Dream journal: Election day

I had a dream in which I was running a restaurant. I was very concerned as to we were serving the right dishes and were they good enough.

I think it's humourous in light of the stress so many are putting themselves through. I sense I'm more concerned with what's for dinner.

People have a misguided idea of how much control they have. Inflated expectations. Illusions. No sense of deliberate non-attachment.

My thoughts for election day.

Money does not create taste

I am currently inspired or provoked by a situation where I am around people conversing about subject matters I find distasteful. It is not just the subject matter but the way certain individuals express their glee about something in a way that is crude and very telling as a lens into their character.

Specifically, the person that I am becoming to dislike, perhaps hate, is one who is based solely on material success. He thinks because he can afford things, it gives him license to do whatever he wants. With this kind of person, I am reminded of why I collect knives and why I know human anatomy.

Money does not create taste.

Stroll

On an early morning stroll,
Walking under trees in dappled sunlight.
In ten years, this path would again render the same imagery.

The crunchy feel of sycamore leaves underfoot;
The buckled sidewalks because of meandering roots;
The scent of flowers reaches my nostrils (always searching for sage or lavender);
The breeze almost giving me goosebumps, (wanting to reach my destination).

I remember how alive my senses are
Even at this odd combination,
The imagery recalls images of you.


12 October 2018

Stetson Rain

Big tall thunderclouds tease me about rain
For now, all they are doing is blocking Gulfstreams
Expensive jets engulfed by a splotchy sky

Cooler and humid air puts me a different country
Some Northern place this soul would rather be
Something better than this tech sprawl they call a town

Perhaps by evening I could walk in rain with my Stetson
It would bring back memories for sure, getting soaked
And one wouldn’t be able to tell the tears from rain

October 4, 2018

Filth

Bare trees
I’m waiting for leaves to fall
Fallen leaves
Satisfaction of gold and red things crushing underfoot
Threatening clouds
Feeling that rain will come to wash filth from humanity

Disconnected

It is not easy being disconnected. At some point, you have to let go.

Nomad

I found out today that I have to move yet again. The nomadic life finds me through time and space. I wonder what kind of nomad I was in past lives.

Violin

She practices violin

Sounds not quite sing songy

Cats are ambivalent of notes

Pacing like the bow 

Scotland

This is not Braveheart’s Scotland

It is the misty filed that she and I walk

Hand in hand on cold winter mornings

The only heat being between our palms 

February 15, 2017

Walking Beneath the Trees

walking beneath the trees

 

the song comes in my head and 

heart twists into an empty shape

fortuitously filling a void

 

the breeze is light on touch

like your voice beside my ear

i can hear fleeting whispers and

mad raucous laughter

 

is it real that you’re in the leaves

is it real that you’re in the clouds 

oh draw me a funny rabbit or cow and

make them hop the moon tonight

 

tonight i sight jupiter and the moon

has a rainbow around it

you’re in the bits of my universe now

forever with me yet beyond touch

you’re in the bits of my reality yet i can

only sense in the lightness of a breath

(april 19, 2016) 

bread and pho

you’ll never get to taste my bread

i’ll never get to use your mixer

just think of the flour fight that might ensue

just think of the cackling of two magpies

i will name a new kind of dough after you

it will have sweetness of dried fruits 

and an over abundance of butter, more butter

we never were shy about fat, you and i

we never believed in limits to our palate

we made others envious of our cuisine

you’ll never eat my pho again

like the time at your parent’s house

we had it stinking of cooking fish sauce

but the kids devoured the food, you smiled

15 february 2015 

a scottish cemetery

in scotland this time of year;

daffodils carpet the cemetery; 

so delicate, swaying gently.

old man’s beard laden the old oaks;

i wandered beneath them on worn paths.

hard to believe i found such tranquility;

hard to accept you are to be in such a place.

incontrovertible that you have left us;

i hope you have found serenity.

it is  eventual the world will hear; i know,

our raucous laughter will sound again, together.

15 february 2015 

parked here

for ingrid

parked here, i sit wondering of you;

two weeks have passed and no word

since you said you’re calling 911.

parked here, sweet crepes and butter

were our morning delight in franz's

since days we could claim youth.

don’t let this be that kind of poem

not yet, not in this way;

so far, those memories

so far, the path still lies ahead.

parked here, i hold a glacier’s tears

millennia have passed, patience, they say

i won’t count future lives until we meet again.

don’t let this be those kinds of words;

people murmur in fear of unknowns

since days we stared at stars.

8 february 2016

mother and i

mother and i,

she tried to be a grower but

didn’t get grandfather’s green thumb;

i did.

i am the grower and

i am the arranger, too;

that is from my father.

i arrange flowers that are words;

words that are images;

it was his gift.

my aunt says it’s apparent.

she says, i’m my father’s son;

my gilded tongue, sometimes forky;

the softened charm that is rarely refused.

not that i share nothing with mother.

mother and i, we can be alike.

we can be removed;

hidden behind the leaves and roses

among the thorns,

too threatening for curious fingers.

i can, not show the softened heart,

keep my shirt sleeves unrolled.

mother and i; we have only one sun

but very different worlds.

lamb

(after Christine Boyka Kluge’s Lamb)

i read a poem about a lamb across the valley,

lost and distant and there was mention

of smoke separating the animal from its viewer.

as i think of it now i imagine myself reflected

in the yellowed worn page of the book;

well handled, well read and perhaps well loved.

i see myself as the lamb turned upside down

on the edge of the paper as if a world inverse

of this more complicated reality outside

of its frail edges. i see myself removed

from myself and wonder of the smoke mentioned

and whether it was me who started the fire;

the fire that would eventually eat up the page

into hungry embers and when the lamb

in the image had burned, would i disappear? 

Haiku

Strangers walking by
Outside the open window
So far from your view

Haiku

All in order now
A crimson sky above me
Another dawn smile

--

Line of cypresses
Gossamer memories fading
So far away now

August 4, 2015

His father's son
With senses like Waterford
And red ruby heart

--

No summer kisses
Beneath the Emerald Isle
She waits patiently

--

Autumn almost here
So distant a time since last
So distant the space

--

August 2, 2015

Kumquat

Kumquat blossoms
Assault my fragile senses
So lovely now parted

Haiku

Tendrils of steam
Bitter on the palate, sweet
Two faces, green tea

Finch on house, fence
Fencing bravely with song
Protecting my heart

Weeping is willow
Washing the faint sorrow
Being across the sea