Neighboring Communities Playfully Connect Atop Neon Pink Teetertotters Slotted Through the U.S.-Mexico Border Wall
Ronald Rael and Virginia San Fratello have long worked in activating structures in projects that blur the line between art and architecture. The Oakland-based duo, who self-describe as pursuing “applied architectural research”, also have a longstanding interest in the United States-Mexico border wall
Thanks to Lucy Moore for discovering this!
my walking stick
Flip Flop, a co-created book of haiku by Miriam Sagan and Michael G. Smith,
Miriam’s Well, 2017
along the path
to the dead poet’s cabin
footprints in the mud
The Dippers Do Their Part, a co-created book of haibun and katagami by
Michael G. Smith and Laura Young, Miriam’s Well, 2015
aroma of popcorn
today’s happy hour
Merlot or Whiskey?
soft snow falling
I launder, fold, surrender
her down jacket
ears of wheels rolling
Grand Canyon, hikes, birdwatching
a tow truck — a hearse
wild wine cups in bloom
bees forage and pollinate
coy petals blush pink
(Texas Poetry Calendar)
the new widow walks
the family dog
clown works the bull and the crowd
(San Antonio Poetry on the Move, on buses)
I hope your holiday was a good one, wherever you were!
This sculpture in the Railyard references an ofrenda, while still being public art. Created by Braided Branches Collective. Photos by Rich Feldman.
purple and green
under the snow
from a thistle
the old man sighs
First snow on the Sandias
morning glories bloom all day
a season for cranes
Pushed about by wind
home to thunder and to rain
my life as a cloud
November sky clamor
ribbon of gray on white
canticle of cranes
the heart of the matter
(Sound of a Leaf [2018 Seabeck Haiku Getaway anthology])
with each turn
(Sound of a Leaf; 2nd place, 2018 Seabeck Haiku Getaway kukai)
in each clover leaf
(All the Trees: haiku and other poems [self-published, Chandra Kierstead Bales])
I’ll be posting a few more days of haiku from a wonderful reading last week. But today is prose–memoir–from a rather difficult book I’m working on. Difficult how? Well, it seems that telling secrets simply and directly might not be as easy as I’d hoped. Still, this one works for me.
At the corner of Church and Market, on the south side of the street, was a small restaurant we just called “the sushi hole.” It had a real name in Japanese, but no one used it.
Zen koans are full of mean waitresses.
The young monk asks the tea lady: Can I order some cookies and macha?
She says: Show me the self that is hungry and you can have cookies and tea.
He stands there like the doofus he is, mute.
At the sushi hole, there was the fierce looking chef behind the bar and the small bossy proprietress in front. There was usually a wait to get in, but a short one. They were fast. Sometimes you didn’t get what you ordered. You might want yellowfin, but they’d serve the catch of the day. Or the proprietress would decide you “needed” something in particular.
One day when I was having a late lunch and the place was quiet she said to me: “What you do?” She practically yelled. It didn’t sound like ordinary chit-chat.
Good question. I hadn’t the slightest idea. I had a small massage practice, mostly Zen students with sciatica. All I’d ever wanted was a boyfriend and now I had a serious one—a husband, actually. I wanted to be a poet and I certainly was trying—writing, reading, avoiding a suburban life.
“You!” Now she was yelling. “Concentrate!” At the time I thought she was noticing how much I was trying to focus. But as time passed, it see med more and more like advice.
Thirty-five years later I was sitting on the floor in the great Narita train station outside Tokyo. I was sobbing. I had just arrived in Japan and was jet-lagged. I was starving and had to pee but had been told “stay with the luggage” by my daughter and son-in-law, who were my guides on this trip. I was beyond culture-shocked.
My daughter Isabel found me, and in one look ascertained the situation. “I’m going to get you some little sandwiches,” she said in a coaxing voice. “I have yen from my last trip so I’ll do that right now, before I change my money. Nice little sandwiches, you’ll like them. With no crust. They come in packages of three. Do you want egg salad? It comes with cheese and pimento ones.”
I had taken the self who was hungry half way around the world. Maybe I still couldn’t show it, but the person I had fed as a baby could see it.
“Yes,” I said.
The sandwiches of course were delicious.