wandering words

There are so many messages I can't interpret.
The hundred maples at the edge of my street shout orange, orange,
orange, in silent voices. And may say more if I could decipher.

How I want to understand the many calls of the birds migrating through
on their long journey. And what is the message of the shaggy
wave-curled sea quarreling around the black rocks out at the far point?

Perhaps words themselves wander off into other fields, like sheep lost
in the depths of the hills beyond the local hills so the shepherd has to
go climbing up and down, his legs aching, his breath heavy
in his chest until he spies them off there under

that far evergreen, and wrestles them down and brings them home.
 - Patricia Fargnoli
Pastoral
Then, Something
zen humanism
journal of a nobody
a poet reflects

tomita park, asahikawa

enter 
face 
stone basin water temple
clap hands three times

throw water
on grey stone guardian lions

red, orange, yellow leaves
fall 

into sky mirror reflections
escaping fresh snow dust 

old people shuffle along earth path
wearing intricate kimonos

designed by
stone 

Asahikawa loom creators 
weave wool season colors
into old mountain fabrics 

protecting brown bear families 
preparing their winter solitude

bow low 
o mountains
o west wind
o glorious lions 
at the entrance 

 

sacred contracts

When she was ten she was forced to witness a relative torture her cat to death.

The cat was put in a bag and buried under her house.

She had never been under there.

One day she crawled under the house and found the soft dirt. She left it alone. 

Later, she was the victim of sexual abuse.

As a woman she dreamed where, as a child, she was surrounded by women in a sacred circle until she lost all her fear, all energy to them. 

She knew she chose her parents in this world. She carried their pain.

As a child she forgot by looking forward. 

slow down the world

Women laugh, cut, cook, stack fruit, chat,
Gossip, feed fires with kindling and charcoal,
Chop meat, caress greens, forget their troubles,
Remembering families far away near mountains and rivers
Under a sheltering sky.
I don't know and I don't care, said a laughing market woman,
Pouring batter into tin cups for baking
Confections and coconut balls above her fire.

elevation

Cool temps in wild west town.
Footprints in dust.
The sky is crying.
Goggle motorcycle man comes into town with a load of fresh greens.
Hmong girls sell on sidewalk.
We have everything we need.
We grow rice, ginger, beans, peanuts, peppers, bananas,
Squash, sugar cane, corn, papaya, cucumber and sweet potato.
Life is sweet.
We carry our abundant world in a wicker basket.