reveries . . .

The act of being important

Is important at times

For if you don't

You miss

That great opportunity

That comes knocking on your table

Once in a while.

World Beautiful . . .

The sunshine melts the pitch

Creating a mirage in the middle of the sea

Of traffic, on which ride in lissom waves

The snarls, the honks, and the expletives.

Things will not Come to Me

Things will not come to me

as they will come to you

as through a door

opened to let in the morning light

Poised and calm, you

like a clean tablet, take first impressions

every time.

Then outflow it in matter for the soul

or the mind.

In that white light of reason that bathes you

I will stand blase and unclean

My amorphous mass

will absorb, and gain mass, infinitely.

To will, I will shuffle

a striving and a planning

of my thoughts and ideas

which way they course.

I will, and will not

seek words, and pare and add

this way and that

to create the perfect discourse.

When it comes, it comes

like blood spilled

from subterranean veins

that had long contained it.

The little brown forest bird

My daughter, the love of my life. I see in her my own childhood at 6 or 7 years - enthusiastic without understanding much, helpful without a care for her own, and valiantly smiling away the slights of others.

How do I make you any different than what I am? Mentor you at every step, but you would not be you then. To leave you to decide for yourself, I am not sure you would have the strength to laugh at the pettiness of the world. For I fear that immensely - pettiness - it is too small to be helped, too cruel to be overlooked. Leaving you seething and helpless.

So let me just take your hand and point to that tree in the distance, and tell you, "There was a little bird who once lived there. She had the most beautiful song and the most beautiful plumage. But who would ever understand that but the ones who loved her? Those ignorant of love would only spite her. Till one day, tired and weary of the pettiness of the world and their own, they assembled on the tree to complain and express dissatisfaction. After a while of spending time thus, they heard the most beautiful song they had ever heard. It was the little bird singing to herself. Their heads hung in shame - the difference between their chirps of complaint and the song sung to oneself was disturbingly clear. For the bird had not stopped singing nor did she hide under the cover of leaves for want of a more colorful plumage. She had not let the pettiness of the world affect her. She had not let retaliation tarnish her beauty."

My daughter, wonder-eyed listens to the story, and asks, "Am I too not named after a bird?" I say, Yes, you are Titir, the little brown forest bird. She is quick to understand the metaphor. There is a spark in her eyes, as she smiles and turns to run out of the house and join her friends.