Pants: And because it is May 1, and I'm posting things....

                                          Time to make you big.  BAM!

Altitudes

Anywhere 10 meters above sea level,
Not suitable for us
Or the neighborhood we must accustom to
Because they are prone to troubles
Knee or chest-high
Or even beyond our heights.

Below 20 meters is cutting it close –
Who knows how soon the oceans will rise
Or how fast the city is sinking?
Wading is a skill that I’m not willing
To learn with fearful muscles and bones.

Look. There’s a house waiting for us
Between the city and a sly volcano –
70 meters above. That should do well
Quite nice to keep the roof over our heads.

We’re made smarter now by what we’ve lost,
Much wiser, more protective of the spares that’s left,
More wary of the world and what its winds might bring.


We should never have been too trusting. 

Rant: "traveling" versus "travailing"

I don't know if it's because of the stress from work, editing in real time the transcripts for the world's top companies. But I didn't notice in a poem I previously posted (April 10, 2015) I used the word "travail" when I meant "travel".  I'm pretty sure I keyed in travel, because I would only use travail if I wanted to mean something that was done with lots of suffering.  (Excuses, excuses.)


I checked on the etymology of the word travail. Google said (yes, I'm treating this search engine like a person and one of my closest friends, sue me) that the origin is the Latin tres palus, which literally meant "three" and "stake". This actually described an instrument of torture called trepalium, which is a Medieval Latin word.  If you're wondering what a trepalium looks like, think of the letter X stabbed vertically with the capital letter I; or an asterisk with a longer middle line.   


I then checked on the etymology of the word travel.  And wonders of wonders, it most likely may have originated from the word travail.  Some would argue that it might have originated from the English word travailen or travelen, which had quite similar spellings.  Either way, these words are synonymous to toil, strive, torment, strenuous.


So imagine this:

                  And here you are still, wide-eyed like a kid,
                  travailing a familiar path with a skip,
                  cheeks burning pinkish with heat
                  pulling a smile as wide as the sky.


I wanted that part of the poem to exude happiness, that carefree feeling of treading a known place where no one is a stranger and nothing feels strange and no one is judgmental to child-like awkwardness.  But that word completely ruined it.  

Or maybe it didn't.  Maybe it made those lines more interesting, because you question that child-like happiness having to go through toil. Could that be possible?  Happy suffering?  Toiling with a sense of wonder?  Am I making sense? (No.)


Damn it.  This must be because of stress from work.

Diva

She visited during the hottest day of April.
Nary an invitation, she thundered through the heat
And scratched the surface of a sweltering land
With the sharp nails of her crooked lightnings.
Dusky and heavily set, she boomed with might
And all the pale clouds surrendered over the horizon.
Everyone heard her deep alto ascend
And hammer the wind with such magnificent scale.
She made sure her tears would leave an impact
On the arteries and veins of a throbbing city
Whose palpitations are almost close to entropy,
Toiling through the chaos of its daily survival.
She made clear the meaning of her song registered
As a flood that accumulated on narrow streets
Washing away the sins of a slothful, lusty summer
Who was only halfway through his complacent reign.
For her finale, she hit the perfect note – 
The last surge of light that cracked the sky open
Into awakening.  And then, after the eventual crescendo
Dragged her dark gown as she vacated the space
That all the wide-eyed spectators are hushed with awe
Never to forget her tremendous range. 

Poem for Hajime

How quaint. The old pages,
Brittle shelter of forlorn verses --
Precise, concise as his life.

(After Takuboku Ishikawa, 1886 - 1912)

April 10, 2015

We followed the river to the falls
where the growth of rocks was thicker than the trees.
If we were lucky, a hint of rainbow
revealed itself in the white spray.
In the waters, the fishes darted quicker,
swifter, aware of the fisherfolk
who came in warmer months
for a more abundant catch.
"Nothing's changed much. That's good," you said.
"The world is the same as I left it."
You reminded me of a fire tree in the forest
alive with the reddest flowers --
a worthy treasure of your childhood adventures.
And here's you still, wide-eyed like a kid,
travailing a familiar path with a skip,
cheeks burnt pinkish with heat
pulling a smile as big as the sky.
Nothing's changed much about you too,
And that's good.