L'aura del Campo

Malcolm-runs-with-scissors. My name is Henry.

L'aura del campo

EARLY WINTER?: 19 Masa'il (30 December) 55º and rainy.

'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos'
♣ Federico García Lorca ♣

It's Friday and I did my good deed of the day ... got Chris into the shelter for the night. His 33rd birthday was today and he drank a bit too much ... I told him that on the 29th of April he'll be 33 1/3 or put differently, a third of a century. Although he freaked me out when he said he likes turkey subs and Coors Light. I have another friend, same age that looks like him, and now they like the same beer and sub? Spooky.

I sat up in the bookstore and read Basho and wrote. Been writing a lot for two days now. I'll post some here. They came out in tercets and couplets. Some will be salvageable for haiku, haibun, prose poems, letters, or even as prompts or lines for poems.

Saturday and there are very few people in Blogville writing and/or reading. Folks are busy, of course. Me? Bored. I'm at Henry's and after speaking with Rory last night composed a poem about how all the baristas here will be called Henry someday (male or female). Kinda like the gentlemen on Nada's cruise all being called Don.

My name is Henry

         for all the baristas at Henry's

At the counter where the java's poured
and the tips are dropped in a jar,
the cups come out while the quarters are counted
and the register's fed once more.
Here everyone knows you by your name
though the caffeine comes from afar.
Someday all baristas will be the same.
At Starbuck's they'll all be Star.
And here at Henry's her name will be Henry
and his name will be Henry-the-Czar. [163.536]

I saw Malcolm cutting hair earlier at Amyx's. I've renamed him Malcolm-runs-with-scissors. Can't wait until he runs for mayor. He just came in singing "Hello Dolly" to the barista.

Need to write a poem for Neva and Carol. They've been together 42 years! Carol is an easy name to work with, but Neva brings to mind 'snow'. Carol said it means 'shining' and it is a river in St. Petersburg, Russia also. They deserve some poems.

A bit sad right now. Chris is acting out and mentioned how he might drink himself to death this weekend. Nothing I can do. If he wants to drown his pain this way, I can't help. I would if I could. But it really saddens me beyond the telling of it.

Which brings us to Budroe 's entry "Invalid Entry"  about his sister Anne (1949-1967). It is worth reading.

TREASURE OF THE DAY

Children only need one thing. Before they need air to breathe, food to eat, shelter, or warmth, children need to know that they are unconditionally loved. Regardless of ability, accomplishment, or purpose, no child can exist in our world safely without this knowledge. Even the most perfunctory look at the current statistics with a dispassionate glance will scare you spitless! Suicide is, today, the number THREE cause of death among teenagers in America. It is surpassed only by Alcohol and driving-related deaths. (Interesting pair, those two!)

Some of those 41 untitled musings. I chose 13 for today:

Beginning with a riddle for Prosperous Snow celebrating :

On the 21st day of the month,
They’ll celebrate a New Year.
We’ll be beyond questions,
speaking of honor. [528b]

The day after,
while others sleep off the feast,
I’ll gather scraps. [528c]

After my flesh has rotted off my bones,
will you collect them like my letters
or bury them like my poems? [528e]

I follow the scent of a long forgotten flower.
Will it lead me to another? [529a]

I have sketched this hill of memories so many times;
my ink runs out. [529b]

If my words speak to you, they are yours.
If not, they were meant for someone else. [529c]

I never cared much about the shoes I wore.
Even now they are only shoes.
But I ponder …
Does my Spirit think of my flesh that way?
Mere leather worn out at the end of day. [529g]

Somehow still alive.
A lotus that hides below the mud
of winter. [530b]

I slow down to where a potato a day
will keep the coroner away. [530c]

Oily marks from potato chips.
The spoor of poverty across thin pages of poetry. [531a]

30 years ago I planted mint and daylilies.
Orange blooms in summer, fragrant leaves.
To whose yards have they spread? [531b]

Hrdlicka:
and you are a little dove,
frail and grey
as gently, I pick you up.
Thirty years later,
I am too. [531c]

And the words spill out like sand on beaches.
And the waves carry them off. [531d]

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 Kare Enga