Away for Ten Days

I am in a Masters Program (MFA) in Creative Writing.  Now is our ten day residency, so it is a very busy time, and I will not be posting until the first week in August.  There is so much on my site….take some walks on it, till I return. Hope you’re enjoying the summer.  

Bobbi

BRIDGED BY THE INVISIBLE

cropped-tayfalqueensephia.jpg

(POEM FOR BARBARA)

We have walked on different paths,

And laid claim to different priorities.

Still, lingering in some of the same

Spots along the path to see the views

We caught glimpse of similar lookouts.

Sometimes, I was there in winter, while

You visited the spot summer or fall.

The scent of betrayals of our bodies

And along the borderlands of time

From those whose life stretched

To the breaking point of truth

Sheds stories–some we live with

And some we learn from.

There is in all of this

An invisible flight of wings

Touching the sky circling

And flying down to earth

To home again where we meet

On two sides of a bridge–

One recognizing the other

Bridged by the invisible.

Happy Belated Birthday

©Roseroberta

ONE DOZEN JUMBO BROWN

I like things dark

     Turkey, coffee and eggs.

Grandpa had a chicken farm.

        I was a Candler;

        I was child labor;

        I was paid in malteds

           Across the street at the luncheonette.

So rare a double yolk,

But this morning Sunday breakfast—

   An omelet with three eggs—

The first egg opened

   And out pours a double yolk.

   Long time no see—one was broken—

   Making me doubt, but yes it was double.

The second egg opened—another double.

History in the making, and me cracking

  A silent bet with the Gods.

  Was I on a roll with the Muses

   And their gentle tithings?

Reflection:  Yup, three in a row, and now I am left wondering about the rest of the box reminding me to respect my fortune and not go the way of the gambler.

P.S.  So far five out of 12.  

@Roseroberta

The Touch of the World

Seamlessly melting onto

The cool of day      

Waking

                                     In me

Someone is telling me

      They didn’t mean to,

       But they did.

Someone is telling me

      What I should do, but

I can’t

       I can’t say anything–

       They have blocked me.

A locked apology

   Is none at all.

A heart opens just a little

     And then thanks me with

       With the smell of flowers on it

            Lingering and weaving through the day.

                Touching the place of no apology.

Reflection:  In the evening, looking into the pool of day, swirling like an eddy, I see the sorrow and joys of the world and not just me.

@Roseroberta

Monet and Kimonos

This is how extreme things get. In Japan, if you are involved with festivals or the International Centers, often someone will try and get you into a Kimono. Take a look at what the Boston Museum of Fine Arts did. It is not so different from Art In Bloom here In MN….Here we do flower arrangement to match paintings. What they did in Boston promoted many many screams of protest. I think that it is a good example of the ridiculous state we have gotten into about things where people are just looking for any bizarre and extreme reason to shout about something. It is really sad that what could have been an enjoyable experience for young women to feel what it was like to wear a Kimono got turned into this belligerent kind of verbiage. .

http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/07/08/kimono-promotion-yields-to-outrage-at-bostons-museum-of-fine-arts/?_r=0

HECTOR AND THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS

I thought I searched for enlightenment

Only to be disappointed over and over again

As it eluded me, as nothing was good enough

To break the mold–the algebraic pattern inside me.

I found myself always faltering with echoes of

You’re not enough arising over and over again

From the past to the present from the known 

To a thousand faces of strangers when something

True jumped out at me and like a Temple bell chiming–

Through a small synchronistic moment of chance.

“You’re on the wrong journey,” Silence said and queried me.

“What were the first words you spoke?” Silence hungered,

hungered to hear my answer.  “Go Happy, Go Lucky.”

It took weeks till garbled words became  dancers.  It is amazing.

Of all those scenes leaping across the screen, I picked

Those words.  How did I not become a Lucky Strike.

Often still I felt misunderstood, unlucky, unenlightened.

I wondered.  Again, “You’re on the wrong journey.

It was enlightening.  “How do I do the happiness journey?”

As I sat at my desk eating an early dinner, after no breakfast or lunch besides a large cup of chai, and trying to get myself realigned from the strange start to my day, and the absolutely grey and cloudless sky with an intolerable amount of humidity, I found myself looking for something,  Ending up becoming engrossed in sorting out papers to find it, I decided to trust life that everything would get done, including the reading I wanted to finish doing for school.  So I continued and ended up entertaining myself with a movie I had never heard of–HECTOR AND THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS, while I continued my search. This is a beautiful beautiful movie well worth watching. I highly suggest it, because it speaks to things on many levels. I found it on Netflix. Enjoy. It is wonderful.  I’m going to watch it again.  Who knows maybe I’ll find the paper I’m looking for.

Balance

Balance

What it means to be awake/Thoreau

http://www.brainpickings.org/2015/03/20/thoreau-awake/

What if Thoreau’s numbers below are right?

Where did he get them from?

I am going back to my old ways 

     a poem a day.

Am I so rare?

Some days

The traitorous designs 

     of humanity

become so bottle necked inside

     I scream in bitter profanity.

My cat stares at me from across the room

She is writing poetry about me

     and waiting

          for me 

     to change my tune

      to awaken.

“The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred million to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?”  –Thoreau