Rains have come & gone.
Neon red shape-shifts
across the puddles,
and sparkles on glistening
roadways.
People converge
on those rain slick streets,
expecting to be fed.
Vendors work crinkling tarps,
trying to remove them without
sloshing standing water --
working with controlled haste.
Fires are lit and dialed in.
Soon plumes of aroma
from street food delicacies
will stretch down the street:
Silently calling & bewitching.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
the river weaves -- just a gentle meander; a floating leaf roams.
What a moment!
When you realize
that your lips had been more numb
than from Szechwan peppercorns,
and that numbness
has slid into paralysis.
You are dying:
death by Fugu --
poison blowfish.
Your heart will stop.
You will keel over,
falling from your stool
at the sushi counter.
A booth-dweller,
seeing you bounce off
an adjacent patron,
wonders why you don't
bring your arms up to catch yourself,
but - of course - they're dangling
uselessly,
and so you land face first.
The booth-dweller cringes.
There's nothing to be done for you.
You had the nerve
to try the Fugu!
But, while Fugu life is exhilarating;
Fugu death is inglorious.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian." Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say "These wounds I had on Crispian's day." Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words -- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester -- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered -- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's Day.
a bee-eater lands on a barbed wire fence for a cozy rest.
What is this thing I never saw that poked me from nowhere. I felt a pain that dripped insane and gave me quite a scare. I know it came from outside-in, and not from bones or brain. And yet it's not a break, a bruise, a lesion, or a sprain. Some demon breached a ghost portal, and stabbed me from hell's pit with an inferno-fired poker... oh wait, I'm fine. It quit.
The river runs through the birdlands. Each isle is alive with their nests. The course is skimmed by pelicans, snatching fish to later digest. The croc is hunting those waters, just eyes and stony tail peeks out. It'd love a fish, snake, or otter, but food 's any meat near its snout. The bird that flies into its gullet, the tourist dangling limb from the boat. If it could find freshwater mullet, it wouldn't eat that armless farmer's goat.
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place your sight can knock on, echoing; but here within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze will be absorbed and utterly disappear: just as a raving madman, when nothing else can ease him, charges into his dark night howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels the rage being taken in and pacified. She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen into her, so that, like an audience, she can look them over, menacing and sullen, and curl to sleep with them. But all at once as if awakened, she turns her face to yours; and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny, inside the golden amber of her eyeballs suspended, like a prehistoric fly.
NOTE: This translation by Stephen Mitchell. Originally titled, “Schwarze Katze,” the poem in German is:
Schwarze Katze Ein Gespenst ist noch wie eine Stelle, dran dein Blick mit einem Klange stößt; aber da an diesem schwarzen Felle wird dein stärkstes Schauen aufgelöst: wie ein Tobender, wenn er in vollster Raserei in Schwarze stampft, jählings am benehmenden Gepolster einer Zelle aufhört und verdampft. Alle Blicke, die sie jemals trafen, scheint sie also an sich zu verhehlen, um darüber drohend und verdrossen zuzuschauern und damit zu schlafen. Doch auf einmal kehrt sie, wie geweckt, ihr Gesicht und mitten in das deine: und da triffst du deinen Blick im geelen Amber ihrer runden Augensteine unerwartet wieder: eingeschlossen wie ein ausgestorbenes Insekt.
the pelican flares to land on a branch with barely a bounce.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 