clink

bountiful gleeful moments in the pink

mirths to laugh

tears to wipe

work to do

sweat a lot

chicken coop

duck pond

love

life

restored time

From me to you with old love.

This month’s photo challenge in square format from Becky#timesquare

December Squares -the time of a poet

December Squares -the time of a poet

A time to move on, Elin, he says, and they set sail to England.

The poet sighs as the two slowly walk,

Down a memory lane hand in hand they talk.

Now I am thirty-five and you not younger,

raising a farm family of a boy and two girls.

Tis time to sell all: Derry farm at New England,

this 30-acre farm with pasture land,

green fields, woodlands, orchard, gentle fall,

hen coops, livestock, apple and pear trees all.

Yes, we seem to have lived here all our lives,

Winter, spring, summer and fall foliage drives.

I always liked to sit up all hours of the night,

Sitting by a bush in broad sunlight,

Planning, crafting, formulating the star-splitter,

Going for water an old man’s winter night.

Bumping into two tramps in mud time,

Near stampede by lone gleeful cow flying in apple time.

Hearing a bird singing in its sleep,

Chirping we must leave and sail across the vast blue deep.

Looking for a sunset bird in winter,

Never again would birds’ song be the same or matter.

In a poem I could give all to time,

To England the old country here we come.

Note: I admit this is a rather primitive and ‘impromptu’ attempt made as I imagine how the poet Robert Frost had contemplated when he decided to leave New Hampshire and sail to England. The decision paid off. His poems were published and given recognition. He left America an unknown writer and returned to be hailed a leader of “the new era in American poetry”.  The discerning fans of the poet may note that the above attempt included some titles of the poet’s poems.

This months photo challenge in square format from Becky is #timesquare

December Squares -the time of a poet

a joyous ascent from joy to joy

reflection
a joyous ascent: Nehemiah 12:27-43

A joyous ascent
poetry alone cannot reveal: a poetic study on Nehemiah 12:27-43 our words and pictures and the light

Come
assist
celebrate
Priests singers musicians leaders people
Large choirs all
Ezra the writer for God leads
I follow

Joyous thanksgiving
with cymbals harps and lyres
ready singers all around
All to sing
rise to top
marching south and marching north
to water gate
to guard gate
congregate

At the Temple of our God
take your places
so do I
choir director to direct
play and sing
at full blast

For God has given
His people cause
great joy with many joyous gifts
families old and young women and children none left out
participate celebrate

Filled with pure joy
far and near
shore to shore
heart to heart
be blessed

another attempt: the windows are open

from where we stand, on this street, the windows are open

windows are open
blue screen: windows open

windows of opportunity
open daily
to hearts that tally
and not give up

patiently
perseveringly
waiting for the break

dawns always break
at the first ray of light

come alive
a call
so still and quiet
yet you hear it
high and wide

many years ago
he heard
and passed it by

now the call
again so faint yet vivid
come alive
at this first ray of light

the windows are open
from where you stand

where our lives meet: a poetic attempt in blue

there is a quiet space where our lives meet

window of quiet space

where we meet though not often
there is always space

where you rest your soul
and I rest mine
behind a pale blue glaze

quiet
does not mean tired
often it’s a triad
you and me and space

why blue?
you ask

a task?
a mask?

neither
hither and thither
though our souls may flutter
as two young turtledoves
prematurely caught
and set
on each side of an ancient blue vase

posing in a quiet space
one looks in while the other looks out

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

if the words won’t come to this river of waiting poems

river of waiting poem
a river of waiting poems

If I sit by this river of waiting
and you won’t come
while this whirlpool keeps churning
my heart turning buttery white
a catbird would whine
like last summer’s sigh
on a lonesome winsome night

“The shape of your heart” you murmured
one day looking at our sky
“fluffy white with tender blue stripes”
seeping your compliment I smiled

It is your poem I miss
and words won’t come
three moons adrift
with no mail in sight

So my sorrow would pine
for our lost midsummer’s ride

“Because I only write”*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* this last line is quoted from Anne Lee Tzu Pheng’s ‘Because I only write’)

a river of parting poems

second page restartSecuring a second page to restart
running this cold steel ruler to mark
a boundary, a demarcation so hard yet tender
in souls that had been torn asunder
cutting heart to heart

If you gaze enough
upward and beyond this gentle
starry night, you will see this river by which every poem must part
glistening as ever
blue as steel

another letter I shall not mail: a picture and a poem

Without the weekly-Photo-challenge some of us are feeling a bit lost regarding where to hang out and what to take a photo of. Admittedly many of us have lots of photos in our stock so we are not exactly all dry up and out of ideas. I have discovered that the world is not all that big and soon one traveler just runs out of a new place to go. Maybe I am just not motivated to move…(LOL) Of course I have the excuse that I have been busy with a practically round the clock project during the interval between the end of the daily/weekly prompt and now when I realize that my project is over and I do have an empty space in time into which I may slot a photo or two. Alas, the photo is just nowhere to be found.

So here I am looking at my old stocks. In my farewell post (weekly photo challenge “all times favorites) I inadvertently titled it “don’t look back, she says, I am not there.” A love story in suspense. Yet, here I am, looking back a bit. Maybe a picture and a poem to continue…a story.

20151129-17mile
2015 October

knowing
time
doesn’t ever glance backward
yet i stand here gazing forward
as if she may chime
a bell

no matter the distance
i shall keep my stance
in position
in case this station
will be called to mail

her call
i shall not refuse
or bid adieus

awakening old sweet love

awakening poemAwakening old man’s heart
old wife fills his cart
with sweet warm tart

a long day ahead
make sure my hat is on your head
she bids goodbye
peering through the steamy dye

he grins as he chats
how can he forget her hat
last April’s gift
of old wife’s art?

Surely Spring has come
but why has this snow made its home
and won’t let go?

old man steadies his hand
firms the rein
never mind
a long day must end
and soon I’ll leave this cold
and be home with sweet warm wife.

beloved, this day you shall not fly alone (updated)

new life2018-02-17

this day I shall not fly alone
with new hope and not forlorn

living
dreaming
planning
parting

leaving behind
my depressed mind

stepping ahead
as my spirit heard you said

do not fear
for I have wiped away your every tear
go forth
as I have come forth

behold
here is My heart
as always of old
ever
never
leave

beloved
you are loved
so deep

so Sweet
this day you will not fly alone

Note added: a famous Christian man who lived for 99 years and is known to perhaps millions in this world died on 21st February 2018 . This poem was written and posted on the 16th five days before that day while fasting for Lent.