The lump in the concrete...only just

Hollowing its cave-like mouth, in deep-hanging crevices

Grass on, and under it,

scattered dandelions, whose severed heads are a song to their scaffold-stems

lying like sacrificed soldiers on the battlefield.

Moving on

to the sight of the second and third squadron

of white-haired, giraffe-necked brothers-in-arms that stand at the lions' gate

in an inter-galactic war.

This field is open to more than one ending.

The hunter - out and about.

A sheepish walk, more of a sneak,

In a world soon populated by uncaring beings that could get their hunter down in one shot:

betrayal of the underprivileged, caged in domesticated looks, trapped to no escape.

Those loyal to death, and, admittedly, to each other, will continue to sing

-As black-feathered as they are-

And while this (living) flow has the mind of a thousand breaths and the soul of a gasp,

once the world has come to its middle ground, still green, still young,

it will die into a new one!

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Rising Moon, Falling Moon

Wrapped up in her full-roundness, a non-existent curtain of night clouds draped over, right at the sunset point, where the human eye meets the horizon (after removing the rest of the sky, in an out of sight, out of mind approach), a full-grown new moon, well-behaved, as one could tell by her decision to glare and silvery shine on the dreams and desires of the ignorant, oblivious earthlings, is scanning the whole world. Not all her countless sisters have been the same: some too shy, hiding behind their cloud guards, some arrogant and overbearing, some impersonal...

Between dusk and dawn, people are likely to wonder at the weird ball, woven by light, what it will be like this time.

Which eyes will see what?

You, as curious as those earthlings, look down without looking down on them. You let some see your face, allowing them to brag about it to others. However, you care the most about their warmth, and rejoice at those who smile at you so that you go from dim to bright in your moonbeams. On the other hand, you wish you had them too. The feelings. That's why, you sometimes let them think there's a rabbit that lives in the moon, or a whole different world for the domineering and conquering type of people so that you keep their fascination ongoing. And yours too.

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Fishing

A walk down the memory and imaginary lanes

I don't know anything about deep or 'shallow' sea fishing and don't think I ever will (firsthand, I mean) unless the mountain in me takes a plunge into one sea. I've recently read about low-tide fishing with its tarred twine, fish traps, fishing nets, outcrops, bladder vraic (most probably, more commonly known as bladderwrack, vraic being seaweed from the Channel Islands), the prawns or shrimps, lobsters, conger eels, razor shells, and other fish or marine animals. Boats have their lures, too. Rowing, skimming, feathering, and sculling altogether still make no sense in my mind but they do stir my imagination, get my feet itchy, tickling my curiosity while oozing adventure.

Although river fishing is no more familiar to me than sea fishing, rivers are. I remember my father recounting once how he would explore the bottoms of rocks in his village river, looking for trout, joined by searching parties of kids of all ages, in somewhat cold waters; however, the joy of searching and capturing the fish far outweighed the slight numbness in their feet. His experience becomes a bit mine and is also the closest I've ever come to trout fishing.

And, thus, the movie "A River Runs through It" has popped up in my mind (not the more classic The Old Man and the Sea, although that could make the subject of another episode), a movie that revolves around a river, fly fishing, and a family in Montana, adapted from Norman Maclean's book with the same name. There are so many great quotes from both the book and the movie that I'm going to stop at the one that gave its title.

"Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters."

Shall I not say that at that moment he had reached perfection? He matched his strength up to that of the river. Pure beauty. Otherworldly beauty.

What's left of fishing is a man. In the quest for themselves. A man in the quest for another.

Reference sources:

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105265/

https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/49325401-a-river-runs-through-it

Sidenotes: man = a person of either sex

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If Bluebirds Existed...

Credits for the idea to the Korean movie When the Weather is Fine

http://asianwiki.com/When_the_Weather_is_Fine

If Bluebirds existed, they would be the sunset with a golden halo in between dark blue wings, a stratified sunset launching thoughts as rockets; they would have the shape of cloud castles, up an imaginary mountain, on top of our realities, the real mount, that of the light coming in through the peephole, unannounced, breaking the darkroom into specks of light.

If they existed, we wouldn't be looking for them, as no one would look for snow in spring, and yet, here it is.

If Bluebirds existed, you wouldn't see their wings battering the air in a creamy sound as everything would be brought to a standstill.

If they existed, you wouldn't set off to find the feathers floating down on the whole of you, casting a spell.

If Bluebirds existed, they would look nothing like the real ones.

If they existed, you would feel the cold, the dark, the pain, but all that wouldn't deepen.

If Bluebirds existed, you could be sitting outside, mulling over an upsetting thought, disheartened, but the hot mug would do it for you, as a friend joins in and you look together at the pouring rain or falling snow.

If they existed, the falling petals will remind you once again that they are as beautiful as in full bloom, only a bit sadder.

If Bluebirds existed, you would feel no longer lonely when another lonely soul feels you.

If they existed, a humble background would matter not, as long as it soars.

If Bluebirds existed, you would no longer wonder, you will know, and if that were too much, you'd only believe it.

If they existed, the choices that you've made would make you no less happy as you carry on... loving the wound and those who inflicted it, in self-forgiveness, as the Wise Great Fathers say.

If Bluebirds existed, the frozen cherry blossom petal would bear the heaviness of a world we don't know.

If they only existed...

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Love-bound or A Call in the Middle of the Night

Love is born late

As the sun rises, and so it sets upon

the darkest nights.

Love is born late - out of despair

broken hearts

missed opportunities

unforgivable sins

accepted truths

transfixed returns

unlikely repairs.

You don't have to reason with it

The heart has its own reasons.

Love is born late

When no one expected it any more

as everything seemed doomed.

Love is born late

As crows join in the singing choir of birds

As one boy tames the stars

Oh, gentle sunshine!

Love is born late

As someone turns the doorknob

And smiles

As they're not angered or in disagreement with themselves -

concession for the sake of affection

Love is born late

When you get a call at mid-night

Telling you to wake up.

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The Onion Girl

Peach Boy (if you haven't heard the tale of Momotarou, now would be the best time to look it up) would be happy to know there's an Onion Girl out there unless he was too afraid she would make him cry. Peach Boy was born in the Land of the Rising Sun a long, long time ago, in immemorial times, while Onion Girl comes from another time, from our modern times when anyone has their own super stories, Instant stories, followed by countless Instant friends, who never get to peel the onion. However, Onion Girl is all about layers waiting to get peeled off, hence the name - Don't get confused that she's a girl, or that we'll be talking about a story when boy meets girl, and you'd be in for some romance, when, in fact, we're not. - You may call her an atypical girl of these times, as her layers, tightly surrounding one another, not airtight, breathe and let you breathe. Let you wanna take a break from all the stories you've been wide-eyed for, just because they exist. She will teach you about the top layer as the most important one, as she slowly or rapidly opens up when she befriends you, or, crudely put, you got befriended by her. You might end up with one layer in your hands and want to make a run for it, but you know you've still got time, as another layer comes off in your palm. And, then, another, and another. You feel like crying, just because she made you a part of those layers, now lying barren in the bin. Still wanna run, but get drawn closer. She cautiously let you move forward until you run to return to your stories, to continue to be a part of your super world. You'd feel lonely with only those friends, but as you befriend her, you'd almost feel like Little Prince (go look him up too). If you haven't already found at least one Onion Girl or several of the kind, then this story is for you.

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It's so refreshing to read someone else's poetry, to walk in their shoes for a while, to get where you wish to get yourself following someone else's lead. 

Everything floats in a solitary act, and if I were to give an example at hand, putting pen to paper is a solitary act; writing, scripting, or deciding to put yourself out there is a solitary act - an urge, [for some people] a calling, or just a way to benefit you in one way or another...all till someone comes along. Still, the solitude remains, hardwired to accompany the human soul, while the conscious or unconscious sharing takes it in, in an embrace.

Solitude at its lowest and rawest is loneliness, soaked in its fears, expectations, desires, longings for another, for something, disappointment, pain, etc. - human nature in its purest, most vulnerable form. 

It also feels more lonely if you cautiously don't venture into straightforwardness.

https://jaypsong.blog/2011/11/29/to-the-daffodil-by-chung-ho-seung/

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If it happens, it happens; if it doesn't, it doesn't.

Couscous happens without too much thinking, carrying the seeds that you need to water at boiling point. You'd say it's easy to happen - if it happens. The trouble starts when it doesn't. I've heard it gets all gooey, or all dry, it lingers unfulfilled, a purpose in the back of your mind, waiting. Have you seen someone know how to wait when action is required? There're so many facets to waiting.

The first one is the ready-made encounter, set against a backdrop of humility: when the water meets the crushed grain, which has to be crushed. Even then, as crushed as it is, there's no guaranteed success as these two have to solidify the commitment, the connection. It's the waiting time, slowly progressing to its result. They could accept third parties, small or big, but it's their initial bond that matters in the process. Then, the second phase begins, a phase unclear to many, entirely choice-made, responsible, taste driven. The one, in which they bear the consequences in making one of the most unpredictable life treats. The stage that can never let you second-guess it...

What comes after is not only unclear but also unknown at this point, depending on the leading, outweighing connections couscous has made so far.

If it doesn't, it doesn't - audacious moves need timing, a hint of chance, a helping hand, and the belief that if it doesn't, it doesn't mean it didn't in other meaningful ways. And wait! Just you wait! If it doesn't, it does.

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I've had a thing about time lately; it feels like I won't stop thinking and talking about it, at least not anytime soon. So, you'll be hearing me rambling on about it. 

"Time is a chip off the old sacred block of Time, having a more linear structure, carrying that DNA as an impossible long-distance runner, the one that gets in the way of everything and 'ages' backwards by falling back into its sacredness.

Time is the precious nothing between you and me, two anonymous beings united in the sweet regret that no more is left when all that's left is you in me and me in you. Time is. Time toes the finitude line with its eyes on the Infinite.

Time is a friend, a silent bystander, a slap on the face, a mere shadow that follows you into the unknown, lying about tomorrow, forgetting about yesterday. Time simply is.

I don't have the tools to measure it as Time is. Even when you have run out of it. Stubborn enough, it matters despite being immeasurably absurd in its passing. 

Time has come."

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The Cats' Apocalypse

"Lazily, a cat carries itself through the streets of a small town, full body length, going from one end of the town to the other. This town is elongated, following the course of its two streams, of its two-dimensional character, made up of the lofty mountain cap and the underground solitude of soil, shrouded in pit coal secrecy, deeply buried underneath. Someone called it a dim town, where only shady people could dwell, adding 'that would be its charm', what would make it all the more interesting to the ones left to go back in time or dig out its past, or appealing to those willing to go for some bits and bobs of humanity, left in the suburbs of the world as we know it today. 

It's just before dusk, just before the council is about to meet at the lunar rock, on top of a garage, as shady as the town's inhabitants. No one can call them residents as they are no longer here, no longer have a say or the drive to turn things around.

Jesper, the cat, who carries not only his body but also his dignified name, doesn't know about tonight's meeting. He's more worried about the full moon ahead, about the long neck staring over his shoulder, about the shadows that will grow bigger, and the rooftops, hot, in a night like this.

A cat has made its way to the other corner, absent from this world.

No other paw prints left, of dogs-not long ago, the dominant animals in town, or of any other animals, daring enough to survive the mystery. Only cats.

(...)"

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