Sendai, Japan, March 16

Chihomi

believes
in the difference
she makes;
stands amid
a sea of rubble
sorting
plastic, glass, paper

March 17 - Conversations at the Water Cooler

Perky natural blonde says:

I, like, I'm wearing green
and I'm still getting pinched! Ohmygod!

True story.

#450 -- very powerful, very Zen.  #451 -- like oh my god!

Rick the image struck me when listening to a reporter talking to a survivor at a shelter in Sendai. Her home and family gone yet she was sorting garbage for recycling. It was all she could do.

Sendai, Japan, March 18

Smile-Smile Taxi

a venerable
family-run
business
has rallied.
Although
there is no petrol,
the instant
noodle warehouse
and
the wine merchant
were washed away
and
everyone
has collected
noodles and sake
enough to last
till the next wave.

Everybody smiles.

Sendai, Japan, March 17

Togo found Kota

After the wave,
he wouldn't
leave her
even
for
clean water.

The best thing
about living in
the south
Sandra said
is what
grows wild
in the yard

She gestured
toward
the pink Mimosa
and the
Japanese Wisteria.

I smiled
accepted another
scone
and thought
of my berry-brown
boy and girl.

sweet

Women my age
are all about
mountain shadows,
golden light,
and
what
was
but,

I'm not.

I still want
to prowl,
hang from a tree limb
in the dark
and have any him
catch me
or maybe just
fall on my ass
and laugh.

Advice for poets

The sheep's head is awaited by Mongolian families much the same as Thanksgiving turkey is in the USA.  Father carves; portions to family members.  To the daughters go the palate, always with the instruction, "Be creative."

a wood roach flies
out of the flames
the dry oak catches
as the temperature drops
trees lean in this place
become a fairy setting
a prince of a bull frog
enthroned under
the collapsible table
catches fat moths
attracted to the lantern
and rabbits haunt the
outskirts of the encampment
red eyes flicker
mice are already nesting
in the old canvas tent
the crush of leaf litter
audible as deer creep toward
warmth and an owl
orchestrates all
who-whooo the man
is about to speak
and the eyes of his children
open wide

I usually fail
to find
a connection
between me
and God.

I once read
a poem about
a green caterpillar
captured
in a bowl.
The poet
gave the caterpillar
a blade of grass.
And waited.

How magnanimous.

Caterpillars
don't eat grass.

love it, L
.

Like so many storks
returning to Sendai,
the planes begin to land

No flowers
and no birds

She declines to mention stars.

There are no heart-shaped anythings.

She invites her readers
to crack the bones
within her words
and eat the marrow

with a spoon.


Thanks for the inspiration Tiko