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.

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.

Wordle #261challenge: a limp, a chest of gold and a beautiful lake

2016-01-27 Lake Tahoe

It started with a limp. More specifically it started on the day (a long time ago) when I fell down and sprained my ankle while hiking and met the mermaid in a tank. Here is the ensuing conversation:

Me (The solitary truant playing young person on hilltops): Good day, miss. (Not wanting to be impolite, while wondering which cringeworthy miscreant put her in that misfortune).

Mermaid: Good day, young sir. Can you help me please? I am freezing cold!

Me: (In a display of bravado , covered the tank with my plaid, a huge thick Scottish one) Ok, miss, I hope you feel better.

Mermaid: Thank you sir. I see you are limping. Is it painful?

Me: (Wondering what to do next, with my right ankle swollen and my body temperature dropping without the plaid) Yes, miss. Do you need further help?

Mermaid: Yes, I was kidnapped and placed up here. This is the rendezvous place for the crooks. They are returning soon.  

Me: Where are you from, miss? I might be able to take you home.

Mermaid told me she lived nearby in a hidden lake and her father was the king of the lake which was full of ancient treasures. The kidnappers stumbled upon that secret, intruded their privacy, and found the magic lake on the particular day of the particular month it appeared to the human world and kidnapped her and asked her father for a chest of gold as ransom. She could show me the way if I could carry her tank on my back and limp down the valley on the other side of the hill. The breath taking beautiful lake would manifest to her when in sight.

Being the gallant youth I was then, we made our great escape. Miraculously I limped and somewhat swiveled down that hill and delivered that mermaid safely to her father and received a reward of a chest of gold. They changed the schedule of annual appearance after that. I never met them again. Yes, I did feel a tinge of sorrow when I thought that I would never get to write their story, so here it is, at last!

That explained why I did not have to continue my study or did a day of work ever since then. And that’s why I am writing such “juvenile” story.

What happened to my foot? Healed just as miraculously the moment we reached the magic water of the lake. The name of the Lake? Living Water.

2021-10-14

Wordle#261 Sorrow cringeworthy miscreant hide hilltops swivel plaid Freeze privacy escape mermaid limp

Pastsquares challenge: a time in California somewhere walking

Just a time in space. This picture was taken on February 6, 2016 while taking a brisk walk in a small sunny town in California. There were some lovely birds but I couldn’t make them stay still. I stood very still though, trying to look like part of the static scenery. Alas, they were more lively than I imagined. Anyway I am thankful that this picture is cheerful and colorful enough resultant of a solitary traveler’s quest that day.

Becky’s past squares

Pastsquares challenge: from a traveler’s past

taken from 2019-03-19 travel album (a traveller attending a wedding across the sea, on the eve, looking for a hair salon in an unfamiliar territory, googling in desperation. LOL.)

pastsquares challenge

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

……………

The magic briefcase adventure: a random reading of one day

“This is where it all begins. Everything starts here, today.”― David Nicholls, quote from One Day. He never knew how he could ever forget the day they first met and began a strange, out-of-this-world relationship. Looking back now, he realizes how true these words have been to them, “You can live your whole life not realizing that what you’re looking for is right in front of you. Whatever happens tomorrow, we had today; and I’ll always remember it.”― David Nicholls, quote from One Day

He is back now in his own realm (which the earthlings call, planet) and has settled to his light years of taking a break after his earth assignment, an assignment which he will always remember, not only because of its colossal responsibility of a century as a guardian for the four winds, a shield for earth against external invasion, but also for the last task to complete a book/report on “the essence of love” involving emotion and feelings, the energy that drive the earthlings to make irrational decisions and actions.

He has kept a copy of the report, mainly in excerpts as the full set of research paper is too lengthy and detailed with sadness involving him, a part which stuns even a being like him, who has been programed not to feel or be emotive in the earth’s way. Yes, he has been deeply hurt and nearly ruined. And it is all because of just one earthling woman who remains a stranger to him as even now he realizes he has never known her.

While back to his realm, he continues a very disciplined life and switches back to patrolling the earth as a circling light when it is his turn, which is an annual event. He remembers his last farewell words to the strange enigmatic woman, when she was still alive and young, “when you look up the midnight sky on every February 14, no matter which time zone you are, you will see a brilliant white light that lights u the whole sky for an instant, and you will know that it is me.”

After leaving the place he names Snowland, they no longer contact each other. He carried on his assignment for several more decades, until he was allowed to leave earth. He did not know or find out (if he wanted to, he could) where she was and whether she was still alive. Sometimes it is better not to know. As he listens to the earthling’s book “One Day” today, he is stirred to remember her. And his eyes are moist and he feels liquids running down his cheeks. Yes, he has tears. They had some good days together, during the months of locked down up that 8000 ft high mountain.

He never questioned her past. And that was his mistake. She tried to tell him, disguised as narrating the story of a friend, or a project she was writing, but he preferred to stay out of her personal life. He learned too late. He discovered too late that she was not what he thought she was. When she unleashed the force of human emotion based on misguided feelings, he was totally unprepared and did not know how to respond as a human would do. He had never learned how to. It was like a powerful tidal wave with the force equal to 8000 locomotives or 25 million horses pounding against an unwavering cold stone wall. At her uncontrollable raging he continued to think and analyze, “Why does she hate so much? Why do human hurt themselves with hatred?” He could see her pain, but he could not feel. He was merely a bystander in her world.

In short, he does not know human kind of love, or any emotion called love and hate at all. He really cannot fathom how a human can love and hate at the same time, to the point that they want to destroy in the name of love.

Ka,2021-05-04

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

Magic briefcase adventure: Does he celebrate birthday? Does it matter to her? Or anyone?

Does he celebrate earth birthday? The question suddenly appeared as he glanced at his social network message board. He has never really thought of such matter about himself. In fact he hardly think of himself. In a day’s time it will be another chronological birthday for him on earth. After seven decades, he can hardly recall how he first remembered a special day called birthday that his earth parents celebrated for him, just like any other kids. On that day they normally made him eat one whole boiled egg by himself. In those post-war years it was considered a luxury when the kid was only one out of a brood of seven. The question is from her, the earth acquaintance for a year in Snowland.

It is a surprise to him to read her sudden message, after nearly a year of silence. Does birthday really matter? Of course most parents like to recall that day when their kid came to earth, mostly crash landing with a loud cry of disappointment at the harshness of the external zone (tearing away from their hitherto comfort zone). That is the way he observes things, somewhat different from the earthlings.

She uses a strange new name. But he knows it is her. His social network message board is restricted to a few friends only and they normally do not message or comment anything. It is a silent and dusty board. It is kept there for a purpose which the outsiders do not know. He decides not to reply her strange question. What is the point in the question? They have not established any relation, not even an acquaintance contact. His mission in Snowland has failed.

He remembers last year. She made something for him and ate her portion separately in the living room. He ate his alone at the dining table. He cannot remember what it is now. What a strange birthday party of two eating something in silence in two separate rooms. It reminds him of war.

His earth parents went through a big war. They got married because of the war. The war destroyed his mom’s love, hope, and dream, that is, enrolling into the medical school like her fiancé did, but he was killed by a bomb while traveling north to the university. She had to flee the invaded country instead and ended up in a foreign land marrying another man, and had seven kids during and after the big war.

Why is he thinking of big war now? He is a guardian of the four wind on earth —an invisible shield against invasion by warlords from other planets and zones from other universes. He has failed to finish his report on earthling’s emotion, and is now serving his extended term in a different site (away from Snowland).

Perhaps he will eat a boiled egg tomorrow, to remember his own earth parents who have really shown him the essence of sacrificial love, by rationing their own food and making sure the children were fed well, particularly making each individual kid feel special on his birthday.

Ka, 2021-04-12

simply six minutes—magic briefcase adventure: first day in Snowland

Looking back he can still see her face. It is not a face that can conceal or even bother to conceal the heart. She is of indeterminable chronological age. She is not young. No, there is no wrinkle and she has done a lot on up-keeping her looks and her fitness too, tall, slim, and a strict keto disciple in terms of diet.

But it is the facial expression that reveals her heart. She tried to be civil. So she started with small talk like the weather, the flight, the lodging house sharing and so on. They were in the kitchen and had to decide who used which side. Seeing she was standing near to the dining and living area, he chose the far side which was near to the garage and tool house.

She suddenly said something about her (chronological age related condition) being a dry prune and it no longer mattered how she looked. It was a shocking statement to him. They were merely fellow lodgers. They were each assigned there on Snowland for separate missions which they did not disclose to each other. They merely shared the facilities of the accommodation.

When she blurted out that statement he watched her face. It was a mirror of her heart. A once beautiful face, now twisted into a shape which only revealed a deep, heavy, and even hostile, disguised sadness that was heart wrenching. It was far more than reading any sad mysteries of earthlings. How was he going to learn about the love and hate emotion of earthlings for his report? He dreaded from the first day of their encounter.

But this is his last work station and last chance to complete the remaining half of his century long assignment on earth so that he will receive his due award, a retirement back to his home planet/realm. While spending long hours in pondering on her expression, he wondered what has made a beautiful woman grow into such sadness. He has researched this subject in many fields of study. There are many possible factors and variables. Earth has acquired the technology that prevents a person growing old physically, through constant practices of up-keeping their body and mind. But there is something that they cannot up-keep, that is, their deteriorating emotion. And it shows on their faces, and affects their behavior. Often it can cause harm to themselves and others.

That is why he has been assigned this task of studying their emotion, particularly the kind of emotion called love that can drive all other aspects in life.

The first day of encounter signified that his challenge would be tough. He tried to stay neutral and adopt the stance of a researcher. He posited that with time he would adapt to her pattern and be able to complete his report. He neglected one pertinent aspect, how did she see him that first encounter? What was her perspective and impression of him? What does he mirror?

Much later, towards the end of their separate assignments, she suddenly blurted out, “I have never liked you, even from the first day.” He did not know then whether she was telling the truth or she was just trying to convince herself that she has never invested her feeling for him. But he knows now. (to continue)

Ka, 2021-04-03

simply six minutes—the magic briefcase adventure: Does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love?

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. How little does he know this will be the lesson he has to learn on his last mission. Guarding of the Four Wind on earth is only 50% of his mission. The other 50% is to study the most influential power source on earth and submit a full investigation report on completion of his four wind assignment. Because he is beyond earth time he is not subject to the chronological aging process on earth. His term on earth is a century and he has already served 70 earth years. He has been assigned to the other stations of the four wind. This snowland station is his last assignment. He is an elite “engineer” in earth term and the hardware (technical) part of his assignment is no issue to him. On the other hand, the “software” part is a real puzzle which he has little remaining time to crack.

What is exactly the most powerful power source on earth? Based on his last seven decades of interactions with earthlings, he knows, and has completed the bulk of the report, mostly in theory and concept. But now he is stuck. He has to do the practical empirical evidential based part of the report, and he has to find a live object to study and actually interact with first hand.

When he was transferred to this Snowland station he knew this would be his last chance. He has failed three times previously. This time he cannot afford to fail. Failure is just too costly to bear. Briefly, he will be compelled to extend his assignment contract for another century in another planet or realm. And he is looking for a retirement back to his home planet/realm.

Outwardly there is everything good about him for the last assignment: tall, slim, fit, smart, a chiseled facial look, deep-set eyes of a color that is most pleasant and acceptable to most earthlings, a default expression of a highly intelligent and elegant being. He has been trained to know many languages and cultures. People are naturally drawn to him because he is genuinely kind and selfless with the backdrop of the apparent show of good tase and a cut above others. He has been programmed to look thirties. No, he is not an AI robot or a clone. He was born to a normal earthling couple and had a normal childhood. His only difference from earthling is that his entire nurturing, education, and training were all done by a more advanced source beyond earth from his original realm. And he is in constant communication with them.

His remaining task is to find an earth woman and study what love is. Yes, ironically, love and hate are the most powerful influence on earth. This is the main obstacle for completing his report. He is not required to fall in love but he must find out what true love means and why it turns to hate with unimaginable destructive power. His report is aptly named: “The essence of love”. Why focus on love and not hate? Because, alas, the two words are interchangeable on earth.

This is what he finds out on the Snowland, his final station. (to continue)

Ka, 2021-03-31

simply six minutes—the magic briefcase adventure: “I don’t want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning.”

As he now remembers Snowland and the mystical woman he met up there at 8000ft altitude, he remembers how the trees have impacted him, as he tries to associate her with something they both can relate to without feeling bound. Both of them value independence and privacy above all else, even their strange unique relationship. The have found a few common interests, or rather, safe and indifferent topics to talk about casually. And trees is a safe topic, aside from coffee, deer, and snow.

When he first arrives the trees are green. Within a month the snow comes suddenly. He is shocked. All his past assignments were in the tropics. Snow is a novelty. In his homeland in outer-space, there is no snow or season. They live beyond earth time. While on earth he has always been the guardian of the South Wind which control station is located in an evergreen island in the tropics. This new assignment up the 8000 ft of a mountain in the West (or near West) is entirely different from what he has accustomed himself.

When the snow comes it is sudden and all encompassing. When he returns from an outside assignment he is caught in camera by her standing on the top of the stairs of the sundeck. The deck is steeped in at least 12 inches of snow. The trees are his background. He still has that photo. Green trees with snow all over their branches and trunks. He looks stunned. What a sight!

But it is not so much the sight of the green trees covered with brilliantly white snow that puzzles him. It is the meaning of those trees. Sometimes he compares himself with a tree to the earthling. A living and thriving being with its branches all pointing towards the sky, the location of the light source and life sustenance. Like the earth writer Orhan Pamuk once wrote, “I don’t want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning.” He wants to be a meaning of things. Being a meaning is different from being a physical existence.

He wants to be a meaning for existence. How to communicate this to her, an earthling? They are there together and yet not together, each existing each own meaning. He has had many acquaintances in his many decades of living on earth. But none is like this acquaintance on the high mountain. She is not a local. She comes from the oceanic continent. Is she on a secret assignment like his, guarding the earth? She never talks about it and he is not expected to ask. She does not ask him his too.

So he puts his mind on the trees. They are his great and faithful companions. They tell him a lot of things through the sound of the wind as he takes long walks on the paths meandering through the snowy woodland. But they never talk about their meaning on earth, not the kind he hopes they will reveal. He knows the textbook stuff of course. He imagines there is more —the unwritten ones, the often chuckling and sometimes sighing thoughts deeply embedded in the ancient tree trunks. He has never found out.

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

Here is a hauntingly beautiful song for memory sake

I will remember you, will you remember me? I’m so tired but I can’t sleep Standin’ on the edge of something much to deep It’s funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word We are screaming inside, but we can’t be heard I’m so afraid to love you But more afraid to lose Clinging to a past that doesn’t let me choose Once there was a darkness Deep and endless night You gave me everything you had, oh you gave me life

[https://youtu.be/nSz16ngdsG0]

simply six minutes—the magic briefcase adventure: colors, details, irony

When he first arrives on this magic mountain he doesn’t think about love. His goal is to guard the four winds at this height of 8000 ft. He is one of the four guardians assigned to earth from another realm, which earthlings call planet. How little do the earthlings know the difference between a physical planet and a spiritual realm. He comes from a realm and not a planet. But it’s ok if they insist of describing a zone where they cannot figure out in their physical mind and have to use what they can explain away another existence with their limited language.

Today is another snow day on this mountain which he calls Snowland. It has become so common yet unpredictable that he is contented with the snow coming and going outside his abode which he now shares with an earth woman of indeterminable chronological age. Earthlings are particular about their ages, not that it matters to him. He always knows their true age when he meets them. True age means a spiritual age originally programmed in each seed that is planted the moment a baby is conceived. There is a clock that ticks silently inside the formation, a beginning and an end. it is designed to last much longer than an average earthling thinks they have. It is recorded in an old book, at least 120 years an average man can live. The earth is designed that way to be loved and cared for and in turned nurtures and sustains each man for that length of time.

Yes, the man from another realm knows this because he has been through a course on the affection, attention, interest and compassion he must have on the earthlings before he is finally considered ready to be assigned here. He knows and sees and appreciates the beauty and yet mystery of this land, including the snow and all, even the earthling woman who happens to be here in the same mountain house on a totally unrelated assignment. They never talk about their assignments or whether they are in the same camp, or not.

After an initial struggle with sharing all the common amenities except each separate room cum workplace, he has settled to getting used to this kind of life. Why this arrangement on earth? He cannot see any relevance at all. Nor will his superior back in his own realm give him any clue. So he just has to adapt and adjust with the existence of another living being.

He agrees with his favorite earth writer, Orhan Pamuk that he just has to open his eyes wide and actually see this world by attending to its colors, details and irony. The two strangers appear to share common interests in a number of things, such as, hot coffee, reading, genre of music, one painting in the common dinning place, and creatures that come out in the snow. The irony is that they do not talk to each other about such personal stuff.

There seems a commonly self-imposed code: do not get personal because that will be too close.

2021-03-20

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~a quote

“The beauty and mystery of this world only emerges through affection, attention, interest and compassion . . . open your eyes wide and actually see this world by attending to its colors, details and irony.”― Orhan Pamuk (from his book “My Name Is Red”).

simply six minutes —the magic briefcase adventure: silent painting

“Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight.”― Orhan Pamuk, My name is Red. To the man from a distant planet, a higher realm than earth, snow falling is like painting. A gigantic hand is brushing over the land and everything else in the Snowland with white paint. Not surprising. Because the invisible hand is so huge, earthlings think that the snow just comes by itself without any deliberate action of anyone. But he knows it differently.

Where he lives they are more advanced and know a lot more stuff compared to the earthlings. For example, the thing called love. He is looking at the snow falling and the building up of the thick white blanket out there below his window sill. Why does he think of love suddenly?

Because he suddenly thinks of the music of sight. They both like music. She and he. Jazz and classical. She does not talk about her likes and dislikes at all. They are mere acquaintances stuck up there on this snowy mountain of 8000 ft. above sea level. Talking about music or painting means getting close. And they want to avoid it.

One day she listens to him singing in the bathroom at random. When he emerges she says, “you seem in a good mood, singing.”

Another day she reminds him of manner. He has taken a painting from the common dinning place and hang it in his room. He has put back another picture on the empty space. But it happens that she only likes the one he has taken.

So he apologizes and puts the original picture back to its original place behind where she sits when she does her zoom meetings. She wants that picture to be in her background. So does he. He moves it to his room for the same purpose!

Amazing how much common interests they do share without talking about them. In a way it is like watching the snow being painted outside accompanied by inaudible yet beautiful music performed up there in the great beyond. The silence of thought and the music of sight beautifully being presented to the two of them, alone in a big house.

The sharing of the color of the snowland, the serene silence in the house except for the occasional jazz played softly in separate rooms, and the unspoken understanding that each has his or her own space, and a common picture in a common room, and many other small things, all create a feeling of calm affiliation. He somehow thinks it is related to an unselfish thing called love.

2021-03-19

simply six minutes: magic briefcase story-snowland’s goodbye song

It has been a short year for him after that parting. When he hears this goodbye song today he feels an ache in his heart. Why? 

As he looks through the blog trying to sort out some old posts, he sees a goodbye song. He listens to it. And he feels sadness, just a tinge. It has been nearly a year since the parting in the snow land 8000 ft above sea level. He has no idea where she is or how she is now. Sometimes he notices that there are viewers on his many blogs from her country. But he doesn’t know for sure whether she is in their midst. Sometimes he likes to imagine it is her. But why the sadness? They have nothing between them at all, aside from the brief history of being lodged together up that mountain during the isolated months, in total, around eight months. What have they in common otherwise?

The snow. Just the whiteness of the color out there. Snow everywhere. For a person so used to many vibrant colors all his life the monotonous color scheme is a change, a shock at first, then a pleasant conditioning for a long winter season. It is like having no distinction between seasons, except the choice of nature to have snow and not have snow. So he calls the place snowland in his fiction stories. Yes, he writes a story of an alien in the form of a human man from the power of light being assigned to snowland to man one of the four winds corner on earth to guard and protect earth form other outer space’s dark power. He dedicates the story to her, an earth acquaintance who “happens” to be there with him, or for a mysterious purpose? She never knows who he really is or his true mission. Neither does he know hers. They are civil to each other despite their apparent differences. However, the snow conveniently covers up the differences on the faces of the earth like a thick veil.

The snow is a common topic of conversation. Very bland and safe. No one can get dangerously close to each other talking about the weather. They are weather acquaintances.

When the time arrives, she returns to her home country. He stays behind for another round of eight phases of the moon and then flies away. The snow comes three days before his departure in early summer. Yes, s summer snow just for his goodbye to snowland.

It has been a short year for him after that parting. When he hears this goodbye song today he feels an ache in his heart. Why? he knows it is a strange kind of “affinity” which he has never experienced before. Somehow, he remembers some moments of kindness from her. Some goodness from her. He remembers one afternoon he went walking and darkness suddenly came to the wilderness. He was venturing into a new territory alone. It took him many hours to get through. Then he heard his phone ring. “Hi. Where are you? I can come over with my car to give you a lift. It is no trouble at all.” The temperature had suddenly dropped and the wind was hollering. And he was not in his winter gear. But he thanked her and declined her offer.

As agreed, they have never exchanged any updated phone or address. They have mutually put a full-stop to their once-upon-a-time mutual hospitality path.

Why does today’s goodbye song give a strange feeling of sadness? The song is just a common harmless Auld Lang Syne sung by Dougie MacLean, a Scottish, songwriter, composer and extraordinary performer, in his unhurried, calm, gentle voice, telling his acquaintance that they can each buy a cup of draught, for kindness sake, if they meet again.

He supposes that’s what they can do, drinking a bottle of red wine (her preferred drink) or cups of freshly brew coffee (another common denominator they once shared in snowland) perchance they shall meet again somewhere on earth.

Kainotes, 2021-03-05

[https://youtu.be/wPnhaGWBnys] Auld Lang Syne by Dougie MacLean

[https://youtu.be/kmWCAvCRJ1o] Mark Knopfler ft. Ruth Moody – Wherever I Go (Official Video)

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)

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]

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/

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 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

Challenge 331 FIRST, Heal: gender perspectives (one story three haikus)

heal, first, one haiku challenge

(Haiku one: Reconciled position)

distant rumble “heal”

who goes “first” he smiles she laughs

and they dance as “one”

(Haiku two: competitive position)

distant rumble “heal”

who gets “first” he asks she laughs

alas none no “one”

(Haiku three: neutral position)

distant rumble “heal”

who cares “first” not me (blank stare)

and thus not a “one”

#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

“sometimes we just have to dig deeper” (a treasure hunter)

Digging into my treasure chest I found this today. Alas, my perspective remains unchanged though somewhat challenged. The following is an unabridged version. My task at hand is how may I write a sequel? No, I don’t mean a sequel in mere words which is easy and may be churned out like a budget standard B&B. I mean how can the lives of real people be put into a sequel complete with their realities?

Narrow? What narrow?

Crosslife Spaces, business as missionendtimes solutionInnovative Management Strategyman of faith and intellectperspectivephotographypoliticsthoughtstransformed mindtravel  08/03/2016 2 Minutes

Narrow

narrow face
narrow seat
Tuk Tuk
narrow food

“Sometimes all you can do is go on. One foot in front of the other, wherever the narrow path might lead.” I quoted this from somewhere about a spy’s narrow/precarious life. In some parts of the world, the ordinary life is comparatively narrow as a routine: narrow food as depicted by the thin corns (for men and for beasts), narrow transport (coach driven by a motor bike!), narrow space (with driver seat shared with a passenger with driver maneuvering the steering wheel with one hand!))and, sadly, narrow faces of many rural young ones who are generally undernourished and petite in sizes below their age.

Is there a choice? I ask as a mere traveler bystander. Can people choose? What kind of people will be able to breakout from their squalid environment and poverty? I know of many who really believe that education can get them somewhere. The parents sell off all they have and even incur huge debts so that their children can go to private college and university. But employment opportunity in foreign corporations remains limited and often has little choice in terms of salaries and benefits. I know of well-brought up, goal-focused youth who charge ahead bravely, studying two tertiary degrees and doing two jobs at the same time, hoping to get a better future! They are going to be the future for their currently small nations.

Are they narrow? No. They have a hope and a future. they are internally open and broad, even when on an external narrow path.

The food, the means of transport, and the physical stature do not make a man what he is. People read about the possible impact on many aspects of lives on earth due to the geographical polar shift. I personally believe that the internal ideology that shapes and drives a man can do more impact to the world than the external environment. I can see examples of more and more intelligent hard working and positive principled goals driven men who have emerged to shape the future of the globe which has become increasingly border-less. The contrary is also true. Those driven by personal greed and heartlessness do great harm to the world as well. The invisible polar shift.

Narrow? What narrow?

Profound

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

square in square and they multiply

square multiplies
just square

Just being square and it multiplies.

https://beckybofwinchester.com/2019/06/22/reminder-july-squares-2/
https://travelwithintent.com/category/challenges/six-word-saturday/

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

#timesquare: the time of a dog traveler

#timesquare: the time of grace

Time to cross the square

heeding gentle beckoning

of time calling grace

This months photo challenge in square format from Becky is #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

time travel haiku and back: just timing

sometime ago when in an interval story zone
long ago in another story zone

just timing my time

and yours to savor and chime

preparing our climb

This months photo challenge in square format from Becky is Time

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

afar and near in perspectives: two pictures

afar lake tahoeafar junction
I chose these two pictures because of the rather interesting perspectives. USA is full of interesting scenes even though I took these pictures at random. The people too. They are apart and dynamic and yet blend into the static presentation as parts of an integral whole. I can imagine individual stories in each small segment and yet I acknowledge that the sum total makes it a unique striking picture! The advantage of bigness of space —— near and afar.

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

favorites: Don’t look back, she says, I am not there (love story)

The goodbye is too harsh and I can’t resist another post of more of my All-Time Favorites of some of the pictures I am sentimental about (which original stories/poems you may find in this blog by clicking on the caption below each picture).

a snowy slope 3
only way is up

2007 Fuji Mt n tree
this is a letter I will not send

this morning I fly alone
this morning I fly alone: a haiku

new-horizon
another shore beyond 1

another-shore-beyond
another shore beyond 2

nostalgia-family-car-1953
Don’t look back, she says, I am not there

a way ahead
how fleeting is evanescence?

waiting classic jazz
alas, the waiting was too long: for all that jazz

An interesting list of the above original captions (from my earlier weekly-photo-challenge posts):
the only way is up
this is a letter I will not send
this morning I fly alone: a haiku
another shore beyond
Don’t look back, she says, I am not there
how fleeting is evanescence?
alas, the waiting was too long: for all that jazz

random love, favorites for no reason

All-Time Favorites

favorite 20151030CAmirrored sky in waterMount Fuji20150529 tous les jours
these are some of my favorite memories
though you insist
I must say sorry
to have collated at random
with no momentum

here a story
there a story
too many
if any
perchance you remember too
just as I do

pictures
are good for goodbye
as time goes by
a rhyme you may find

forlorn love
hidden cove
once removed
now restored

so long
farewell
goodbye

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.

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