an autumn story: must be prepaid

a Pedestrian
mining town sale
nothing is free son
all must be prepaid
a voice from behind the wooden wall warns.

mind your step son
on real snow must be prepared
as he trips his foot over a thorn

the glassy bottles rattle
as he glides across and prattles
leaving behind many feet long gutter

clash, crash, clatter, smash
gliding rolling sputtering
not to worry ma’am stop hollering

i got cash to pay
boy looks up into dad’s face bathed in bright sun ray

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I took this picture in a mining town which had stopped operation. It is now for tourists and perhaps movies shooting. The autumn had long gone or was never there due to high altitude. But I like to keep the title as autumn story. Why? Because autumn gives a sense of forlorn beauty, a time to let go, mellow down and rest with a good warm cup of _________(fill in your favorite drink) and listen to random poetry reading, good and bad. Poetry writing is a personal thing. But reading is even better because the sound is part of the fun and you do not have to commit anything except some minutes/seconds of your life.

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autumn story: a man and a giant pan

old frying panHumboldt is a humble man
he lives alone with a giant pan
minding his business tending his sheep
never lazing or sneaking a peep

one night he counts and finds one short
leaving 99 behind with kind farmer Shultz
he calmly cleans his pan and drinks his port

he searches yonder with a daylight lamp
until reaching the darkest lair
of one ferocious beast that could prey
on his foolish simple little lamb

the monster may roar and paw while spewing names
brave farmer Humboldt lifts his pan and aims
once and twice and thrice he whams
the poor beast has nothing to defend against
this lopsided knock out match launched by
one humble man and a giant pan

(o what a heart-warming dawn, the Peeking villagers all rise and proclaim: humble Humboldt safely home with simple lamb and a giant pan)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I took this picture in an old mining museum. Somehow it turns out that the frying pan becomes the centre piece! So i decide to write a poem for it.

autumn story: an old love hat song

Just a Peek at autumn’s end.
mining townnever will I leave you, he said, not again
faded eyes blurring with moist drops
like rare autumn squinting sudden plops

(not even when fall comes to stay and/or if our hair should fall?)

no I will never leave you old, not again for gold,
see, all tidal waves are churning into buttery yuletide

putting down his battered hat
the prospector comes home.

(frantically digging cob-web caked in false gold teeth with man-made ivory-handled pick,
the wife wakes
and hears long-forgotten song
“Wherever I lay my hat that’s my home)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the look in your eye
I can tell you’re gonna cry
Is it over me?

If it is, save your tears
For I’m not worth it
You see

For I’m the type of boy who is always on the roam
Wherever I lay my hat that’s my home
I’m telling you that’s my home

You had romance
Did you break it by chance
Over me?

Young Paul – Wherever I Lay My Hat Thats My Home
(UK No. 1 single for three weeks in July 1983.)

autumn story: land’s end, lonesome cafe, something orange.

poem for autumnShe says, No one passes here anymore;
You know, less is more.

Continuing chattering,
her eyes not engaging, hands fluttering
like butterfly trapped
on fake glass map.

You shouldn’t be here, Peter.
Her fingers deftly whittle
away a wooden kettle.

Too late now
we are closing down,
Peter. (She throws a bone across the table)
No one passes by anymore;
Less is more.
(Something orange Peeks, stirs and darts away from behind the door label, “Do not disturb”)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I took this picture on a beautiful autumn day in November 2015. You may ask me, is there a real story behind the above attempt of a “poem”? My answer is, you are free to find your own story. I am OK with any interpretation.

Incidentally, I just watched a touching, hour-long interview with an award winning old poet who started writing poetry in her teen, I realize how far away from poetry I have strayed since teen. I prefer Haiku because it is short. But it is not as satisfying as writing a poem.

As the poet urges, there is something one just needs to express. She enjoys painting and music but she cannot be good enough to be a painter or a musician. So she writes poetry to present her painting and music. To her, every poem is a precious creation and needs to be birthed with the best she has inside, to become a positive encouragement to others who read it. If I were to use one word to describe her, I would use the word, “Genuine”. She is genuine about her limitation and her giftedness.

I only came across her poetry yesterday while doing a research on a writers’ festival in another city for someone. After reading some of her work, I mentioned that I would like to buy one of her volumes. Today I received the good news that someone who attended the festival today has bought an autographed print for me as a gift! (I am looking forward to read it when it arrives).

what we could have shared

Rounded
rounded window
One day I took note of a window scene in a black and white picture that accompanies a rather interesting story by a blogger I am following. It has the same style of another blogger who published a book of a collection of his blogs ten years ago. He wrote rather short sentences and someone from Japan did the photography. I dug out this book and just read “the people we could be”. So here I am, experimenting my own black and white attempt using Apple Photos. What I like about this picture is that almost everything in it has a round curve. There is a definite favor for roundness.
I originally took this picture in beautiful multi-colors in 2015 in an Italian Restaurant hidden in a small town in US. I was eating hot sausage sandwich alone after a rewarding hike. My best friend was on another mountain hike faraway. My friend would have liked to take a rest at this place and savor the food. Whilst I enjoy solitary travel and hiking, I sometimes like the silent company of someone familiar who enjoys the same ambience and taste. The silence is not broken and yet there is a veiled comfort of knowing that one is not alone in times of sudden need. I left this town shortly after.
P/s: Someone asks: why a sudden black and white? Well, after using many colors for too long I suddenly wake and notice that Black and White picture gives an expression of a mystery to ponder over. I quite like the short stories another travel blogger writes (in a different language) which I admit have influenced my change of taste.

sometimes we cross a bridge and do not look back

crossing an old wooden bridgeSF Bay bridge2I always find Bridges fascinating. Each one encompasses three main phases of life: beginning, ending and in-between. Some bridges we cross for a temporary purpose and we cross back after we have fulfilled that purpose. Some bridges we cross but never intend to return. Some we cross at predictable regular intervals like the crossing is an extended part of one’s being. Some we just never cross. Perhaps we do not have the opportunity to do so in this life. Is there a bridge I must cross but with great reluctance and a sense of immense loss? Yes. I believe the bridge is called “Goodbye, my love.” (Somehow I suspect everyone who loves has a bridge by this name)