Wednesday, March 28, 2012


Sometimes you wonder how you found yourself somewhere.  Like how I am sitting in on a hard wooden bench in a concrete church with open windows and blue shutters.  The wind is hot and gusty, seeming to come from somewhere else.  I can't help but dream of exotic things and far away brightly colored places.

like the soft strumming of a cracked guitar, leaning against a gypsy wagon in morroco or spain, plaiting wild roses into my hair

like the fluttering of ragged prayer flags on a mountain peak in the far off Himalayas


Or sitting with legs dangling off the Great Wall of China


Or, or


So many things I want to do, to see, to experience

but this breeze
this mild spicy breeze
this just perfect blend of warm tinged cool
this breeze is here
this breeze is now
this breeze is the hum of the bees
    fat yellow and black
       divebuzzing my hair

the now breeze
the dust-tipped wings of the chaff
rolling off rice field breeze

the now of the wind
the echo of the wind
the wind
the wind
 the murmured collective
of the insect
the earth
the oxen
the of the people who live and breathe and love and laugh and cry and exist here

and it is

it’s the little things here

the way a mango squishes pulpstring orange between your teeth
the tough green skin wedging itself in the canyon where gum and tooth and tooth collide

the little things

the now breeze

its being barefoot on hot pebbled sand red and crunchy between your toes

its every night the lullaby of distant drumming, the thud thud thum and muffled high pierced chanting

its sleeping under the alert and wild christmastreelight stars, a thin sheen of mosquito net all that keeps you from being sucked into the pale black sky

its dunking gateaux in spicey steaming amber tea a searing gulp in the morning

its morning

its chicken scream before dawn the slow rustling of village on the rise and yawn and crack the back

       and shwwiii shwiii the rhythmic sweeping of the women that brushes across my subconscious whisking away the clutter of left over dreams and teasing open gritty eyes

it’s the bonjour from Bikaou and salute ma fille from Grandmere and the shy chorus of good morning Jannie from Exose and Kazi

 it’s a high5 and pound it through the mosquito net from Arnou, the 2 year old and

its roll over and groan and cringe and try to pull the dreams back over my eyes breathing the last faint remnant of dawn before the heat hangs thick and steaming on the trees and the feet and the faces

and it’s the little things

the things that make your wonder how you found yourself here

in this place

at this time


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