The park was trashed out tonight-
angry men, broken glass
and garbage among shrubs
bursting with blooms and sweet fragrance.
It was beautiful
in an ugly sort of way
like a very fine movie
on a very dark subject-
the wind like a scarf
that would keep no one warm-
the crescent moon
against a deep turquoise sky
blinking at the confusion below.

30th & Sanchez

I started a poem or song early in the evening yesterday. The first two stanzas came pretty easily:

I drew a fish
that became a bird.
It flew away.
I once was a poet.

I drew a sky
that turned to sea.
It washed away.
I was a lover once.

I spent the rest of the night writing and rewriting the last stanza, and listening maybe ten times to a youtube I found, and around the ninth time, I cried.

The last stanza of the poem was never right, so finally I just went to bed.

Now I'm thinking maybe the first stanzas were off.

I drew a fish
that became a bird.
It flies.

I drew a sky
that turned to sea.
It flows.

I am a poet.
I am a lover.

Romanza

This painted wood carving of the Madonna sits in a nook adjacent to the kitchen where I live. I've been fascinated by her and whoever carved her.

For a long time I thought the person under her skirt was Jesus-that it was a creative representation of his birth. But then I noticed the wings. I now think it's an angel. Is the angel male or female or neither? (The angel's face looks similar to Mary's.) Why is the angel half-buried in the earth? Why are Mary's hands so huge, perhaps longer than her face? and the angel's hands so tiny? Is there any reason for the dots on the rays?

I've seen a fair bit of religous art from Mexico, Central and South America. The McNay and the San Antonio Museum of Art both have collections. There are a lot of Madonnas, including ones with earrings, necklaces and many layers of luxuriant fabric. You'll frequently see a halo of stars around her head, and a crescent moon and a snake under her feet. Sometimes, there are roses. But the angel under the skirt is a first for me. It's a playful touch.

The other day, the Madonna was felled by the vacuum cleaner. I came in and saw her on her side with several of the fiery rays fallen out of their slots. Each one is shaped a little differently-and is helpfully numbered 1L thru 8L and 1R thru 8R. She has a slot in her head, but the piece that once slid in there is missing.

For some reason, I believe the carver was a man. I wonder about him and where he sat to carve and who was around as he worked. I think about the care he took to number the rays, and to make a different shaped socket for each. I wonder about his hands.

It may feel like confusion but spring knows exactly what it's doing.

Milano, Italia

The woman spoke Italian, and we spoke English, but she gamely gave it a go, using gestures and both languages to explain that couples come to this bridge, lock a padlock to the rail, and then toss the key into the river.

I had a few photography books from before the digital era. One was a book called Camera. I think it was a Time-Life publication. Another was called The Family of Woman. There were beautiful photos, startling photos, disturbing photos. I found most of them to be fascinating, and didn't question or judge why a photographer would choose a certain subject to photograph.

I post mostly pleasant pictures. I have a harder time expressing the darker side of life.

The value of expressing the darker side is we get to take our own time to examine shadow. We take a little control over our experience of the painful, and it helps us to become more conscious about what we do, and what we let happen through inaction.

If we take some time to bring what's hurt us to light, our anger is less likely to leak or explode from us in unconscious ways. Perhaps by examining the underside, we learn how to circumvent some of the ugliness of life, and how to manage the hurt that cannot be avoided.

It's a song, really-
the many parts and voices-
the jelly-jelly fish, the silent stone,
the waves crashing,
the crab side-stepping-
soft, slow, noisy, fast,
soaring, fading-
the chorus of the sea.
And the jelly is not too spineless,
the stone not too ungiving
the waves not too loud,
the crab not too crabby
the gulls not too greedy.
They come and they go-
each voice so divine.
The people on the beach
some struggle, some float-
it's a song, really.

The sea swells and contracts-
we feel earth's peaceful pulse-
her pacific breath.

Pigeon Point, California

Sometimes things come to a slow halt, and you think that's bad because you've become used to the noise of the routine, the drive to work, the news on the radio, the scheduling to meet people at an exact time, the being in motion. But maybe it's not bad at all.

fence mural at Sanchez and 30th


arms full of clean clothes
he backed through the door and said
the sun is shining.

In flight last night
I saw stars on black sky,
spattered lights on black earth-
infinitesimal mirrored infinity.

the driver of the van
with no right brake light
and the full moon
like an open embrace
over the foothills
make human frailty bearable;
two girls wield
their red-handled brooms.

You cannot whitewash. You have to show the warts...Talk stink, with love.

-Milton Murayama

This is the not-so-secret mystery park where I often go to practice Shintaido in San Francisco.



This is a view from the park...



and another view. You can see the Bay Bridge.



This is a very big tree below the park...



and a red-tailed hawk that lives nearby.



The lions are on the way back home.



Sometimes I get a little nudge along the way.



I pass my favorite laundromat to get back home.



I'll be out of town this week, but hope to post sporadically.

I practiced boh, and was visited by a red-tailed hawk, a peregrine falcon, a golden eagle--its wingspan almost twice that of the hawk's--, a hummingbird, crow, and wren, not to mention the dogs and their owners, the kids after school. One dog kept bringing his fetch ball to me instead of to his owner.

I walked away feeling--expanded.

The first quarter moon rising high was quite noticable late in the day, white on blue among the pale clouds. It is beautiful tonight.

Glen Park Library






Our mother passed away a year ago today.
I'm laughing at the moment, because I'm imagining how she would colorfully tell me what she thought of the pictures above that I took today. Hmmm. I'm going to add one I know she would like:


Love you, Mama.

Fence art near Noe and 30th