december winter

 

I. before the sun sets

sunlight swells as mushroom

above skeleton-boned trees

so warm as maple syrup

yet so brief as a passing cloud

i savor its divineness

breathing in the blessed heat

bestowing stillness

a gift 

II. freezing rain

snowflakes on wooden porch

sparkly white diamonds

that turns into black ice rain

{deadly}

i slipped & fell

as the bird falling from the nest

effortless as a paper, breaking bones

how i wish i could have scooped it up

breathing wind into its wings & eyes

i tread carefully now

missing the birdsongs in the garden

{life}

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Zen Poetry, which I am hosting as our last post for 2022.  Join us when the virtual pub doors open at 3pm EST. Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!!!  

1 September 1983

sky is a fuse
after long funeral march
from dawn to night

i didn't see the flag-draped coffin
only sea of sun-burnt faces
2 million crowding the narrow streets
to give homage to the fallen man-

his clothes still bloodied
his face unclean from gunshot
that spilled his guts on airport tarmac

i learned for the first time
that a country was worth dying for
that a murdered man can change the course of history

unbroken for 20 years
martial law by a strongman & his family
living in palatial homes when more than 
half of the nation squatted by dirty rivers-

too soon,
hush of the night is over,
sun is brittle egg yoke
rising above smog, burning our weary eyes 

i asked my parents what's coming-
they said,
change, the hopeful winds 
of change

the radio crackles with a voice-
its the only radio station fearlessly
reporting the real news-

we take a deep breath
& wait-

Sulfar

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Sunday's Mini-Challenge:  September Sky
& Artistic Interpretations with Margaret - Mineral Rainbow
& Poets United

My reflections after the assassination of Senator Benigno Acquino in August 21, 1983, which triggered the downfall of the dictatorship of President Marcos, Philippines.   I recall the long funeral march on August 31, and afterwards the changes that slowly came - protest marches, election struggle, civilian heroism versus the military-backed dictatorship.

Yellow was the color of protest (from a homecoming color) in those times.

Out of the winter blue

I gave birth-
it was autumn 
but winter came early that year

There were no stitches
nor bleeding pain 
It was as if
I woke up from a coma 
& spoke a third language 
only the child & I knew  

    frost, chill, ice- 
    my tongue suddenly understood
    what loneliness meant
     
In the many nights that followed
my hands would slide under her body  
to cradle her close but she didn't want 
my milk, nor warm blanket 
I became besotted with her small fingers
curled like spring buds & her eyes -
so bright and wild as purple star   

     stillness of night, moon 
     thrumming under my breastbone -
     my eyes open for first time 

Perhaps it was I
suffering from postpartum blues
who thought it strange 
that no one could hear her cry but me
that no one could hush her restless voice   
in my head until I take my pen & write

      I know 
      even before you were in my womb-
      I know you
             
I have no name for this child
but she is delicate as a poem 

Photography by The Canadian Press/Jeff McIntosh

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7. An icicle forms on a sunflower as snow continues to fall in Cremona, Alta., Tuesday, Sept. 9, 2014. Environment Canada issued a snowfall warning for Calgary, and much of the rest of Southwestern Alberta. 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Following through on a Metaphor ~ I could write a novel about my writing journey but I will keep it short for now ~  Thanks for the visit ~

Sam's Superman moment

Lake Panasoffkee, Sumter County, Florida

As another air boat rain-ripples the marshlands 

baby alligator, Sam, asks his mother, if he can come out 

& play with his friends, dragon & black swan.

Wait until all is silent except for the birds, his mother said

So he waited until the sun steeped the emerald

reed-waters to bright orange & yellow hues

At night, Sam swims along the grooves & rocks

With his friends, lake is a spaceship or pirate ship

marauding an island of bats or black cats.

Suddenly a raven sweeps above a palm tree croaking:

There's a boat nearby with nets staking your kin & skin

But Sam doesn't realize the danger & soon he is caught

In a large cup with orange flowers

painted on it. Or was it an old liquor bottle?  Sam scrambles

to escape though his mouth is duct taped.  His tail flips-flops

to find an escape route.  He smells smoke nearby

& realizes his dragon friend had set the boat on fire.  By the door, his

other friend, the swan is motioning him to jump on his back & soon

Sam is airborne over the water-mulched trees
      Where time is a graceful arc of pelican's wing

      Where every cry of the bald eagle is fierce & free

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Telling a Story

We went to the marshlands over the weekend where we saw alligators and wild birds. Such a beautiful wild place & hopefully it will continue to remain untouched by men ~ But we did see a baby alligator on display for tourists like us ~

*I am currently vacationing in Florida so it may take me a day or two to return your visit*

Are pancakes a hang-over cure?

Grace @ Everyday Amazing

One side burnt, the other cheek pale

It's been some time since I made pancakes

I say-

drizzled with blueberries

fluffed eggs & milk, but this one is still good -  

I set a pancake on plate for my 15 year old daughter

who came to bedroom in the pre-dawn hours

"Mom,

can you please prepare pancakes in morning?"

Her voice is a child

requesting for lullaby for her stomach

now empty

after hovering her face over

white toilet bowl

retching

hours before

my hubby calmly inducing her vomiting

My daughter kneels, wobbly & glassy eyed

"I will never drink again, she says -

This is awful."

Her first time to drink unsupervised 

in her best friend's surprise party 

I clipped my tongue, carefully

aiming my words

"Now you know why beer & wine stores

don't sell to teenagers because they don't know

their limits."  I say (you need to be 21 years here)

I chastise myself for allowing her to go to 

neighbor's impromptu party-

How could I forget

what bored teens do on Friday summer night?

"I asked for it, beer, wine

I wanted the experience

But I don't remember anything anymore 

only puking at the backyard. 

I don't even know most of the crowd."

I grab the phone to talk to neighbor's mom

scratch that, to berate her for letting the crowd go out of hand

But the phone went to voice mail, so I tidy

her mess -

Spit, vomit, toxic, fears

Her bedroom stinks of regrets

I probe further & find that nothing else

happened

"The party broke up after 1 hour of our

departure because the police came.  

I'm glad my friends took care of me 

since I blacked out", she adds  

I want to give her an armor
and cotton wings 
and certainty of owning one's voice

"This is how to hold your own (I understand
peer pressure)-

Eat first, then stick to just one type of drink,

(just in case you decide to drink)

& keep your friends nearby."  I say

She sleeps with an ice pack on her head

A shallow bowl, two paper towels, two towels 

await beside her bed for gentle nursing- 

I, who have set her (our) limits

"Boundaries are important"-

                                        gives her space&time-

       

There is a trick to turning near-perfect pancakes 

Allow batter to set & firm ever slightly, 

then test-flip the other side quickly on buttered pan-  

Too soon,  it's a wet-mangled yolk

Too late,   it's a fire-scarred wood

I pour light maple syrup on my pancake
                                       savoring summer slow & easy

                                        

Posted for OpenLinkNight of D'verse Poets Pub - Thanks for the visit ~

Fragile

A robin's nest by our entrance walkway

Grace @ Everyday Amazing

Above branches, a robin sits 
On nest of 
twigs
Balancing on slender bough
Swaying with wind & light rain
A single rock 
                       thrown
A single storm
                       brewing
Can hurl the nest on ground below

What kind of faith does the robin have
to sit calmly 
to build a home from twisted twigs
to wait for blue eggs to hatch patiently

I think of my sis-in-law in ICU of Los Angeles hospital
awaiting word on the progress of my brother
In the last week
her world has spun
from sure footing to one of 

                   uncertainty,

                   akin to sea waves rocking the boat

My brother didn't asked why fate has struck him
with a rare disease, why God is testing the mettle of his faith-

In a brief wakefulness, he requested 
for the gregorian chants & latin prayers to play in the room
His fingers tap to the beat, reassured
by his religion, now an unshakeable anchor,     
before slipping once more to the drugs tubing

                  his throat, lungs, veins hooked to machines 

                  murmuring a tide, calming as distant shoreline-
  
Over my kitchen window 
I spy the mother robin's body
protectively covering tiny eggs

                 The sky stirs her wings
                 & orange-painted chest 
                 in contentment
      
                 Where does her faith spring from 
                 
There is no fear in her brown eyes
There is no doubt
that her labor will bear fruits                   

                         

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Kindly say a prayer for the complete healing of my brother, Richard Friend ~  Thank you ~

Storm in my bowl

I am clay, bursting as spring leaf

       Soft buds, pinking rain-grey sky

           One hand is painting red chests of birds

                  While another is counting stars above green-gold trees

                      My eyes imagine what else is there

                        Possibly, impossibly

                   The ember, inside me, glows into tracing

               a pattern - each yes, each no

             another ladder or side street or maybe a bridge

         I am still learning or seeing anew

    Outside this bowl

I am striving to fill from river's thirst

The clay leans into my quiet moments

    & gathers my stormy thoughts 

           Into a shape, a footprint distinct & fresh - 

                Perhaps a fish swimming far & further away-

                         or a blue-lit storm rocketing to the sky

                                I am rolling, eyes shut, rocking to the waves-

Living Clay by Johnson Tsang

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - In answer to Marina's question:  2) What else are you, that no one has seen before?

While I value steadfast & secure family life, I have made some bold choices in the last 9 years of my life.   This included migrating to Canada in my mid-life & starting afresh, & just last month, starting a new job in downtown Toronto.    Also, I am stretching my artistic side, learning poetry & exploring other stuff like  collage, mixed media, etc.   

Thanks for the visit ~

Conversations with lace maker

I step into my grandmother's small room and 
ask her 
How do I choose man to love ?

My grandmother's face is a clock
ticking slowly over tea cups & crochet of white circle patterns  

She tells me:  
Choose someone who will treat you 
like a delicate lace

yet believes that you are more than just a good woman-  

Someone who will 
energize your orange-gold wings to scale the sky-
Or spin your feet to wheels to reach far corners of the earth-

Does his words make
you think of planting seeds & searching for lost ships ?
Or make you feel beautifully alive in dying light?

Did grandpa make you feel that way?  I was curious.
He was my wing man & light of my life.  I have lived a long life, 
but I want to die already, she says.

Her rough & twisted fingers are knotting the patterns
webbing a silk of flowers between spaces & threads - 
stitching fraying edges into womb of her belly-

I say, Grandma 
Men like Grandpa are hard to find. It's like searching for a needle 
among yarns, threads & silver pins in a box.      

Her voice is firm above rustling of cloth:  
I don't waste my time looking for the needle, but use the threads   
& what I have to work my pattern & finally having used all 

The needle falls into my hand to sew the last button
of my lace work.  

I peer at the intricate lines on her face
- this woman who has survived WW2  & countless fires - 
is a bedrock to her 4 sons & 2 step-children

And I want to be lace maker just like her.   

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Bits of Inspiration - Lace
& D'verse Poets Pub - Conversation/Dialogue in Poetry - Hosted by Claudia  ~  My grandmother died many years ago but she lived to 93 years.    Thanks for the visit ~

Because I can't wait

Picture credit:   Margaret Bednar

To mark the date new
To see the common becoming uncommon
In the flight of wings,
In the cusp of new moon

There will come a time when winter 
stiffens my bones 
grows my hair all white
and tattoos my face in thin paper lines

but until then I shall
move the mountains with my pen
pave my own road with sweat
& thirst & thirst for the sky

For upon my skin, sun is warm & inviting
From where I stand
grass is darker green
blooms are dazzling yellow

because inside me
ever blossoming, a second wind in my lungs
a woman aging with fire-spirit
taking the first step

And that
is alright with me.


“Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can't wait.” 
― Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's: And Three Stories

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Play it Again - The Story
and shared with Poets United - Wishing you all Happy Weekend ~

On a personal note, I have applied and accepted a job assignment in the heart of Toronto City, come April 7.   It will mean a new journey for me though I am still working for the same company.   I am stroked by the turn of events and I hope to master the ropes very quickly.

Of frail hearts

Credit:  Laurie Kaplowitz

The doctors say they couldn't find the cause 
of flooding in your lungs.  With each inhalation,
a rippling pain crosses your gaunt face.

You ask for the priest to give you
Last Rites.   There is no rancor nor rage in
your words.   Your neck bows in graceful acceptance.  

Of storms.  Of changing winds.  
Your husband weeps, his own frail heart stitched
years earlier, a child now, drowning in fears -

I turn clock inside out
I am filling the empty spaces
I am rebuilding the walls & roof

I am hanging up family pictures
I am wearing the rings & brooch of grandma
I am telling the butterflies to wait, please wait-

But your face is serene on hospital bed  
ribs punctured with tubes, fingers needled with wires,
and from your tongue 
praises of His Words, His Exalted Name- 

Our hands touch, drawing strength from each other
River into sea, sea into river
Outside, tropical sun glints hard orange orb
  
This began with root of your frail heart
But now I learned that yours
is always steel, uncommon fire-

We exchanged gifts that day:
yours, art of breathing more gratitude-
mine, lesson in becoming less fearful 

of darkness -


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Thanks for the visit ~

This happened more than 2 years ago with my mom, but she survived and is doing well ~  The gift of life is a precious lesson for me.

Looking out the Window

the clouds descend
thick & ominous
fogging the windows
grey & grainy

thick snow drapes the garden
silent & cold as empty playground
the forecast today is rain
and anything above 0 C is a cause
to celebrate (3 C today)

when i was a child living in the east,
my siblings & i often wondered how snow
felt like & we would douse powder all over ourselves
clapping & running around sun-drenched room,
which made my mom angry with all the mess

now i know it's sticky & stubborn
as gum on car sides & windows
it's soft as feathers on first blush
that soon becomes heavy as loneliness
can be

I skype my aging parents & see it's summer,
its always summer from their window -
tropical garden, blooming pink blooms
unchanged, just the way when I left home -

I tell my mom,
'you should see when snow melts
and spring buds peek from soil,
the garden is so beautiful'

I say it fervently
As if the world is ripening blue
purple & succulent as mangosteen


Posted for the D'verse Poets Pub ~  Have a good weekend ~

The matter of time

Caras Ionut

This morning, time ran out
without clothes & shoes
No explanations were given
in short meeting & email that followed-

I went back to my office cube
& checked my watch-
It was still stuck to one hour plus+
Like a stubborn dial or broken wheel

My 30 min. lunch break vanished in 1 min. 
while my 10 min. advisor negotiations  
ambled slow, stealing half of my day -
I fall into this hard-to-break habit: 

Time
Per Hawking's theory
are of two types - real &
Imaginary (like a tea time to a child)

Tomorrow is a tyrant 
if things aren't done today, so I
smooth yesterday's files into
wrinkle-free pages, as if time neither
expanded nor collapsed but held its breath -  
 
I type my decision:   No
change in the pricing!  (Keep the client happy)   
 
Then I think of pushing out
to sea in the boat & calling time out -
Why did you leave me here?
Stuck with box of hanger coats 
They're a burden to carry -

But I hesitate
to scamper after time  
yelling:   Come & Be Happy here !

I'm rooted to this office 
Where everyone invents & misses numbers- 
Usual culprit:  There wasn't enough time
4:00 pm

I go home & untie
time & space as if they're ribbons in my hair-
They scamper polka dotted marbles
Settling in their picture frames, contented -

But I'm not-
My poster reads - Don't Disturb me! 

Into a "wormhole" (Hawking's term)
I slip slide slow  
Reading words again
again
Now here lies a mystery: 
Even at first glance
I know them intimately like a lover's body 

Evening pulls 
palmed milky, combusted of stars
I gaze at blue crinkling sky,  
shimmering, an eternal pond -

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight ~  Thanks for the visit ~ 

Fishbones

My spine stiffens before the devouring:

Close eyes, feel nothing, not even disgust

Hardening becomes the norm, factor & given

Picked clean to the bones, I gather my salt

At night, weave & cast net for words & foam

By the light of harvest moon, flesh & fins quiver

There is partaking of a different kind: deep

Nourishing blood, spewing poison rotting the lungs

Artist:   Kathryn Dyche Dechario

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight ~  Thanks for the visit ~ 

Naked, the song's A SmaSh-

Pages 
torn raw  
bellies & guts out 
spread eagle, unfurling for all to see- 

      No, not the naked ex-teen princess  
      in wrecking ball video, humping/singing, whose father
      said it wouldn't matter if she wore jeans & flannel shirt,
      the song's A SmaSh-  SmaSh 

           the SpInES, edgeS 
           & cover SheetS until lines 

                 d i l u t e 

           & water drOwN the artist-
           a coMModity, scAndAl, nEwSrEel- 
           
     the song's A SmaSh-  SmaSh 
     My teen girl saw it (xXhits in xXhrs) so I tell her- it matters that you 
     wear clothes decent/clean, hold one's tongue IN/choose care-
     fully, simply be    

bouquet, canvas, vase or sculpture-
fire-carved, tears-tempered &  
made with bare 
hands 

Art Made from Books: Altered, Sculpted, Carved, Transformed

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Thanks for the visit ~

While eating thai food & memories

Thai Beef Satay @ Grace

her body is stooped spoon, heavy from
     deaths of husband, parents, two siblings
     dealing with autistic child now a young adult
               with violent behavioral challenges

but her eyes are clear as river
     detailing childhood toys, books, garden, games   
     snippets of conversations with cousins, names 
               & dates & years traversed like a bridge 

prayers, i keep on praying, she says
     as we look at her 1 album, covered neat & shiny,   
     i have many more pictures, she adds, 
              but its all buried in mess   

except stories of growing up in grandma's house, 
     now long gone: stones, trees, landscape of houses-  
     & as i eat my thai noodles & satay, i wonder 
             what memories my children will keep 

Posted for Poets United -  Spent Saturday afternoon in Toronto City, meeting up with hubby's cousins ~ Thanks for the visit ~

looking out from my (business class) seat

Grace @ Everyday Amazing

the trees are throwing up

their hands in the air, shouting

verses & clapping hands- 

summer rushes, an impatient choir

as train carries me

feather light through corn & winery fields  

i let business & weighty  

matters of expectations & scorecards   

fade & slide behind me, 

the window, a waterfall of green

leaves as clouds followed me  

billowing the sky 

Posted for:   Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Things Carried
I was in Ottawa City last week for a company sponsored sales conference.

And Flash Fiction Friday - 55 words for the G-man. 

My kind of road trip

Going to Vancouver City, BC

Grace @ Everyday Amazing

I want to go where the road 
meets the sky & white-capped mountains -

I want my eyes to feast beyond the 
sea wall,  mossed & dotted brown by geese  -

I want my hands to catch the hum & trill
of forest beat & symphony of wildflowers - 

I want my eyes to follow the wings of seagulls & 
black crows, soaring fearlessly above the bay-  

And these - the rush of the wind, heat on my face, 
sands beneath my feet, time to sip as the sun sets- 

My words simmer and cluster, then fall
like waves against the rocks, endless & free  -

View of Vancouver City from Stanley Park, BC 

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday Challenge - Live a little
Shared with Poets United

Wishing you all Happy Sunday from BC where our family is vacationing.    

maybe this is what we need right now

AMMA

i see birds by my window tree, 
        dappled in leaves & sun   
how freely they glide about 
        in the gentle morning light-  

my thoughts flew to 
        what my 2nd son told me last night:  
he lined up amidst the Toronto crowd, 
        to get a "hug" from a woman-

who is she, I asked, imagining  
        maybe she is like
godmother fairy with a magical wand or 
        a royal pink-cheeked princess, but no

she is 50 year old plus woman & her gift is
        a "hug" 

for less than 10 seconds & 
       he said that he felt 
that the whole world 
       hugged him back -- 

i quickly googled the name, AMMA & saw
       a mother's face, grayish hair 
with black eyes & red/white third eye between brows-
       white garbed like a dove- 

she is considered the living 
       "Hugging Saint" from India, known for her 
charitable work, and university for 17000 students - 
       people enthrust her with money, to do what
governments with red tape & protocol can't do, 
       building a formidable empire in US/worldwide - 

she is here for a 4 day weekend, 
       giving away her blessings freely 
like mother nature, i said-
       thinking of summer burnishing the garden in colors -

we shouldn't treat people like 
       Gods because they provide us with our needs, my hubby warns 
& i recall cult-like groups getting money from poor & gullible &
       slyly building big mansions in exclusive villages, mistaking

their power to be exclusive from God, egos swelling  
       high up in their gold gilded churches -  
but don't we play God in our own lives - 
       when I swat a fly to death or dust away the spider's web  - 

or when a skilled doctor saves the life of a frail child
       and a grateful mother kneels at his feet -
we all have these circles of energy & light with/
       in, to uplift others like seeds in the wind-
   
maybe what the world needs 
       is not another enchanted kingdom or castle
with a prince with a sharper sword & bigger white horse 
       but just  

a mother's tender embrace - 
     a wordless hug - 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics about Disney & their characters by Mary - Thanks for the visit ~