Connecting Lives

out
side
a
new
sense:


Streets of shops,
a child's music box twirling plastic ballerina's
and old tin pictures of dreams in half-tones
I acquire a mysterious connection,
passing from one person to another --
my mind wanders back to an old record player,
thick rubber disks,
crackling background sounds -


looking for the restroom --
scents of old wood and warm dust
crowd narrow aisles

mildewed books, bent tins and pipes,
askew upon a man's dresser,
down the last aisle,
outside again ,
sunshine and fresh air
follow me into the next shop,
stuck in a corner,
display cased jewels,
an old torn box of single beads
haphazardly thrown together
amber and black glass,
Venetian mosaic and Turkish tasbeh,

old worry beads -
three times a day
pennance prayers now cold
to the touch

an antique dresser and a tiny wooden box edged in brass,

a young girl's locket,
my fingers reach
for the small heart
just beyond ;
secrets

overhead chandelier stars twinkle,
reflected in uneven waves
of antique mirrors, holding deep,
ancient skies and distant planets,
the sparkle of tiffany lamps,
splashes of sunset in dust
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Barefoot to the Graveyard

"Where . . . have all the flowers gone? We have picked them. . . every one."
When will we learn ?

Scales of bells call me to temple,
I leave my shoes and walk
barefoot to the graveyards
now empty. . .covered.. . .
in shame
I carry all the flowers. . .
back. . . each. . . and. . . every. . . one.

upon barren fields
rain falls and falls and . . .a baby cries out

When you enter the temple you remove your shoes. This is symbolic of leaving the outer world behind. The work of the temple is rich in symbolism, as symbolism is the language of spirit. By removing the shoes the souls of the feet are revealed and the revealing of the soul is the purpose of coming to the temple.


sung by Marlene Dietrich -"Where Have All the Flowers Gone:
"Rose - Generalife" - Kev Ryan

"Round Corners

Dusk moves into darkness. Creeping along the path up to the old barn door...rusty hinges squeal and squeak. We hold our breath. Daring each other, peeking 'round corners up to the loft through cobwebs rewoven, over to the window. Broken and jagged panes. Now huddled together with our hair tucked into baseball caps, three more pairs of eyes watching. Then a sudden stirring from the rafters. One by one bats glide through that window out into the moonlit sky.


sunrise gleans the sky
a shiny red truck
left in the sandbox

Squeaky Clean

Time for school. Morning sighs from three small children, as I adjust thetemperature of the shower. Paul is always first.Barely awake he removes his pajamas and sleepwalks into the gentle spray. Ishampoo his hair and then lather him with the body scrubber, a large softnetted ball. He is transformed into a mass of bubbles. From within this mass, afirm voice, speaks in monotone syllables and quite politely says,"Thank you for scrubbing my eyeballs."


morning traffic--
driving into the sun
behind a big yellow bus

China Wind

Sunrise, a pink rainbow vanishes in the depths of a conch shell capturing songs at sea, children race in windy spring meadows abloom with mustard flowers, their straw hats bob.China winds, the din and throngs of city streets, wafting from outdoor cafes steamed pu-erh with rose*, summer's fresh cut grass, picking wild strawberries, the thick green scent of the woods and sunsets.


faint cry...
a mountain shrike
lost in the mist

Wild Poppies

It is one of those afternoons where the air hangs stiff and the leaves on the trees look like a 'monet' painting. I step into this surreal world, as the only moving part. The cemetery rows are all nice and neat; some headstones are flat and plain, while the mausoleums have ornate carvings of stone flowers that have ceased to color the landscape.

Every day at the same time I walk my Doberman through the long tree columned entrance that divides into four sections, like a weather vane pointing to some unknown destination that could change without notice. Around the edges of each sector are the graves of military men and women: as ifkeeping watch over some unseen battle. Fields of red.

My favorite grave, if there is such a thing, is the one of a little girl, who lived only three years. A brightly colored pinwheel usually spins in the wind, but today it is still. I say a prayer and linger there for a moment, as always: blue skies and a big yellow sun, I am the stick figure in the painting, the one on the refrigerator door.

he quickly paints a dog
into the scene - out of nowhere,
a butterfly


monet/wild poppies oil

The Ultimate Schism

As dusk sets deeper into the city, I drive with the traffic bound for home, after the long hot work day. Through the streets of the French Quarter, New Orleans style; slow and easy, pedestrians and cars move in concert with the rhythm of juke box jazz and neon lights. The ultimate schism, not really noted at any particular point, where the vehicles blend into the normal traffic flow, all of us faceless passengers transported away to neat little houses, lined in perfect rows. High pitched beeps of our auto alarms are activated one by one, breaking the silence of narrow, gray streets. The sound of double locks click into place, barring the outside world, ending my day.


a single bud
on the flowering cactus
desert wind

Forever

My youngest daughter is always collecting "treasures' and putting them in secret places. Today, she presented me with a cloth pouch filled with yellow flowers from the overgrowth near the camp site where we are vacationing.
"May we press these?' she asked.
I nodded and smiled.

"Let's keep forever, a reminder of this morning's sun."


grandpa's hands--a scar longer than his life line.

autumn's chill--
unlocking my diary
I look for summer

One Less Voice

It's a crisp morning, crystal blue skies with the exception of one cloud.
On my back deck I discover a dead bird. I recognize it as the Pine Warbler that sings in the same tree every day outside my window. A bonfire is burning yard grasses and leaves in the back acre so my children and I carefully wrap the songbird in a burlap cloth securing it with a rose colored ribbon. We lay this beautiful creature in a box and carry it to the fire. From the many trees around us, bird song, one less voice, one last good-bye.


gray smoke spirals
she takes her fine linen
off the clothes line