Two by Pablo and Sam

Pastoral 

I copy out mountains, rivers, clouds. 

I take my pen from my pocket. I note down 

a bird in its rising 

or a spider in its little silkworks. 

Nothing else crosses my mind. I am air, 

clear air, where the wheat is waving, 

where a bird's flight moves me, the uncertain 

fall of a leaf, the globular 

eye of a fish unmoving in the lake, 

the statues sailing in the clouds, 

the intricate variations of the rain. 

Nothing else crosses my mind except 

the transparency of summer. I sing only of the wind, 

and history passes in its carriage, 

collecting its shrouds and medals, 

and passes, and all I feel is rivers. 

I stay alone with the spring. 

Ode to Bicycles 

I was walking

down

a sizzling road:

the sun popped like

a field of blazing maize,
the

earth

was hot,

an infinite circle

with an empty

blue sky overhead.

A few bicycles
passed
me by,

the only

insects

in

that dry

moment of summer,

silent,

swift,

translucent;

they

barely stirred

the air.


Workers and girls
were riding to their
factories,
giving

their eyes

to summer,

their heads to the sky,

sitting on the

hard

beetle backs

of the whirling

bicycles

that whirred

as they rode by

bridges, rosebushes, brambles

and midday.

I thought about evening when

the boys

wash up,

sing, eat, raise

a cup

of wine

in honor

of love

and life,

and waiting

at the door,

the bicycle,

stilled,

because

only moving

does it have a soul,

and fallen there

it isn’t

a translucent insect

humming

through summer

but

a cold

skeleton

that will return to

life

only

when it’s needed,

when it’s light,

that is,

with

the

resurrection

of each day.

Poems: Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

Paintings: Sam Flores 

8 - count

On a clear night you can see for days
While cloudy drinks lick your lips

So tasty

On a journey, once, I saw the moment
Though only once, it's momentary

Repetitive

On a binge you can find small truths
But clouds don't distort, they block

Gigantic

On a train your mind is soothed
This allows one to fully enjoy movement

Kinetic

On a park bench lay the oxymoron
Cloudy dreams crystallize in the daylight

How complete

On a stage all movement is false
It can find no justification for existence

Cynical

On a clear day you could see mountains
But be careful not to strain in vain

Rhymes

On a dare once, emotions shared
And a glancing blow staggers the champ

8-count.

Poem: Robert Lescatre
Painting: Charlie J Sprenger age 3

Happy May Day!

If we have chosen the position in life in which we can most of all work for mankind, no burdens can bow us down, because they are sacrifices for the benefit of all; then we shall experience no petty, limited, selfish joy, but our happiness will belong to millions, our deeds will live on quietly but perpetually at work, and over our ashes will be shed the hot tears of noble people.

Prose: Karl Marx, Letter to His Father, 1837
Painting: Alexander Bogomazov, "Sawyers" 

2 by Sandburg

Old Hokusai Print 

In a house he remembers in the Howlong valley

not far from bends of Shooshoo river

where each of the leaves fall

is a pigeon foot of gold on the blue: 

there is a house of a thousand windows

and in every window the same woman

and she too remembers better than she forgets: 

she too has one wish for every window: 

       and the mountains forty miles away

       rise and fade, come and go, 

       in lights and mist there and not there, 

       beckoning as mountains seen on a Monday, 

       phantoms traveled away on a Tuesday, 

       scrawls in a dim blot on Wednesday, 

       gone into gray shawls on Friday, 

       lost and found in half lavenders often, 

       back again one day saying they were not gone, 

       not gone at all, being merely unseen, 

the white snow on the blue peaks no dream snow, 

no dream at all the sawtooth line of purple garments. 

Can a skyline share itself like drums in the heart? 

Honey and Salt 

A bag of tricks—is it?
And a game smoothies play?
If you’re good with a deck of cards
or rolling the bones—that helps?
If you can tell jokes and be a chum
and make an impression—that helps?
When boy meets girl or girl meets boy—

what helps?

They all help: be cozy but not too cozy:
be shy, bashful, mysterious, yet only so-so:
then forget everything you ever heard about love
for it’s a summer tan and a winter windburn
and it comes as weather comes and you can’t change it:
it comes like your face came to you, like your legs came
and the way you walk, talk, hold your head and hands—
and nothing can be done about it—you wait and pray.

Is there any way of measuring love?
Yes but not till long afterward
when the beat of your heart has gone
many miles, far into the big numbers.

Is the key to love in passion, knowledge, affection?
All three—along with moonlight, roses, groceries,
givings and forgivings, gettings and forgettings,

keepsakes and room rent,
pearls of memory along with ham and eggs.

Can love be locked away and kept hid?

Yes and it gathers dust and mildew
and shrivels itself in shadows
unless it learns the sun can help,
snow, rain, storms can help—
birds in their one-room family nests
shaken by winds cruel and crazy—
they can all help:
lock not away your love nor keep it hid.

How comes the first sign of love?

In a chill, in a personal sweat,
in a you-and-me, us, us two,
in a couple of answers,
an amethyst haze on the horizon,
two dance programs criss-crossed,
jackknifed initials interwoven,
five fresh violets lost in sea salt,
birds flying at single big moments
in and out a thousand windows,
a horse, two horses, many horses,
a silver ring, a brass cry,
a golden gong going ong ong ong-ng-ng,
pink doors closing one by one
to sunset nightsongs along the west,
shafts and handles of stars,
folds of moonmist curtains,
winding and unwinding wisps of fogmist.

How long does love last?
As long as glass bubbles handled with care
or two hot-house orchids in a blizzard
or one solid immovable steel anvil
tempered in sure inexorable welding—
or again love might last as
six snowflakes, six hexagonal snowflakes,
six floating hexagonal flakes of snow
or the oaths between hydrogen and oxygen

in one cup of spring water
or the eyes of bucks and does

or two wishes riding on the back of a

morning wind in winter

or one corner of an ancient tabernacle
held sacred for personal devotions
or dust yes dust in a little solemn heap

played on by changing winds.

There are sanctuaries

holding honey and salt.

There are those who

spill and spend.

There are those who

search and save.
And love may be a quest

with silence and content.
Can you buy love?

Sure every day with money, clothes, candy,
with promises, flowers, big-talk,
with laughter, sweet-talk, lies,
every day men and women buy love
and take it away and things happen

and they study about it
and the longer they look at it

the more it isn’t love they bought at all:

bought love is a guaranteed imitation.

Can you sell love?

Yes you can sell it and take the price

and think it over
and look again at the price
and cry and cry to yourself

and wonder who was selling what and why.
Evensong lights floating black night water,
a lagoon of stars washed in velvet shadows,
a great storm cry from white sea-horses—

these moments cost beyond all prices.

Bidden or unbidden? how comes love?
Both bidden and unbidden, a sneak and a shadow,

a dawn in a doorway throwing a dazzle
or a sash of light in a blue fog,

a slow blinking of two red lanterns in river mist
or a deep smoke winding one hump of a mountain
and the smoke becomes a smoke known to your own

twisted individual garments:
the winding of it gets into your walk, your hands,

your face and eyes. 

Poems: Carl Sandburg from his collection, "Honey and Salt," 1953. 

Painting: Katsushika Hokusai, "Ono Waterfall at Kisokaido" 1830.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let not this blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labours and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams; it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Poem: "Desiderata," by Max Ehrmann, 1927. 
Photo: JG