a quiet place where our minds meet -a poem

daily I wait

for your rustling footsteps climbing up the winding path of fallen leaves

by now you must have greeted all wayside gleefully waving daffodils

in size, by name, and of every distinct shade of gold

finding the ever changing doorway to reach our secret garden where our minds meet

for warm cups of freshly brew tea and genuine English muffins

in the tender coolness of many breezy afternoons

we whisper and converse and discourse words and sentences and pages and volumes

at times clashing tiny silver spoons and forks and minds

with frown brows, yet hearts at ease and all in good humour

knowing that this ad hoc assembly of words will be of transient consequence

as full stop daily we halt at the umpteenth semicolon (after we lose count) bidding goodbye and see you

(and remember tomorrow repeating rendezvous)

to this quiet place where our minds perchance meet.

kai 2022-06-24

Stine Writing’s Simply six Minutes: to stripe or not to stripe? That’s the question

to stripe or not to stripe

no one asks permission

concession or confusion

remains unanswered question

o how i envy the authentic zebra

running as free as wild as can be

and all they want to be

while i lament even as a cloistered being

see my eyes and you see all

?????????????????????????????

seeing is believing

seeing is revealing

seeing is deceiving

is there a heart in the eyes that cannot lie

genuine or fake the beholder may deem be

(running out of stripes to line up further so here i stop before the six minutes are up…) (sigh)

sound-mind notes 2022-02-25

Weekend Writing Prompt #244 – Cave: twelve boys a coach and a cave (2018 news)

12 boys one coach explored cave with zeal

cave water fast rising

until

Entrapped in 336 hours’ fearful ordeal

no way out but deeper down

still

friendship, endurance exulted triumph beyond chill

behold, all

unscathed.

wk 244 cave
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/01/15/weekend-writing-prompt-244-cave/

P/s: the poem is based on a true story of a football team of 12 boys and their young coach. They went to explore a cave on 23rd June 2018, intending to spend an hour there but were soon trapped inside by rising water due to heavy rainfall. They were trapped underground for two weeks instead. They were later found to be 1km below surface on a ledge surrounded by water. To reach the boys, divers were used. Total distance to reach the boys: 2950m (1500 on foot, 1450m diving). It was a major coordinated operation involving the locals and multinationals (naval seals, divers, medical, and supplies). Against many odds, the boys survived the ordeal.

2021-12-11 sound mind’s poem -the same rain for tears

Looking through the old photos and archives of my blog posts, here is a find of a poem named “cheeky rain” (12-11-2017). It tells of how the old and the new intermingling in a person’s mind, made of memories neatly categorized by the brain, often mixing up the occasions and meanings. Enjoy and have a mindful year end reunion with your loved ones.

the same rain from the heart to the mind

He wants to share the beautiful newly painted white Pearl-Glo wall
all ready for Christmas and the New Year toll
instead his phone chooses to display a mind
dropping rain drops on his file
why it’s not what I want to send to my love he cries
no it isn’t but this is far better, the phone replies
what, even rain drops on my window pane cliché?
long ago i saw a drama performed on stage called rain drops keep falling on my head
i didn’t understand why my ma sang in swimsuit with pa dressed in sailor uniform pouring buckets of cold water on her head. no, it’s mixed up with i’m singing in the rain with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. not that, you nit, she says, I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair. (South Pacific)
Whatever you say. he says. She says, rain rain go away.
Since I miss the moment of capturing the beautiful white glistening in the rain I just have to send this picture from a mysterious phone and say I love you rain don’t go today. Last word he says. Rain rain go away last word she says.

Note: (2021-12-11) Here is a haiku from the heart to go with the mind.

the same rain for tears,

wet on cheeks dripping with smears,

here, love, I am here.

mind-man, 2021-12-11

when two poets meet, lovers of books, & letters

poets, letters, books

A third way to dispel an unwanted feeling is to write a letter. No, not the digital one. Write on a piece of paper and then put it into an unaddressed envelope, seal it and put it into an empty shoe box in the filing cabinet where you keep your IRS returns and other similar kind. You may want to transcribe it into a digital/audio file, just in case you want to use it for the text of a poem or haiku in my case. But this is not my subject today, which is, what happens when two poets meet?

“When our lives meet

I can remember to be strong;” (** I took this at random from a poem of another favorite poet in not so many bygone years. )

The original poem is about a quiet place (like virtual) for two poets (my interpretation), a woman and a man, each with each own separate life/family. Each poet’s voice through their poems unintentionally resonates with that of the other.

Here is a visual: a woman poet in her above quote makes a stance to stand strong for the man on the common ground they share in their poetic ideals. In a way, it makes the poem alive. An elderly (born 1946) woman standing tall and firm waving her poetry work in her hand, to a man (born 1965) standing tall and firm waving his poetry book to her in turn across the vast ocean.

Some of the younger readers may wonder how that can be plausible, or even imaginable, seeing the vast difference in chronological gap? Possible and plausible. In a strange sublime and transcendental behavior, a poem, or rather a creative and unique arrangement of words with the intention to communicate a thought, a feeling, a picture, a sound, a story, or just the mere shape of the poetic formation of characters in visual, it somehow communicates to someone somewhere, especially to another poet.

You may want to call it a seamless connection.

Coming back to the beginning of this post, letters were mentioned as a third way out of the feeling of (fill in your adjectives). I happened to come across 84 Charing Cross Road (1987) movie clips and later listened to the audio book on a sleepless night, questioning the point of writing anything at all in this age. of uncertainty, including the question whether anyone reads anything at all for more than one minute or watch a video clip or listen to an audio recording for more than two minutes. I have not yet read any review of this book about an old book shop at the location where I used to roam, and hunt, to physically browse around, shoveling through the dust, and hopefully make a find of a rare gem of a book.

One of the thoughts that came to mind was what was the intention of the author? The content of the letters had to be restricted to books*, to find, to buy and to sell and deliver. The relationship between the two who penned the letters had to be confined to that between a customer of the bookshop and the employee of the bookshop. How can an author expect to sell her book on such contents? Amazing.

The two correspondents never met in persons. Across the oceans their letters shared their lives around books (papers). An outsider of the circle of book lovers would have imagined the relationship as thin as a sheet of paper, or a line of a poem in the case of the above two poets.

You too, may think so, because you prefer other kinds of books or the modern digital way feelings and thoughts are now communicated. But I know you are not here anyway to read this even if I send you a link.

Meanwhile, I salute fellow readers and enthusiasts for books and poetry and writing letters across oceans. I mean the real books (in paper) of course.

spirit-mind man 2021-11-11

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

*By the way, the list of 36 books mentioned in the letters can be found at this link: https://www.goodreads.com/list/show/137518.Books_Mentioned_in_84_Charing_Cross_Road

Note: Helene Hanff (April 15, 1916 – April 9, 1997) was an American writer born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She is best known as the author of the book 84, Charing Cross Road, which became the basis for a stage play, television play, and film of the same name.The epistolary work 84, Charing Cross Road was first published in 1970. It chronicles Hanff’s 20 years of correspondence with Frank Doel, the chief buyer for Marks & Co, a London bookshop. She depended on the bookshop—and on Doel—for the obscure classics and British literature titles that fueled her passion for self-education. (Wikipedia)

an audio reading of the above book : [https://youtu.be/UvGsJL8RbaQ]

**from a poem <a quiet space (for Kim Cheng)> by Anne Lee Tzu Pheng (Singapore). Boey Kim Cheng (Asian-Australian) is another poet. Both are renown award winners in their fields.

a poet’s two ways to dispel an unwanted feeling

on an Amtrak train

When we put our feelings in the boxes of perspective we feel safe. I just read some poems by a favorite poet in past gone years, and this is one stanza that I picked at random,

Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because —
because — I don’t know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep. (by Pablo Neruda [1914-1973] )

Feelings are really one of the least safe things in life. How to stop a feeling that disturbs and even hurts? There are two ways. One way is to write a poem, or in my case, write a haiku, short and terse. Then I put away my unwanted feeling into the 17 sounds/syllables. For example, here is my haiku based on the above stanza from the famous poet.

go not a day long

vacant stare waiting forlorn

train not arriving

Another way of stopping an unwanted feeling is to pack it into a box. Label the boxes into perspectives. A dictionary’s definition (not exhaustive) of perspective includes: A particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view. A picture drawn in perspective, especially one appearing to enlarge or extend the actual space, or to give the effect of distance.  A true understanding of the relative importance of things; a sense of proportion. You can name it whatever (just fill in the blank). And then put it aside.

Actually the key is “put it aside”. Can you do it?

Can I? Well, I have the haiku as a backup plan B. So one day if I find it real hard not to hear from you for a long long time, I may choose one of the two ways like a DIY dispenser of feeling numbing/removing fail-proof actions.

Past tales -revisit “where our lives meet, there is always time”

I first took part in Becky’s timesquare with this post, where our lives meet, there is always time posted on 12-27-2018. Looking at the pictures and the poem I realize how time has passed almost without notice. The story and poem (about an old love between a farmer and his old wife) faded like the deliberate fading effect of the pictures which were originally taken in 2015 in a homestay in a third world country.

The 2018 post was included in Becky#timesquare.

Here is an original picture in colors.

taken on 2015-04-05 in a bridal suite in a homestay in Cambodia

Becky’s past tales (2021-10-14)

Ronovan Writes #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge 364 TENDER and Who: a lament haiku

“tender is the night”

“who cares?” not so tenderly

she retorts point blank

……………

sensitive silence: a poem.

The silence of the sea. Random music musing. War=Wall between two humans.*

“How lucky you are to live by the sea. What I like most about the sea is its silence. I’m talking about what is hidden. What can be perceived underneath. One must learn to listen to it.”

I want to say something but I just cannot vocalize because it is too sensitive to talk about. Silence is a great wall. Sometimes some music can break through the wall. If only more have ears to hear. Pure music is always without words, without singing. It is a form of silence. The sound of silence. Yet it tells stories that touch the heart. If only more will write the kind of music of yesteryears. Music that can break through walls and wars, time and space. But we each hear a different beat. So there is no condemnation for any differences if need be. We are designed to be different.

Here are just my rambling phrases being strung together in the name of a poem:

<a random rambling poem>

hear the music in your ear

sounding soft and clear

enduring endearing until you shed a tear

will not bend under tyrannical smear and tear

only the strong heart can bear

to the very end

if land does end

yet hope does not despair

hark ahoy a land

ocean’s heart’s prepared

blue beyond

for all anchoring wayfaring sons

not forlorn

surely you’ll hear

a horn

friends or foes

come what may

all sailor men must bear that day

with one heart they do not fear

nor ever by dismayed

fogs will clear

wars will end

at land’s end

for all

adieu

Ka, 2021-05-03

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

*le silence de la mer: Bach 8th. Prelude & Fugue – Le Silence De La Mer (2004) [https://youtu.be/-FZhYsfyeTg] (movie excerpts)

[https://youtu.be/UqYAGUc4EmY] BWV853 WTC 1-08 Prelude & Fugue in eb & d# Rosalyn Tureck 1953 mono

Simply 6 Minutes—04/13/2021: a random birthday simply musing

not many enjoy birthday and I am one

yet it has to come and it is always done

a friend who is kind to bake a cake sends it by drone

landing so centered right on my newly laundered lawn

she rings and instructs me to remember the pond

making sure the weeds are pulled and the stagnant water drained

a party she says I must have and she is sending a crane

sure enough she means business to any horror known

worst of all come all the anonymous cons

birthday sir we all must come

seeing your great sign down the street says big welcome

what? a sign? who? when? how? It finally dawns

a friend kindheartedly put up so I won’t deny

another year another growing up another party mournful morn. (aftermath)

(134 words)

Ka, 2021-04-13 (my actual birthday)

https://christinebialczak.com/2021/04/13/simply-6-minutes-welcome-to-the-challenge-04-13-2021/

Simply 6 Minutes

Day Twelve: from Dareia to Ecotopia —a poem on time

kai’s photo at Monterey Museum

From Dareia or Dorothea

to Ecotopia or Dyson Sphere

story upon story the legend carves

on shimmering decorated glass windows of old

we view dimly through muse’s telescopic lens

not knowing how it began and will ever end

Ronovan Writes #Weekly #Haiku #Challenge 346 SLIP and Time. (acquaintance answers back)

re your wintry slip*

makes me laugh and makes me weep

tis time for goodbye

*slip=note

Note: this is the second part of my previous haiku (slip for an acquaintance)

Ronovan Writes #Weekly #Haiku #Challenge 346 SLIP and Time. (slip for an acquaintance)

giving her a slip

hoping she won’t call him creep

redeeming a time

a haiku and a prose for 2021-02-14

A Haiku

Because love hangs on

patiently adorns each hope

undaunted beyond

A Prose

He has no idea how she has felt after all these decades, 29 years in all. He once thought they would have a long long time together and be happy ever after. In real life their time does not work that way. Time is not exactly a master but it influences. Like the fashion influencer today in the digital virtual realm. It would take herculean efforts to conquer the insurmountable hurdles set in the race of time across oceans and mountains.

Unlike today’s generation, communication was costly then. They could hardly meet or even talk on the phone. He wrote a letter daily after a long day’s work and posted it the following morning through his office boy. She later told him that her postman only delivered a stack of outdated mail once in a while. He spent his daily travel allowance calling her long distance and burnt away cold cash just for a few minutes of hearing her voice. He can still recall the time after each call. He would walk to the bay beach outside his hotel, sat on a rock and watched the sunset. He would hope, as he scanned the distant horizon, to sight a seabird or two, often in vain. The city was one of the most developed in the world, and there was hardly any space or free sky left. The bay was beautiful but it was not a home for any wild creatures.

What was on his mind? He cannot remember now. Perhaps he was imagining that somehow a strong courageous sea bird had flown to her window, perched there in the warm sunshine, at the other end of the ocean, and now came to him with a touch of her fresh air, carrying a slice of her vibrant life for him in that cold, misty, gloomy city of the lonely. Yet, today he suddenly remembers a quote about a higher kind of love. “There is no justice in love, no proportion in it, and there need not be, because in any specific instance it is only a glimpse or parable of an embracing, incomprehensible reality. It makes no sense at all because it is the eternal breaking in on the temporal. So how could it subordinate itself to cause or consequence?”― Marilynne Robinson, Gilead.

All in all, he has no regret. Whatever they have spent together and held on in time for each other. Today is an ordinary Sunday. He stands in his garden and thinks of the time that he still has. The garden is fresh and sparkling in life after a Spring rain. Yes, Spring is here. And the day is February 14. So he decided to write this missive and like old time, post it by snail mail. She likes to hear the ring of the postman. He remembers.

Kainotes, 2021-02-14

an old poem on “The Power of the Dog”, a fresh haiku on “a lost friend”, and a news on a found golden retriever on a freezing Irish mountain

Many of us have a soft spot in our hearts for our pets, e.g. a dog. My family and I have kept dogs as companions for generations. Today I found this old poem about the power of a dog. I also sighted a random news about a golden retriever stranded on a freezing mountain for two weeks being rescued by two doctors finally. The two were were hiking  Lugnaquilla, a mountain in the Wicklow range, on Saturday, far away from their jobs on the front lines. Near the summit, they found the dog, 8-year-old Neesha, who’d fled from a family walk nearby two weeks prior. The retriever was so cold and weak that she could barely bark. The doctors put some clothes on her to stave off any remaining cold and then ended up carrying her back down the mountain—some 10 kilometers. 

“The Power of the Dog” a poem by Rudyard Kipling – 1865-1936

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it’s your own affair—
But… you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!).
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in—Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

A haiku by Kainotes, 2021-02-11 (on “a lost friend“)

in sorrow and grief

memories of time too brief

beyond retrieval

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

[https://www.irishmirror.ie/news/irish-news/video-dog-lost-two-weeks-23462662]

Ronovan Writes #Haiku #Challenge 342 ROUGH and Season: reflection of a lost winter

try to comprehend

coping with ROUGH time at hand

season’s loss remains

Weekend Sky #14: city above the clouds (a haiku)

weekend sky #14 January 9th

his daily routine

walking up this mountain clean

scanning sky beyond

Kainotes, 2020-01-09

https://hammadrais.wordpress.com/2021/01/09/weekend-sky-14-jan-9th/

Same as last year: farewell, goodbye, and a haiku, my friend,

Dougie MacLean

Same as last year. Goodbye and farewell, my friend. One day, if perchance, we shall meet, let’s pay for each other’s cup of kindness…and we will take a right goodwill draught, for old times sake. Just this once.

for Auld Lang Syne dear

I sing this cup of kindness

blue sea yonder clear

Dougie MacLean was awarded the 2009 Tartan Clef Award for his song Caledonia. In 2011, he was invested as an Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (OBE) by Queen Elizabeth, and in 2013 he was awarded the BBC Radio 2 Folk Award for Lifetime Achievement for Contribution to Songwriting.

Ronovan Writes #Weekly #Haiku Challenge 337 OPEN and Solace: holiday colors

holiday colors 20191212

open to solace

undaunted by snow and ice

colorful flawless

Rise above a storm (haiku Challenge 336 MAD and Sane)

Royal National Lifeboat Institution -founded in 1824 search and rescue

Sane and dignified

help us survive perfect storm

neither MAD nor fried

Haiku Challenge: The life and view of an old poet

a night window in November

framed in or framed out

emerged or submerged life dream

edging for a view

Haiku Challenge 332 EBB & Flow: the tide spills our soup

California coast

the tide spills our soup

rock and roll and ebb and flow

bowing to the floor

#KindaSquare: kinda focused (a man and his bird haiku)

a man and his pet bird in a sunny park

no ordinary

man and pet bird with red chest

catching their day’s rest

#KindaSquare: two of a kind (two stags haiku)

friendly visitors: two stags at the back yard

we stunt each other

new neighbor or intruder

neither ma’am we friends

Of its Kind

the perfect apathy

You remember and dwell on all the things you’ve lost and ignore all the things you haven’t. Because your scars are like stars. Yet the night stays perfectly black. —the perfect apathy (pleasefindthis Friday, August 7, 2009)

We could sing good songs about each other.

你仍记得,记忆留连在你失去的所有一切,却忽略了你仍然拥有的一切,因为你的伤痕就如同星辰,但夜晚却仍是如此完美的黑。(完美的冷漠)

我们其实可以为彼此唱出多么美好的歌呢

pleasefindthis (the pen name of Iain S. Thomas) is best known for the I Wrote This For You project, which he began in 2007 as a blog with photographer, Jon Ellis. The project was published as a book in December of 2011 and appears on bestseller lists weekly.
He lives in Cape Town, South Africa and shares his home with his wife, daughter and various animals.

while the sea remains as calm as the vast night veil

San Francisco

“The Winter comes too early to my heart”
Amidst falling leaves the geese fly south
over water chilled by a cold wind north
my distant home is up this river bend
in the Chu mountain’s cloud it hides
as my journey ends some tears are shed
Folks at home are yearning for this lone horizon sail
for I seem to have lost my way, my quest
while the sea remains as calm as the vast night veil

sound mind journal

new-horizonNew Horizon Of course this horizon is familiar to many. It is at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I took this picture outside looking at the blue beyond. There were few visitors outside that day at that time. One friendly oriental couple with a young child were around taking photos like me. It was a sunny day. I was alone. The others had gone somewhere else as they had visited this place before. I saw some gulls. A sailing boat at the distant horizon. I decided to present this blue horizon with hope. At the same time I also add a sunset horizon at the coast of San Francisco.

Meng Haoran 孟浩然, a Chinese poet who lived from AD689 or 691 to AD740, wrote a poem about the horizon. I quote below the poem and my attempted translation.
早寒有懷
木落雁南渡,
北風江上寒.
我家襄水曲,
遙隔楚雲端.
鄉淚客中盡,
孤帆天際看.
迷津欲有問,
平海夕漫漫.

My translation below~~~~
“The Winter…

View original post 75 more words

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

the day a liquid troop marched past my window

a poem for the Liquid big splash. liquid cloud
One day I randomly looked out
and caught your timely pauses
horses after horses
men with pointed noses
all glimmering in gold dust
what a sight what a sight
a troop marching right outside

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.

somewhere in time we rhyme: a poem

Out of This World we tread

out of this world

we plod and pound
and set
each foot
by foot
careful
not forgetful
of what we leave aground

each minute
petite
particle
too gentle to form an icicle

yet it means
somewhere in time
my art
your heart
we rhyme
as the distant bells chime

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.

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