He said he would like to farm one day, spend
the remaining of his life bearing with the land.
This man I admire so much for kindness
my own dark heart slows its pace.
It has been nearly a decade now since last
we spoke. I continue to echo his words,
writing is word made flesh.
Perhaps, after all, I've heeded the calling
no matter in another form. Quiet mornings
by the window such as this, I think it is
the lonely sailing that I feel. At seventy
I would like to stay very close to the sea,
see all the time the horizon all will cross
on the given day.
photo by J.Quintos
Let me tell you about my restlessness, the uncertainty
of my leaving because dearly I wanted to that I am
afraid the dividing line that will be the news. Two worlds.
At the moment, there is nothing beyond September
those days that are steps toward a cliff of two bridges
one must I take given the word. What word. Not one
of us now says a thing, both waiting, while things away
making endless strings of short travels: points A to B;
A to C; A to D etcetera where the sea is a moving part.
Roger says I am ready now, I am. Am I? Of course,
there is no better time than now. This year no longer
than necessarily so being a turnstile in the middle
this road that is now as lived. We do not say what needs
not be said. I hold you close in mornings that I repeatedly
memorize even as I know I cannot forget.
When finally I will meet you,
I imagine there will be
nothing to utter and many
distances to cross.
Each of us a world
too long alone on its own,
making and conversing
with bird shadows on walls.
We will be right across
each other on the table,
wondering how it all
has come to this, singular
moment of meeting.
To begin the real knowing
is to begin the crossing
from whichever previously
we know as real or unreal.
How will I say the first word.
How will we begin
What can be shared but what I can tell you and you, me
The burden words have to carry, a weight in universe
To ferry across the tide of nothing, myself to you and you to me
No matter the truth it battens: no such thing that matter
Truly can be shared. For what is love, but two lonelinesses
holding hands in the dark.
after J.Garcia
Who are we but merely
the sum of things
Nothing more than a passing
dust
Many believe to be
eternal in another form
Among others intangible
love and soul
Are we the unnameable
merely
A force in relation to
all love
photo by Y. Schneidt
The existential questions do not end.
I began asking when I was twelve
would I be the same, I asked mum,
were my name different,
had I liked things different.
It was summer on way to gran's;
my favourite shirt on: Sydney
because it fit perfect, was light
blue green embossed sea and sky.
And there was hibiscus blooming
the walkway to gran's; when I looked
up the sky was sea the clearest hue.
And I understood that
maybe it didn't matter at all.
photo J.Yap
One long marriage after, do you still believe?
I want to, if still possible now. But I am no
Longer the same from that many years ago.
What has been broken, remains
Weathered and less than the one who dreamt.
Who still dares to tread the narrow?
The young, the fool, the brave.
I watch them admirably, listening to
The pounding of my own unbelieving.
