The Gathering

Outside, the scene was right for the season,
heavy gray clouds and just enough wind
to blow down the last of the yellow leaves.

But the house was different that day,
so distant from the other houses,
like a planet inhabited by only a dozen people

with the same last name and the same nose
rotating slowly on its invisible axis.
Too bad you couldn't be there

but you were flying through space on your own asteroid
with your arm around an uncle.
You would have unwrapped your scarf

and thrown your coat on top of the pile
then lifted a glass of wine
as a tiny man ran across a screen with a ball.

You would have heard me
saying grace with my elbows on the tablecloth
as one of the twins threw a dinner roll across the room at the other.

— Billy Collins

Believe nothing

Believe nothing on the faith of traditions,
even though they have been held in honor
for many generations and in diverse places.
Do not believe a thing because many people speak of it.
Do not believe on the faith of the sages of the past.
Do not believe what you yourself have imagined,
persuading yourself that a God inspires you.
Believe nothing on the sole authority of your masters and priests.
After examination, believe what you yourself have tested
and found to be reasonable, and conform your conduct thereto.

— सिद्धार्थ गौतम (Siddartha Gautama)

stream

there is that waviness in the darkness you've been watching for you wait for its restlessness to absorb yours like a ghost hunting for emotions for it to take it away from you then you can fall into some sort of almost black indigo night that you imagine exists then all will be well all will be well not like the weird dreams of the night before when you sat next to bush sr then obama then it all turned out to be some sort of therapy cause the plane landed then we had to walk from sfo across the new bay bridge for some unknown reason and there was the one point where we were hundreds of feet up in the air around a turn and there was no railing and i looked into the water below all turquoise and green and it called me but i kept going cause i had to find some unknown on the old bridge and it turned out to be an old chinese woman with alms and some fortune telling then we got back to where we started and obama's secret service took us and we were on a helicopter then we were in some courtyard waiting and some movie producer asked us questions then someone else explained it to her all and she laughed then all these people all costumed up like they were in the next star trek movie which they were showed up and asked where was lunch then i realized i had left my house key at home

l'automne est arrivé

Autumn's first rain. She came in a violent passing, blowing droplets almost sideways and her chilling breath shocked all the complacent Californians. I loved every moment. I loved walking in the wet and windy air, coming home soaked and having to change into drier garbs and settling down with a cup of steaming sencha.

before dawn

it was so long ago. what do you remember in a dream but impressions? for me, obviously a lot more.

the white rose i photographed at the campground; white is a wild color, not something we looked for. it stared at me beneath the afternoon sun like the heart of honesty. i stared back but all i could do was to steal its image; i took a photo.

i go to some semblance of the wild to remind myself that nature is still out there. i go for trees, dried grasses, pine cones, the stinky smell that we have all forgotten in the wild. when the raccoon came the night before, i could not beckon it to stay though i had chicken roasting on coals. we of the suburbian cycle have lost what it is like to be among the trees.

i grabbed two leaves of california bay laurel and said to my friend you can cook with this and found it was something novel for her.

how have i gotten so far from the earth?

today i have tear stained cheeks because it is not where i want to be. give me the city or give me the country. this in-between land is for people looking for conveniences and i am NOT one of them.

if i have ever had enmity in my life i have learned that it has always come from my family.

In her serene display

In her serene display, originally uploaded by equusignis.

The parasol is the umbrella's daughter,
And associates with a fan
While her father abuts the tempest
And abridges the rain.

The former assists a siren
In her serene display;
But her father is borne and honored,
And borrowed to this day.

— Emily Dickinson

--

She's been gone almost two weeks and it seems so much longer...

woke with your name

YOU

Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head.
so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,
like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables
like a charm, like a spell.

Falling in love
is glamorous hell: the crouched, parched heart
like a tiger, ready to kill; a flame’s fierce licks under the skin.
into my life, larger than life, you strolled in.

I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,
in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,
staring back from anyone’s face, from the shape of a cloud,
from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me

as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are
on the bed, like gift, like a touchable dream.

— Carol Ann Duffy

Duffy became Britain's Poet Laureate today. The first woman to hold the post in its 341 year history.

I can't look at his face and not shed tears. I miss him...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

— W H Auden