TINY ZEN-ZEN BLUES

Some tiny zen-zen blues of my spring

patiently waiting for revelations

of various things.

SOLITUDE

When plagued by excessive solitude,

I look at this picture:

Then at this one

When all is well again,

there is this fellow,

who was there all along,

oblivious to the high emotions of the crowds…

Double shadows

A heron with two shadows

medallion for silence

a bit of peace

 

Garça azul de duas sombras

talismã pra silêncio

e um pouco de paz

 

WHITE OWLS

DREAMS OF OWLS

“Do you want to see an owl?  It is behind the mirror”, I ask my mother. But she does not want to see it. It is a lovely, small white owl…looking right at us.

Serving tea. The maid Zeca sets the table with nine places, ready for tea.  Tiny beije saucers. The cold cuts, the cakes and coffee are not in. I go back to the kitchen thinking I might help her. The cold cuts are neatly all there, inside the fridge. I go looking for her and she is ironing clothes. So I and the man served ourselves from the table set.

Then I go blind. My vision goes black and white, and slowly a veil descends. I lose my vision, like a shade being pulled down. So I become like all the others. Because before I was the only one who saw.

This afternoon, in the snow, I glimpsed a large bird in flight, white and speckled underneath.  It felt to me like it was an owl…

March 6, 2015

 Glossing over

Silly romantic notions

that my depression will lift like a cloud.
 

That all will be better tomorrow,

after a good night’s sleep.
 

That all will work out,

like in the gyms. 

As expected,

all will remain the same,
all limbs will become slim,
all slim limbs will fatten up,
all eye sights will improve,
once I learn to be blind.
 
January 2006

Sunflowers on ice

the Jay breaking down the bread of sunflower on ice

ASCLEPIAS AND MONARCH BUTTERFLIES

Dilemas do norte e do sul

Milkweed in winter, Maryland, USA

Seeds by the wind

Preparations

 

Milkweed (Asclepias sp.) – the only plant where monarch butterflies lay their eggs, and so, essential for the Monarch’s survival. Seeds are wind-pollinated, pods are silky smooth inside, rough and edgy on the outside. Destruction of habitat where the plant grows, threatens the butterfly in North America.

Monarch in Brasil

Monarch in hometown

The only monarch of the South American summer

In Brasil, algodaozinho do campo (asclepias currasavica) is used as a medicinal plant. This fact, combined with habitat destruction, also threatens the survival of the Monarch butterfly there.

Compositions

Futures

Aliens

 

 

THE GEESE

I stay in the Eastern Shore because the geese migrate here.

 

Year after year, their flying shadows settle my doubts of earlier
wet days of spring, the heat of summer.

As I approach and suffer the assault of high frequency screeches,

my tolerance nearly quits on me.

Excited and riled up by my presence,
they are like potent neon lights focused on my hearing.
Their incessant talk remind me of village markets in foreign places,
constant din of conversations, calling out for goods,
haggling for better prices.

They dance toward each other, retreat, advance

"Hello, how are you, I lost track of you up in Maine. Glad to see you.
There is a PREDATOR there. WATCH OUT!"

My arrival at the shore with the dogs creates

an immediate flurry of movement.
A large v-shape of water in front of us clears. 
Noisily explaining our presence,
they split into formal dance troupes.

Ripples shimmer the surface

as I stand there quietly,

the dogs enthralled, and a bit afraid. 

The geese begin to regain their distance

and soon, in synchrony,
the gap is bridged.  

For hours, we watch their dance,

these armies dressed in brown
and white and black.

Not war like, not at all. 

More like assembly lines inside textile factories. 
The acrid odor of sizing sprayed on to every bolt
straight on to my teary eyes. 

Assembly lines of look alike,

brown and white and black
yarn floating back and forth, in motion on to belts.

Assembled colors in the weaving of the looms,

unending touch of texture in textiles.

Why humans cannot like their steady beauty?

Like deer, geese are a metaphor, a figure of speech
I do not particularly care to be accurate about,
or bother check in the dictionaries and annals of figures of speech. 

It is simply that geese, migratory or not,

just like deer,
remind me seriously that we are not getting it together
as maybe we should. 

As it stands, we are screwing up this place all to hell.

The geese talk, they exchange views.

All they are doing is meet again. 
Get back in touch after a journey four times more difficult,
than any journey either you or I have ever taken,
in a year. 

Longer than you and I imagine to travel,

this dimension of life. 

The geese have traveled.

They have stories to tell. 
They include us in their conversations,
as you and I come near.
They talk to us. 

You and I are passerbys,

the accidental tourists. 

They, the geese

are the people.