Agnieszka

The whispery light hangs
On her shoulder,
Barely visible.

Alabaster sheen
Lives in the hollow
Of a collarbone,

Beaming a paleness
That attracts honey bees,
Imagining that something

Worldly could be so sweet.
The restfulness
Of her chin,

Leading up to lips
At a word's edge
Toward a restrained sentiment,

Hinting what the eyes
Might be saying,
Leaving Mona Lisa's smile
Much to be desired.

If (2005)

If I can empty my mind and heart of the past burdens
I might see the true color of her eyes.

If I can accept my role in the wreckage,
I might comprehend the true nature of her character.

If I can shed this reptilian skin of guilt and shame,
I might one day sense the warmth of her heart.

I stand on a glassy ridge of an emotional divide,
To my left there are reflections of faces, events and places;

The foundation of all that has led me to my position.
To my right is an infinite chasm for the detritus of my life.

I stand frozen, praying for the courage to let it all go
For in holding attachment in place of clarity,
I shall never in a thousand years know who she is.

promenade (2005)

one word forward
and a pause

a breath, a moment
of calm

three words forward
half a moment back

a smile, a glance
into a stare

another smile
contact and exchange

stumbling feelings
wobbly statements

committed hesitation
hesitant willingness

Amanda (2004)

Amanda with the spirited smile
I see her eyes and face in the soul of another.

Her prance belies the fragile connection,
Between heart and spine, love and honesty.

(Americus, Georgia)

stranger in my dream

Malika
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

There are moments she comes to me through a shared piece of music. I am moved but then I am left to ask what happened to the person who moved me so? I am asked where are the people who stirred these emotions in me? Where and why aren’t they here now? I was a silent, still pool. They came and stirred the water and have left me to watch the ripples. Sometimes the ripples reverberate my own sorrow, my own loss of their continuing presence.

Rose River, Vietnam (2005)

This is the color of the river,
They call it red,
They call it pink

But it is the color of mud,

The hue of the toil of a million peasants,
A thousand year’s worth of tears
Pigmenting clay with the color of pain.

Firefly (2005)

for Jane

so i spoke to you
briefly
and it was a little strange.

you were distracted.
it was not like
one of our conversations.

but its fleetiness was nice,
it reminds me of
your evasive nature.

and even now,
i don't understand
why i put forth
so much effort

towards you.

Monk Initiate, Thien Mu Pagoda

Monk Initiate, Thien Mu Pagoda
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

Thien Mu (Heavenly Mist)

Facing North, river view
Realms cross in a muted fog
Still moments eternal

--

Cerulean prows wait
Silky waters lapping hull
Poised at will to leave

--

Monk initiate crouches
Washing leaves with mindful calm
Making tea for thought

Silence

The silence that is in his life
Is not a calm residing beneath.

The pillar that stands in sandstorms
Shows only pitted flesh on the inside.

The serenity that others sense
Are only moments at the end of

Contemplation and before self admonition.
There is a hollow work of faith

Still bound to an inherited hope and
Dearly afraid of eventual abandonment.

Hue (Vietnam)

Violet dusk descends
Last sundrops, faint mandala
smile still luminous

--

In summer splendor
Spring essence still lingers on
Cooling nights, calm water

--

Ming Mang’s other home
Moved earth for celestial pond
Faded visions in fog

(2005)

Fluid

From languid to fluid are her motions
From shoulder to spine she resettles
Herself like a sage feline in quiet repose

I’m in full acquiescence when she turns to me
Her eyes blink with the movement of butterfly wings
Revealing smoky eyes shivering like a rising moon

She gives an abrupt yawn, coming into alertness
She draws my attention, commanding my gaze
Into a timeless place where my self dissolves

With the expression of her eyes she takes from me
All that is not truly my own—feinted memories,
Misplaced doubts and unfounded fears

Her Botticelli smile shears away all illusions
She in my heart shows to me the difference
Between frail human desire and universal intent

Waiting

Dogwood blossoms
Or early spring snowflakes
I can’t tell the difference
Between the two sets of eyes

I try to hold so much hope
From that other verdant place
To this removed suburban hell

She always has the same eyes
I can’t find someone to teach
Me the difference between the two

I try to wait
I try to wait for changes
These tissues are strained
These tissues are tired

Six thousand years is long enough
They spread rumours of being a sage
But I just find broken bits
Torn and shredded, left along the riverbank

crossed fingers (2003)

for Amy

crossed fingers, long with
nails of velvety quartz

held at breath's touch,
hiding a smile

yet not fully covered,
not fully sheltered.

because the eyes speak a language
the mind can't ignore.

cameras can't capture it
artists can't render the likeness

all the poems of the world
have yet to describe

blue beyond the sky’s
ringed with night

quietly stirring,
almost imperceptibly

the life behind irises foresee
secrets that have yet to be

Paths*

The measure of the distance between a sunflower's petals
To the hive is written in the spin of a a bee's dance.

He has seen the dance and now searches
With finding the combs of sweetness.

It is a journey between realms, the distance between where he is
And where she resides is a pilgrimmage
Into forests and foliage unfamiliar and confusing.

He is timid about the sarabandes in his chest.

She darts boldly between trunks of arboreal giants.
A faerie she might me, her image is more a feeling,
Her form often escapes depiction.

It is more important that she trashes the air
In an equine manner that he might expect.

Unlikely but precious behavior for a whistling firefly
Carefree as an eagle feather floating beneath a verdant canopy

In another incarnation, they must have patterned each other’s courses.
Such unlikely crossing of paths don't happen in random.

*(Originally posted as prose in 2005)

Best Intentions (2006)

We think, we think
And in all we mean
It in the best of hearts

Yet we think and speak
Of places we’ve never been
Emotions we’ve never known

Mourn and be fake
Be real in the watcher’s eye
Cemetery daffodils always see truth

Conflicting Desires (2003)

Conflicting desires
For refuge and exposure

Like a frond in the breeze
Gently swaying

Not enough force
To push back on

Yet moving enough
To sense motion

It is the manner
Of an ambiguous heart

Choosing whether
To stay or flee

Remembering recent history
Yet not quite learning the lesson

the in betweens (2003)

between the last
words spoken

and the now
a space lingers

it's empty canvas
awaiting an image

a dotted line
without signature

between cornea
and retina

there are images
fleetingly held

emotional gems
in color

projected thoughts
wait for a screen

in a moment
urgency waits

what the eyes see
the heart learns

what the heart feels
paint the canvas

leaving forever
pigment engrained

for all the in betweens
of past and present

somewhere in a box (2003)

somewhere in a box
within a box
there are seashells
far away from their origin.

they lay in anticipation.
inside their hardness,
live the sound of seas

yet the blue sky
and salty water
are far from their lips.

these vessels, stolen
from their place
it seems, so long ago.

emotional milestones
of events unfolded.

now the sea's stones
are folded away
tightly from the light,

lying dormant until
new tides whisper intimacies
into their emptiness.

Soldiers (2004)

Shed tears for those who no longer can,
Their eyes still open,

Their bodies torn apart
By a war that should not be,

By a war that can't be won
These soldiers go to battle

Not to become heroes but victims
Dog pawns for a misled leader

Lifting his brows in reverie,
Bonded in thought at his ineptness.

Sedona (2006)

Grains of sand stirred up
Aguile wings leaving red earth
Spirit world waiting

--

Red feathers descend
Quest for spirit child unborn
In arms of old sage

--

Old pine, child of stone
Holds to cliff, watching time pass
Old world sadly fades

Vestiges I

The green sea and the blue sky
Stare at me with intent.
They mean to remind me of the difference
Between caring and loving.

The sliver of the horizon
Displays a thin contrast
But without explanation.

Perhaps the difference is us;
The turmoil and the tears
That we think are so important.

On land they are only dust,
At sea they are only swells,
Both vestiges of things abandoned.

Circles (2003)

there is a band wrapped around that finger
made of silver
it holds a life in waiting

there is a band wrapped around this finger
the color of pale skin
shaded from sunlight

longing passed between two
are like points in space
forsaken by time

two places in time
two places in space
seeking common ground

yet a band is a band
and while it can be a circle
circles rarely have lines that coincide

so what is to come and what has been
is often incomplete volition

Switzerland (2005)

Fall leaves underfoot
Roasted chestnuts, cold lake view
Swans on still water

--

Fondue and white wine
Laughter and friends long ago
My heart still holds close

--

Arcs of cobblestone
Narrow passageways in fog
Vacant marketplace

--

Old woman, seated
Leeks, carrots and fresh rabbit
Saturday market

--

Sleepy eyes, you have
Rise to smell of fresh coffee
Thoughts of bread and cheese

--

Leaving Montreux, late
You curled into me, night train
Come dawn, Venezia

Manhattan Beach (2004)

She sits crossed legged in front of her admirer
Friend, friend and even better, best friend
Practicing lines thinking of stage lights

It may be, it may be one day
We’re certain the pretty face will take her places
Hopefully places she wants to go
Hopefully places she wants to be
And in company she doesn’t despise

She sits straight faced in front of her audience
Attention, focus, boredom, three smiles
Playing the part comedic with dramatic intent

They can’t all be stars but there is light
They can’t all have light but they have money
It is a tinsel town and most of the lights
Are from reflections

Mainline

(after Deborah Christian)

He stirs in the stillness of his focus,
Not wanting to define the object of his attention

This strange connection, a wispy liaison
Between two pasts, main line and parallel

Sometimes it is like a leaf tensioned on water
One reflects and the other avoids rippling

From a distance there are not two
But one and its mirror image

Reflections themselves never lie
Unlike hearsay and emotions
Contemplating potentiality

Rumor isn't always disinformation
It is perception tied at the ankle to hope

In the plane between object and reflection
Is a sliver of truth infrequently acknowledged

Venezia

Empty vessel scorned
Forlorn heartbeat keeping faith
Seeking inner calm

--

Moon lights dark lagoon
Eight lost bronze horses watching
Lone cloaked muse passing

--

Vacant dim calle
Warm bare hands clasped tight
Some hands wanting flight

--

Bridge of sighs, above
Your scent, your warmth, grasping mine
This moment, none else

The Phone Call

You sounded tired
In the brief exchange of words

I can almost remember the expression
Of your eyes when you are that way

Miles of land are between us
Wrapped by a neverending ocean

Promise of future contact
Leaves me graced and hesitant

Without contact there is no resolution
Without resolution possibilities breathe on

Like a wandering albatross with an invisible leash
Like a freed spirit too afraid to vacate its haunt

Watering Hole (2006)

Her lips glow in just the right light.
Her mouth looks at you
Though her eyes follow something else.

A shadow in the midday sun.
Heat rays rising from the baked sandstone,
An artifact of your own desire.

There is no touch.
It’s a sense traveling by smell,
Something you don't understand.

Aromas of the savannah,
In this heat and later, below the stars,
You are as vulnerable as she wills.

You know it will kill you
Yet you come back to this watering hole,
Moon after sickle moon.

Buffalo Grass (1997)

Waves of silent green
Flows beneath our gaze

Sounds of the Dakota breeze
Shimmers through slivers of grass

Moment sensed
Moment kept

Time and distance later
Murmurs still pass through me

Like intimate whispers
Lingering in the mind's ears

Americus Spring (2004)

When I left town
The air tasted of frost

I have returned to
daffodils and narcissuses

Only three days have passed
Even Mother Nature

Can change as quickly
As the heart’s tide

Winter

Midway through this strange journey
I have found a new mistress guiding my desires.
Winter lays by my side like a
Slab of cold meat against a purple bruise.

She came to me without request.
She came to me undressed.
She stays in my presence with a siren’s will, deep as the ocean,
sensual and fluid, clandestine as a floe of ice.

She slows my pulse,
she chills my breath,
I yearn for warmth but
my pain fears abandonment.

She temps my lust,
she soothes my skin,
I yearn for freedom but
afraid of solitude.

Winter draws my will,
Shows me visions.
Winter fills my cup
with blood—the water of life.

She holds me in the dreams,
fearing Dawn might be my bride.
She keeps me in drunkenness,
Convinced the wakeful will destroy me.

The midnight can’t last forever.
The journey continues even as I lie
here staring into her cool eyes.
Snowflake irises perplex and fascinate.

Their grey shades of frost stretching to forever,
enclosed by almonds of white.
She expresses her purpose, weaves them
into my existence.

Her company is intrinsic,
as diamonds are made under pressure.
She thinks me as grains of charcoal,
ignoring that sometimes carbon is just dust.

Equine behaviour

Jane of the long dark hair turns away jesting
But searching equine eyes stay fixed on mine
She conjures on my face an unprecedented smile
Then changes direction again on a filly’s whim

Jane trots by my side, listens to my words
Nods, and says “I did!” in affirmation with a glee
She remains attentive while dodging lapping surf
And tossing her wild mane in the ocean breeze

Jane’s constant canter seem forever split
She offers an open hand while her toes dip in damp sand
She tempts my solitude with her affection
While the chanting that her allegiance is untrustworthy

Jane leaps and turns in a final gesture
In her signature fluid motion, in her hazy red aura
She leaves me interrupted, staring at the sun
I joltingly see that we two are a fractured trinity
Two of three parts remain in each others’ hearts
And the third, an equine spirit belong to none

Saigon

Saigon
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

Candy hued ponchos
Whirring spokes passing in view
One thought; rice and home

--

Light gleams on wet path
Sitting close, night eatery
Food, drink, smiles, laughter

--

Courteous smile glows
One root, two apparent worlds
Shyness? No, candor

orange woman (2003)

today i left the painting of the orange woman,
the one you called the elf queen,
to the care of our hairdresser, barbara.

she recognized it as your favorite painting.
i thought back and wondered
when had she seen it?
during one of our parties?
another time that i am not aware of?

perhaps,

that painting has been an icon for us
in some sort of way
for a long time.

now it faces a different space,
now neither of us are in its possession,
i will miss it
as perhaps you may have missed it,
the way that i missed you.

on the inside

from the candlelight
darkness wavered,
momentarily.

amber at the horizon
and deep blue high above.

i have left and perhaps
have come back, but to what
i have no conviction.

if this is a chance of change,
do i have the courage?

i could not have let this
sleeping dream waiting.

nothing keeps me from
the images as these points are
drawing futures of now.

memories keep themselves.
pain keeps their own,
but it is always on the inside.

Falcon and Dove

Morning comes as a falcon finds a fluttering dove.
Morning hungers for the feast of the day’s harvest.
She gives upon the chanting songbirds so enveloped

In their self directed sermon and convicts herself
To the choice of not desiring nor feeding on those
Beings who cannot see themselves.

Though their songs sound bright and glorious,
They are less than empty echos in their recitation
Of the litanies of a forlorn god.

Combustion

So his big mind
and godlike attitude
refuses the danger of his ego
and rolls into his own folly.

He curls up like a millipede,
affording himself protection
from the outside world but
incinerates from within.

Matias

Matias comes to me in my sadness
He purrs to the dropping of my tears

He knows and understands of things
Ican only begin to imagine

WhileI hold him the horizon exists
Yet he is the package and I am the bearer

Holding this heart that exists
In another creature

Failing to live simultaneously
De coeur et de corp

Marlene

White, amber and grey
Sculpted eaggs, rocky seashore
Crusty brine on stones

--

Cove within seacliff
Safe shelter of long ago
Her smile in my mind

--

So young, she was then
My best friend’s little sister
Now shows me wisdom

Siren and Phoenix

Originally uploaded by equusignis.

In Defiance of Fortune

Never think you fortune can bear the sway
Where virtue's force can cause her to obey.

– Elizabeth I (1533-1603)

sections

the hair clip
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

She sits crouched in the corner
on the floor down below,
in the first aisle of the bookstore.

Coal black hair trying to stray from
a baby plastic clip the color of green antifreeze
catching stray sunlight.

Alice Munro doesn’t quite do it for her.
She stands, shifts right, twists left hip forward
and stares at a Palakniuk cover.

Still unsatisfied, turning from the neck,
shoulders following, she flees the aisle
and glides over to non-fiction.

She lingers in my vision
for three sedate breaths and
disappears into classics.

The moment turns inside out
when she leaves my sight.
She is likely trading verses with
Beatrice in one of Dante's cantos.

ink

sometimes we look in reflections
to see what has passed behind us,
to see what in our past still remains
imprinted into the film that
separates present and past,
the molecular region where
we end and the outside begins

sometimes we look in reflections
in search of a mirrored essence,
hoping that real, drawn expressions
comes at least close to emotional sketches

sometimes we pray that the brilliance
of the lush hue of blood's crimson ink
has not given up life to a dried peat brown

In Difference

this one is dedicated to George W. Bush

Between midnight and twilight,
Somewhere here
Strange sounds emanate.
Voices of cultures we don’t acknowledge.

Somewhere here
In the darkness of prejudices
There is music we’ve yet learn to hear.

Frayed ends start with whipped lines,
Conscience in the guise of compliance.
Past is not past, it just is,
When faces remain in the shadow hungry
We learn to let the voices remain silent.

Denying infants milk is a learned behavior,
Giving a stump as aid is a learned behavior.

After all we are a learned culture
We know how to twist our backs,
Eyes looking at the television,
Fingers changing channels.

Hummingbirds

Heartbreaks never come as a convenience.

They roll through like hummingbirds
that decide the night is too long.

Too much energy, not enough nourishment.

They strain to stay awake as long as they can,
holding for dawn and risking the fall
frail fluttering wings that would blemish angels.

Heartbreak’s mortal beauty stirring.

The beauty of broken organs,
mortality make angels nothing less than God’s
personal, unwilling janitors of His perfect world.

the full sun

hi no moto
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

don't walk into the full sun

wait until there is cloud cover
wait until the air is moist
with the tears of a watchful god

be patient and watch for compassion
gently rising in the mist

cursive

cursive
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

sometimes it takes a real feather quill, sharpened with a blade in your own hands for true sentiments, true emotions unphased by reflection, the first thoughts of an unclouded, ignorant mind to come out...

vapors

oh father,
the water is wide and the fog lays low.
for so long now it seems,
i’ve been trying to find a way home
across desert plains and windy steppes,
over sharp peaks and through tree thick valleys.
now i’ve come to this last crossing
but there is no ferryman to give safe passage
and i’ve no coins to pay for my way.

oh father,
the water is wide and the fog seeps into my flesh
like a slow poison but it is so calming.
is this the end of a journey or the beginning of a new one?
i can’t tell where i end and life starts.
the guiding angels left a long time ago.

i’ve only an occasional abandoned feather to mark the path.
the feathers become quills which are the points
with which i scribble this story
this story will have more life than i.
the feathers pen letters constituting words,
bringing to life tales that i won’t be able
to take with me in this crossing.

on the other side, words don’t exist and
they tell me there is no pain.
the fog is so cold but so calming.
something this tranquil can’t be damning;
something this beautiful can’t be an end;
for a while perhaps, i’ll lie in life’s vapors.

doubt

doubt
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

sometimes you can't the expression for what you feel in yourself. sometimes the expression of that fleeting emotion exists in a face that is not real, scratches of a steel quill with other worldly ink, cross hatching that is reminiscent of terrible contradictions that live inside but are ever present and real enough, real enough for you to want to express. on the page and in that other world, the wind blows. you can't see the needles of snow in horizontal cascade but the inside of your skin feels it. so in that way, it is real.

The Moon and the Yew Tree

Sometimes the words of another, the words of an artist best speak the countenance that sits quietly within one's own heart. This is by Sylvia Plath:

The Moon and the Yew Tree

"This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritious mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence."

– Sylvia Plath

muse, flora, fauna

muse, flora, fauna
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

all these things live in mind at the moment, in the light of tides of those around me, those in confusion, those in fear. in that chaos, archetypes appear in my mind to help ease the spikiness and sharpness in the realities of others that encroach into my space...

of course

of course i hurt. how can one not hurt after being slapped in the face by those who were thought to be pillars of support for you? how can one not hurt when one is misjudged because of fear and misinformation? but that is the reality. reality is now, in this moment. in this moment this body still has breath and this heart and mind still feels, pain is just a reminder that you are still alive. sometimes it is a good thing.

Moving forward

"I can't go back into the past and change it, but I have noticed that the future changes the past. What I call the past is my memory of it and my memory of it is conditioned by who I am now. Who I will be. The only way for me to handle what is happening is to move myself forward into someone who has handled it." – from Gut Symmetries by Jeanette Winterson

Georgia

Four A.M., no sleep
Candles die in predawn light
No dreams, daylight soon

--

Unknown birds call out
Dogwood blooms in violet dawn
Waxing into light

--

Early summer stroll
Doused in crepe myrtle petals
Snow flurry in June

Grandpa

My life lost its breath
He slipped from me
Even after all those years

The man who showed me
Camelia from azalea
Magenta from cyan

He holds his feet firm
At the base of mountains
With head onward to the blue

Taste of fuschia
And smell of cut grass
Life has its smells
Love has its scents

Gloom

“gloom,” she said
not gloom as in bloom
nor spacious as in a room

not the space we keep private
not the face we avoid to show

grey and maybe dark
lacking the face of the moon
that is the kind of gloom she meant

i think

but in darkness of such a place
there is no sense in a big room
no buds in haste for spring

“in dark spaces we keep things
close and safe, protected.”
that’s what she said

i’m sure


after Sarah Arvio

Canyonlands II

A journey to fix us
After the deaths,
The breakdown and alcohol
The suspicion of a fairy tale’s end

In desperation
We became pilgrims
Not knowing emptiness
Has no material destination

In search of feelings misplaced
Hoping to find them intact
In fear of damage and mutilation
White knuckles on emotions
Looking for porcelain hearts,
Shapes that held affection

Among the trails,
Among deep red sandstone canyons
Once reliable organs became strangers
Sky, sand and thousand year old
Chips in ancient stone walls cast more beauty
Than our identities and how we came
To see one another

Love once held still held but hands
Once held each other lost their clasps
As romantic idealists, we held
That no obstacle could divide the bond

I held confusion, I held fear
I held for the last time
Faith that vows were real
And the rings would always
Remain in each other’s company

One person’s understanding
Can’t ever be another’s faith
It is a self reflective possession
Affecting and benefiting the beholder
Its power and paradox,
Non-transferrable even when floating
On an endless ocean of love

smiles to make you smile

eric and sara
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

little cousins

energy, boundless, tireless energy...

Blind

Because I do not turn

Cold winter day.
Grey skies wishing for desert winds.
These come from the seas, warm,
and arrive on cold shores.

Outside is the
The universe manifesting.
In here are hungry,
Slack shells of souls looking,
wanting, praying for the promises
of a negligent god.

Desperate,
Empty of awareness,
They seek salvation.
Blind to the usefulness
Of empty space, inside,
they carry on in faith.

Like their Maker,
Blind to their own jewel.

Bangkok

Recling Buddha
Gilded in gold, lies watching
Truth immutable

--

Chao Praya dawn
Your smile effervescent
Lychee on your lips

--

Sea of coal black heads
My stupa in blond locks here
Far, I will follow

Bamboo

I refuse to be out of faith
I don't care what they old wise men say.
If I were their wives,
I would whip them out of their double skin.

I am a product of something without balance
And so now I am out of balance
But that is all going to change.

I am going to learn the lessons
Passed from the little women
In our history

I'm going lose that shell.
I am going to lose that fragile thick shell.
I am going to lose that manly man stance.
I am going to stand like the way the bamboo would.

I am going to stand the way my mother

Stands

The way she stands in a cyclone
And kisses the wind of heaven.

Birthday

28 October 2001...

Kirala was one of our favorite sushi places
The hostess remembered us even after the long absence
As we ducked into the lobby, out of the chill

On the drive there, I wondered what would make
The evening a nice experience—it was my birthday
It had been the longest span since that

February in New York that we had been apart
You looked wonderfully glowing but hesitant
Like a moth choosing between light and flame

The steaming miso warmed me inside
But we never got past agedashi tofu
In the rhythm of our conversation

The space between our sentences was
As fresh and cold as that night’s otoro;
Precious and tasteful but seeming misplaced

The aesthetic presence of the meal; a metaphor
Four our odd situation but as yet unaware
The attraction and nourishment for heart and soul

Was in the paradox of sushi’s delicate beauty—
The sensual contact on the palate of uncooked, raw fish

song

it is another song
that brings gone people back.
i can barely listen
to the melody and rhythm.

they are traces,
beats of something
i've tried to banish
without success.

memory is a thing
that brings something
which does not exist
right now into reality.

it changes your countenance
into things you have
never imagined possible.

even darkness and
closed eyes do not help.
even in the night
the sights are there
behind reluctant eyelids.

even in the darkness
the voices still stir
something inside of you.

silicon valley fashion accessory #37, part 2

So it has been about a year since I posted about the bluetooth wireless headset thing. Specifically, how silly it seemed for people to go around with this funny looking thing hanging on the side of their head even when they aren't on the phone. Moreover, how incredible silly it is when people use the product as a symbol of prestige or wealth or in some cases, astronomical and almost superlative attraction to geeky gadgets that potentially put them ahead of the social-techno elite...or something like that.

In any case, after much observation I have found that in almost 9 out of 10 ten cases it is always men who wear these headsets as a fashion accessory. It makes me want to do a field trip to say, Milan or Paris to see if this is in fact a male thing or if it is an American male thing (like the big chrome wheels with spinners. The person who invented that should be duct taped to a windmill in Northern Netherlands facing the North Sea).

However, in a moment of epiphany a great idea came to me that could be a rather interesting book and/or documentary...the subject could be:

"The Evolution of Product Design: the evolution of a product from basic utility to vanity support in case studies."

I've got a thesis idea for grad school!!!! Hah, the irony of it leaves a metallic taste in my mouth. Or is that blood?!

living in memory

Scene:
Sitting in a cafe sipping tea. Woman walking out the door, talking to person behind counter, "I'm so sick of this rain. It won't stop."

observation:
People so easily fall into the habit of complaining about the gloomy, rainy weather that they turn their behavior shallow and transparent. They fail to see the beauty of the swirling droplets of moisture in the light breeze, backlit by the early morning sun. They fail to see the gorgeous, soft hints of violet at the edges of the not too distant clouds and how they look against the luminous white and silver strata of suspended water. It is a subjective reality and they limit themselves to the perceptive lens of other people's misplaced and misfounded expectations of how they should see the world. They are living in the reactions of someone else's memory. C'est dommage...

grandpa

oh old departed man
everytime i look at certain plants
their blooms and foliage

bring you back to me
i see you in the garden
bent over feeding the glorious white roses

you have not left me at all,
not as i thought
like the old monk said,

"death is only a notion,
a human notion"
i've been listening to this

intuition inside of me,
wondering from where it comes
wondering of its vibrant, almost violent

intensity like the color
of a crimson rose bleeding into white
i am realizing it is still you

inside of me, you still teaching
i should have known you had
not finished the lessons yet

firefly

it was a stranger in the crowd
someone passing by, a glance, an impression,
an almost encounter that brought visions of firefly

briefly but vividly
triangulated between
the eyes, the brain and the heart

the pools of her dark eyes
loomed in my field like
the black sea under a new moon

how could such titan eyes
be supported by the waif like frame?
how does the smile below those eyes

move my being more than
three hundred gods
in six thousand years?

the vision of firefly departed
as quickly as it came,
my internal triangle unable to hold

her presence like the giant
tanks of chemicals buried by
scientists trying to capture neutrinos

daffodils

today the pear blossoms looked so odd against the cold dark sky
spring says it is her time but winter still holds with jealously,
not willing to let go of the hues of her shadows

the cedars and the spruces remain indifferent to the conflict
since they bear their green with pride in all seasons
to the edge of arrogance

meanwhile in this bitter cold
the daffodils smile as they do,
smile their best smiles when they populate

the resting places of worm eaten bodies and
bones usurped by young apple trees

petals

what have i done?
have i set something in motion
that was not yet to be?

have i thrown a stone into a silent
pool and changed the universe?
a universe like a child not yet ready to grow?

have i torn the rose petals of affection
and skewered them onto their own thorns?

cold

behold, i am become cold
i am become the cold that has been in my heart
the shards of ice that has pierced my flesh
is no more because i am become the floes of ice
that wanders the endless oceans

i am in love

what does that mean?

it means i see a vision that gods can't explain. it means my heart is suddenly in the shape of someone else. this other person, she has changed the way i see the world. she has changed the shape of my heart. i have found my form. she has found my destruction. in my way. in my heart, i am destroyed. i am doomed.

i am in love.

Morning

Morning comes with stillness.
Droplets of dew still remain on the vines,
Lazy moisture cling to the edges of burdened leaves
Heavy with the weight of heaven’s tears.

Redolent angels cry only in the human night.
Redolent angels fear to reveal heaven’s confict
To those who steadfastly believe in celestial rumors.
Eons pass without success,

Even angels give up telling the truth
And let rumors be accepted as reality.
Being God’s messengers doesn’t make enduring
A codependent parent any easier to bear.

beauty

there is a little something
of beauty in all of the little moments
that i have in my days

there is a little something
of beauty in smiling at a stranger
and having her return the look

it is in the shifting of the wind,
the whirl of a moving leaf

it is in the momentary hold
of someone else’s lips

it is in the look of wonderment
in the face of an innocent child

in a moment, i am reminded
of why i hang on in this miserable life

in a moment, i am reminded
of the jewels of the mundane

in a moment, i am reminded
of the beauty of your smile

blossoms

blossoms flutter in the spring wind

she refuses the breath of winter
she is angry of my affair
the way i caress ice
and the way ice melts in my touch

blossoms throws me petals
the way crèpe myrtle snows in spring
the way white flecks color my smile

but i am in love with winter
winter shapes her ice in my form
freezing me to the form

of a belonging that
she finds in me without my consent

flecks

i know the flecks in the sun of her eyes.

they are the dark spots from which
solar flares will erupt.

emotions that throw themselves,
coming from below the surface
of wistful intent painted vermillion.

i know the flecks in the sun of her soul.

they are the instructions for what
my will is subject to.

emotions that throw themselves
at a receiving hollow receptacle
filling human void with
something cosmically alien.

Middle Ground

what is the middle ground
when a heart draws

from the inside
what the eyes see?

an expression

not quite formed
in a stranger's eyes

that you suddenly
understand?

something once thought
beyond ability

glancing of words

last night, what started as a perfectly normal and balanced conversation became another "glancing of words." however, i must be learning because i processed through the event afterward and found that i was able to understand it and let it go because it was not really mine to own. little victories.

Beynac. 1997

It was a steep climb on the cobblestone street
To the precipitous seat of Chateau Beynac.
What were we thinking on such a warm day?
At the base, we laughed at a wooden sign
In front of a bakery that read “PAiN.”

Later, following the narrow winding streets
We turned a bend and were rewarded with
An unusual, amusing sight; against a low
Stone wall was an exuberant splash of color.
There hanging was a strange fruit;
A melon sized squash of blood orange hue.

I stooped beneath the dangling orb,
Looking at it against the powder blue sky.
It was a form of nature’s perfection
Against a clear robin’s egg heaven.

You smiled at me with a smile
An adult uses with a child when in wonderment.
I’m sure you thought the sparkle in my eyes
Was due to what my playful vision discovered.

Little did you know the perfection of the moment
Was actually your heartful’s reaction to my childishness.

Amboise, 1997

We stood on the old ramparts of ancient Amboise
Looking northeast upon the Loire.
Late morning's light hung like lazy haze
Shining on the endless tree lined shore.
It was a view from another life
Momentarily shared by our other lives.
You watched as I rummaged through the
Backpack for our lunch, smiling.
We ate a simple meal; bread, cheese and fruit.
A little communion coming to be,
A humble treasure of this universe.
But not as precious as the strands of gold
Absently disturbed by a rising breeze
And finding their resting place on your brow,
Crowning the wistful hazel and amber in your eyes.

vestiges

band with sapphire heart
now rests in old jewel box
old soul, new karma

--

in times, i wonder
the tale of her hazel eyes,
hollow of my heart

--

this face in my sleep
so thoughtful in her intent
holds to linger, still

nocturne

four twenty eight a.m.
silence and darkness.
outside, palm fronds fray
against grieving shutters.
through broken stained windows
venetian blinds hum and heave
melancholy meowing chords.
on the floor, bands
of pale gauzy light
elaborate bruised, empty fractures.
a passed over geography
of pitted terra cotta tiles.
wait. wait wantingly and the moment
will come when the waning
senses surrender to calm
and sweet slumber deftly
persuades the wrinkled mind to
uncoil the body into dreamless repose

buddhist nun ringing bell

buddhist nun ringing bell
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

she calls me after midnight to give me a pep talk. she tells me that i've never let her down, that i was a good husband and always a good provider. she tells me that it was never about me, it was about her and i had no control in it. the irony of it, almost five years after the fact. how am i supposed to respond? she tells me that her boyfriend has the utmost respect of me. how am i supposed to respond to that? is this some kind of weird closure? she tells me that it is up to me to get up and go, that i've not lost anything. if anything, it has just been dormant. what the hell?

it seems trite but it is appropriate:

"Up, down, turn around; please don't let me hit the ground
Tonight I think I'll walk alone; find my soul as I go home

Oh it's the last time, oh it's the last time

Each way I turn
I know I'll always try
To break the circle
That has been placed round me..."
--Moby

Inferno: Canto I

Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say
What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,
Which in the very thought renews the fear.

--Dante

places

why is it that you have such a hard time getting angry with the people you love?

why can't you simply say things like "you lied to me," "you really didn't mean that," etc...
we cant't accuse those we love so easily huh? well fuck me!

even after years and the facts are clear, you can't even find the strength to make the accusation. doesn't that just drive you penguins? well i think it turns me into an anchovy to be a quick snack for some tuna. i'm going to turn into fish fodder in monterey bay. it will be my way of being close with nature.

i can't even run. there is nowhere to go lest i opt for the artic or the serengeti. i think the jackals would like me better or perhaps the walruses. i belong in extremes. these middle grounds have nothing for me nor do they want me here. i am a danger to all.

rain

today the skies agreed with my mood. steely blue grey with streaks of rain. now only if i were in scotland.

taste

moments exist between the lines that we speak
tonight it is the place where i find myself

pointing out the obvious is fruitless
and placing blame brings no resolution

so i sit in the wind and wait for rain
wait for something to wash away this grime

knowing that family is not something
one gets out of, not cleanly at least

it is the plague of genealogy
the fascination of one looking for roots

our roots may be common but they bear
very different fruits indifferent to taste

so is my taste to change?
how does one tell one's heart to change in taste?

tonight tonight

tonight i am alone, not just alone but lonely. i feel far away from all that mean anything to me. my only comfort is the sound of music in a language that i don't fully understand. it is the language of my birthplace but my relationship with it is touch and go. it may be a sign that i need to go home.

the songs stir something inside of me but i can't quite put my finger on it. they leave me with a general impression of being misplaced. probably accurate.

in this state, i draw images. i draw and draw, not knowing where these images, these faces are from but i keep on drawing. drawing helps keep me from the things i should not be dwelling on. it is the only thing that works. there are strange faces and strange animals in this realm but they are helping to keep my mind on track. well, on track for what i can't say but it is better than losing my mind!

so the graphite goes to paper and forms appear, i wish life could be so simple...

restless in suburbia

ten things i'd rather be doing:

1. hanging by two fingers on a rock at joshua tree

2. sitting at a cafe eating raw oysters in the 6th arrondissement in paris

3. taking a road trip on the alaskan highway

4. fishing for trout in the eastern sierras

5. getting lost in mid-town manhattan

6. sitting atop a staircase at angkor wat, cambodia watching the sunset

7. talking to strangers in some dive in copan, honduras

8. quiet time inside of the cathedral at st. bertrand de comminges

9. watching the stray cats at the old roman coliseum at arles

10. eating a crepe from the street vendor on rue cler

i think there is wanderlust building up in me...

on my mind today

today, this poem rings in my head like a litany. i don't know why, perhaps it is cyniscism but i don't really believe there is such a clean answer or reason.


The Shortest Distance
by Erin Lambert

Perhaps the dead long for light, long for the sky and stars.
Why we fold them in boxes, shelve them neatly in rows
six feet beneath a world they lived long enough to die in,

I do not know.

I thought as a child that the hell-bound had it easy,
already down there, not much distance to go.
Those in limbo could rest awhile, stretch their bones
back into the earth and fashion new lives from memory;
live ten thousand lives in dirt and darkness.

But who can help those deserving heaven?

Even the statues turn away; angels with eyes lifted
or heads bent in prayers for the living because soon enough,
our turns will come. They try not to hear the dead who are good
tossing in their graves with desperate talk: Which way is up?
Was that a crow this morning?

Because the good are perfect, they are not tortured by memories
so they forget themselves. They lie with the damned
and those left to wonder, who try to give directions with talk of love
and light, the shortest distance between ground and sky. Remember God?
Those in waiting ask the good who, dumb as dirt, stagger for the answer
to a god too distant to wake the dead.

fireflies

fireflies

they skirt in settling air
of the evening sky
with boundless energy

in sudden twists,
in blazes, in bursts,
invisible paths of
fading luminence

wings soflty humming
rhymes in motion
ghostly melodies

night sky is the stage
the firefly is the player
the plot a challenge
to meet destiny

if one could follow a muse
if one could follow the spirals
an ephemeral trail of lights

fickle skies

today the sky was fickle. it started with the familiar grey windy and damp airs of autumn and then the sun broke through and took the morning. typical california. it reminded me of the things i hate about los angeles even though i'm 500 miles away. the bright autumn sun made me restless. it made me want to be outside on the side of a mountain when i could not. i am not fit for suburbia. it is killing me.

2:46am

somewhere out there i know the sun is rising. in this place, i am caught between wanting to be in the safety of darkness and the renewal of morning's light. i have no knowledge of how to make such a decision. i have no knowledge of what these primal urges inside really mean. it is a language that i've never learned. at the middle of my life, the basics of love and hate are alien to me. how have i gotten this far? all i know are to stay or run. how do they translate? have i always been this way? i don't remember. i thought i knew what feelings were. i guess i was wrong. so now i have to learn. another language to learn, i am good at languages. however, this language involves a grammar that has no rules; a vocabulary that has no etymology. all i have to use is the bareness of my heart, a pencil and a paintbrush for those moments and phrases where all i can do is to paint a picture.

...

an hour and forty six minutes past midnight.

i am wide awake and conscious of the hurricane that lives inside of my head. i feel like new orleans looking at walls of grey with specks of blue. at least there are specks of blue, it is just a matter of getting there.

i can't say that i know what seeing walls of grey really means. my sense is that i don't like it. it won't kill me or anything like that, i just don't like them. not that i am a blue sunny sky person either, i just want to know what the in between is. right now, it feels like a state of teetering between the here and now and the there and far away. my flight instinct is going through its checklist though there is no destination. what does that mean?

i surprise myself by seeing how blunt i am about what is going through my head in this medium. i think it is an exercise for me to face myself, if that makes sense. it is really not a confessional. it is more of a conviction or commitment so that i stay my course whatever course i decide on. strange and roundabout way of doing things i admit but sometimes that is what it takes. it does no good to be confessional and to trash your limbs about in saying what you are going to do. it is better to put it down somewhere that is not secretive and then go do it. now i just have to figure out the details of what i'm doing...

shells

Shells
by Kathleen Raine

Reaching down arm-deep into bright water
I gathered on white sand under waves
Shells, drifted up on beaches where I alone
Inhabit a finite world of years and days.
I reached my arm down a myriad years
To gather treasure from the yester-milliennial sea-floor,
Held in my fingers forms shaped on the day of creation.

Building their beauty in three dimensions
Over which the world recedes away from us,
And in the fourth, that takes away ourselves
From moment to moment and from year to year
From first to last they remain in their continuous present.
The helix revolves like a timeless thought,
Instantaneous from apex to rim
Like a dance whose figure is limpet or murex,
cowrie or golden winkle.

They sleep on the ocean floor like humming-tops
Whose music is the mother-of-pearl octave of the rainbow,
Harmonious shells that whisper forever in our ears,
The world that you inhabit has not yet been created.

cold from another place

the weather changed today. it was very un-californian. when i stepped into the hotel lobby and prepared to walk out to get some food, i realized it was like a cold rainy autumn evening in switzerland. the ground was littered with damp maple leaves. the air was fuzzy with light streaks of rain.

it didn't look real, more like someone put a motion blur filter on the air in photoshop.

the lobby door was actually closed. i put on my jacket and walked through the door into the cold of a different place. i wished i was in the other place that the cold remined me of, but that is far from here. it must be the figh or flight reflex. or maybe it is just avoidance behavior! something i might have picked up from someone i momentarily became enamored with *grin*.

i would confirm that but that person has disappeared!

i'm trying hard to amuse myself.

the walk in the light rain across the street, passing the parking lot and into the alley then onto the next street to the restaurant was refreshing though. i didn't mind the rain at all. well, i never do. not ever since living in scotland, how could i?

i walked into a new vietnamese restaurant and sat down. ordered my usual dish, i wondered how this new place would make it. it was quite good. it was slow so the chef came out and sat down. we chatted and ended up talking for over an hour. we traded stories about our last trips home to the old country. we talked about the restaurant business and cooking, it was a nice conversation. he even broke out some special lotus tea he brought back from vietnam on his last trip. it was a good experience. it relieved my restlessness, at least for a short while.

it made me realize how much i need to meet new people constantly. i think i am a social nomad...

need for change

i am at the cusp of the end of one chapter of my life and start a new one. there is a sense of relief because at this point i feel so broken. it is not that i am in pieces. i am still in one piece but it doesn't feel like it is a healthy one piece. so change needs to happen, where it will take me i do not know. i only know i've slowly become someone i don't remember. maybe i'm schizo or have multiple personalities, i really don't think it is anything that exotic. i've just lost something and i need to figure out what it is i've lost and why and how to replace it or regain it. in any case, change is the only certain thing and i'm looking forward to it whatever it might be.

hues

they called this morning
they called this evening
trying to bring me back to sanity

i think it was their colour of sanity
i was trying hard to understand
like sifting through three or four languages

it tired my soul
so i opted for sleep
but instead there was another world

with the complexity of colours
all my history replayed
a whirl of hues i can't escape

00:14

so it is a litlle a little past midnight.

and i'm sitting here eating granny smith apples sprinkled with salt and watching "collateral" by myself. it is probably not a good example of social behavior.

i could get philosophical about this but it is probably a bad idea.

milestones vs. flagstones

so i come close to another milestone, one of those milestones that happen whether we want it or not. this one is called a "birthday." so called birthdays are always strange creatures as far as events go, they are are often like relatives. they are often "love/hate" relationships. when you are young, they are love relationships. as you get older, they gain more and more of the "hate" relationships. sometimes, we do this as a matter of following the flow of the river. at other times, standing in the stream and wondering if you should really flow that way is a matter of personal choice. in either case, it can be difficult to really know which way you are tending toward. how does one really know which side of the stream one is loyal to?

this brings me to ask which side qualitatively is more the real me. of course then i have to ask what is the real me, it is odd to have gone this far in life and not to really know intuitively which is which. the budhhist in me says to see it for what its true nature is and let it go. it is probably the most peaceful solution but one that is not easily grasped by the emotional part in me. isn't that strange? isn't strange that the most simple and elegant solution is often the most difficult one to attain? isn't strange that attaining something like that is often so subtle that often effort put forth is simply an obfuscation of the end? perhaps in that there lies the lesson that it is not about the goal but the process. perhaps in that i have come to lean too much toward where i should be as supposed to how i'm supposed to be stepping toward that next slab of stone that is the moment in which i'm in. perhaps that is what i forget, i need to step onto the flagstone of the moment and try to clearly see what is the next stone i am aiming at.

single moms

so i'm sitting in front of this deli this afternoon enjoying my lunch and this woman (dressed nicely in a suit skirt and red wool sweater, black hose and heels) comes out of the place walking away from me and says back into the deli, "all single moms are poor!"

uh, i didn't know quite how to react to that...

it's a wrap

today i completed a project i started in april...yay!

i think i still have all my limbs and most of the same brain cells i started with...?