A World Beyond Reach

Postcards taped to walls

Viewing the world from a kitchen chair

Sights and sounds in the background

His imagination creating vivid memories

 

Tales to be told

Of misadventures not to be had

Recalling conversation never spoken

Yet voices clear and vivid as if yesterday

 

Rustic tapas on small plates

Bottles of wine from out of the way vineyards

The pallet’s memory just as strong

Of flavors never before savored

 

Distant gazes interrupted

Two worlds collide, bring him back

Staring at pictures on walls

A reminder of a world beyond his reach

From Time to Time I Count

From time to time I count

And discover the days ahead catching the days behind

One day these counts will change places

The days will begin to slide faster by

How many rain drops per second?

Counting breaths per moment in time

Clocking the speed at which the breeze flows

Slowing down moments, enjoying every small drip of life

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Originally posted August 17, 2015

Self-Portrait of Confusion

Paint brushes dripping with paint

Thrown splashes spattered on a wall

Two hands moving at a furious pace

A portrait of my confusion revealed for all to see

 

Arms tiring

Mind racing

Colors changing

The confusion remains unchanged

 

Spent and exhausted I sit

Laying back, wall staring – trying to make sense of it all

Not sure if I can read through the tea leaves

Looking for a fresh canvas to start all over again.

 

Tip Toeing Across Wet Cement

The sound of new keys added to key rings

Porch lights turned on for the very first time

Rooms filled with unopened boxes

Eating take out dinner on the floor the very first night

 

Fresh morning steps implanted in new neighborhoods

New faces, new places – greeted with smiles

Unfamiliar street names and storefronts before me

Leaving a trail of bread crumbs to find my way back home

 

Home – I like the sound of that

 

Inhaling new beginnings

Exhaling a breath of new life

Tip toeing across wet cement

Patiently taking my time settling in

 

Pilgrimage

A long walk across the country side

 

Silently watching –

Old men with red capes, fighting imaginary bulls

Trees with long branches, ripened figs falling to the ground

A gypsy celebration, dancing as a crowd claps in unison

Small piles of ash along the roadside, a man on his knees reciting a prayer

 

Quietly listening –

Echoes bouncing off courtyard walls, left behind by anonymous strangers

A mother’s soft lullaby that crossed paths with the wind

Wheat fields harmonizing, following instructions from the breeze

My father’s voice in my head, recalling conversations when I was young

 

At journey’s end

Releasing burdens from the past

Replaced with scenes of a long walk

New found meaning from sights and sounds

Content to return home

 

Stowaway Day Dreams

Stowaway day dreams

Healing across the sea

Sending postcards with exotic stamps

From half a world away

 

Whispered calm reassurance

Wander’s soothing voice cooing in my ear

Courage waning, hesitation growing

Catching dreams with gaping nets

 

No walls, nor gates

No shackles to restrain me

Invisible hands reaching out of sidewalks

Tight grips cementing me in place

 

Set sails, open waters

Lost horizons from the shore

Tomorrow is another day

To paint this day dream once again

 

Diving for Ayu Memories

Standing on a rock

Overlooking the river below

Upstream an old man is fishing for ayu

I hope my splash does not scare away the fish

I lean forward and jump

Questions about the depth of the river

Disappear as I cut through the water

The cold water awakens my senses

I don’t appreciate the freedom that youth brings

At least not at this moment

On shore the old fisherman has started a fire

Fresh ayu pierced with long sharp sticks found on the shoreline

Salted on both sides

He cooks them over the fire

Each side getting their due

He hands me a savory stick

I take my first bite

The freshness of the beautiful ayu

Is only matched

By today’s memory

A wonderful time of younger days

.

Originally posted August 5, 2015

Two AM at a Diner

Two AM at a diner

Sitting at the counter

A fan blows left, then right

Its hum blending with a radio

Singing seventies songs in the background

Hair in a bun

Tired lines of age litter her face

She scribbles my order on a notepad

Staring vacantly out the window

Thoughts of anywhere but here on her mind

The clinking sound of a man stirring his coffee

Elsewhere, yesterday’s newspaper rustles, turning a page

The bell rings as another lone customer enters the diner

We are separate

But we are the same

Outside a street lamp’s dull light

Hardly illuminates the street below

The cold cracked pavement leads elsewhere

The wind tugs at my arm

Inviting me to go

I stand

Leaving bills on the counter

My order uneaten, nor received

The sound of the bell rings again

As I leave quietly into the night

.

Originally posted August 2, 2015