In Lopo, we chase the dawn
sincerely praying
to the fragrance of corn and the prayers of mother earth
just as every dewdrop glistening on the shoulders of the weeds
is the praise of the farmers' children
slowly descending into the palms of our ancestors
and surrendering to God.
We run freely in the fields
herding the wind and the birdsong
with a joyful dance
while whispering to the soil
our sweat that falls tirelessly is a prayer that takes root.
And when dusk calls us home,
mother has lit a fire in the stove
and father is holding a hoe
because we know that in every yellowing ear of corn
is light born from the soil
and we give thanks with tears
oh God: the great giver.
Atambua – NTT, August 2, 2026
Description: Lopo refers to a traditional house and barn typical of the ethnic groups in East Nusa Tenggara, particularly the Timorese (Dawan/Atoin Meto) and the Abui people in Alor. This building is shaped like a giant mushroom with an open thatched roof without walls and stands on wooden pillars.
I'm feeling lonely,
I've got no girl to hug me tight,
And tell me that it is all right.
I've got no girl to give my love to,
To share my troubles with,
And be be best friends with.
So, I'm just a lonely guy,
But I will only be lonely until,
Another girl comes my way,
To hug me tight ,
And tell me that it is all right,
To make me feel 10 feet tall again,
Someone to bring out the best in me,
To be my best friend
To tell me I will never have to feel lonely again.
That is what I am waiting for,
someone to take away the loneliness I feel.
Note: another poem from Seventies.
I am going through all old poems as it helped me to write the. Hopefully by posting them I can help anyone who is struggling with those feelings, particularly the young. Writing about feelings
is proven to be of benefit and has been known to save lives.
Shattered dreams—isn’t it strange
That they cannot leave me once and for all
And continue to live within me as a separate entity
As if awaiting their fulfilment.
Their presence is particularly noticeable in the mornings
When I wriggle out from under the duvet
Sit on the edge of the bed
To get up the very next second
But I suddenly sit there in a daze for a while
Inside me, the film is ending
And the credits are already rolling too fast,
So I can’t make out a single word
Who starred in it and who supported
Even though I’ve only just watched this episode.
I still remember how I was rowing a boat
To some unknown destination, but then,
A few minutes ago,
I knew the place and the time exactly
When I was due to arrive somewhere
Where my love was waiting for me with joy
And I was filled with a joyful anticipation
But then everything seemed to fade
As if wrapped in a transparent bag in the rain
Only raindrops were visible on the blurred screen
when they fly into our atmosphere, aliens and cosmonauts lock their doors
seal up their windows, and put their favorite things into sealed safety pods
they have watched our old movies and they see we are corrupt
there are a few good ones on this planet, but lots of criminals and thieves
Murderers too; they have seen C.S.I., Criminal Intent, and Forensic Files
We not only look angry, evil and frighteningly selfish,
we look like murdering marauders, we are nightmares.
Not only the aliens but the star dwellers, cosmic creatures and space spirits.
They have all seen what we do to each other in black and white and color.
They can barely imagine how particularly violent we could be to strangers.
PRESSURES TO CONFORM-:-
particularly
intense
imitators
awe-struck
respect
set APART
pitting
wits
skill
repeated
competition
in CLOSER TERMS
spurred
manifesto
envisage
aesthetic
beliefs
Today I woke with a feeling of optimism,
a feeling that this day may result in some
very productive activities.
A chance to pare down my list of to do's,
the list is long, the items are quite varied.
These tasks, none of which are particularly exciting,
just rather mundane everyday things that we all have to do.
I sat down to mentally review my list, a list put to memory.
I carefully considered each and every one, as well as what
each chore may require of me to accomplish.
The verdict, not today!
Potential remains.
PERFECT PERSONIFICATION-:-
eagerly
pursued
commitments
conferring
emotion
in an OPEN INVITATION
lyrical
tones
prompt
accessible
auras
of a SENSE OF IDENTITY
particularly
inviting
favourable
bespoke
blessing
A thin line makes all the difference.
There is a thin line between kindness and rudeness- particularly when it is accompanied by silence.
There is a thin line between happiness and sadness - especially on whether the time of the event is in the past or in the present.
There is a thin line between love and hate - particularly if it is bound to hurt someone.
There is a thin line between loneliness and independence - especially when it’s forced.
There is a thin line between living and being - especially when there is a bleak surrounding.
There is a thin line between fighting and surviving - particularly when the weapon is unknown.
All but a thin line makes a world of difference - and sometimes we have to tread over it to make it things work.
But when such tests come about in life, I just remember a wise person’s saying ‘life is to be lived’.
Life is beautiful!
I saw all my colors in spirit, before my eyes.
Wild, almost crazy lines were sketched in front of me.
~ Wassily Kandinsky
Is it a bird? I ask trying to decipher rational from naught,
And then I weep turquoise imploring a God
I cannot feel, cannot touch ~
But to see sound and hear color is a gift
Of spirit ~
Shall we soar with yellow trumpets
And red violins, blue cellos,
Or stay earthbound
Trying to make sense of a bird
Where only essence exists?
NOTE 1: Kandinsky experienced colors as having distinct sounds; he associated yellow with a high trumpet, blue with cello or organ, and red with a violin.
NOTE 2: Native Americans, particularly in the Southwest, revered turquoise as a sacred, living stone—often called the "Sky Stone"—believed to be a gift from the spirits that bridged heaven, earth, and water.
I wonder how much life am I forgetting
Which parts wandered and got lost in the fog
For each and every time my eyes start wetting
I ponder if I’m just remembering it wrong
I wonder how much of life is in a vacuum
Failing to break away from flat routine
Spent years in suffocation in a classroom
Dulled down to be a cog in the machine
The wispy sun sighs through my curtains
I’m not particularly prideful of my job
Don’t do great work like scientists or surgeons
I just create and close my eyes when it feels wrong
I doubt how much of life I’m living forwards
The weeks and ends get jumbled in my head
I try to feel it out and sketch the borders
But all my convolutions turn to lead
My thoughts are friction turning into vapor
Collecting it is in my adenine
Give birth each time I put my pen to paper
And when I die they’ll put my sh*t in a museum
I do not live a particularly
exciting life, when did I become old…
when did I stop going
in the out door and out
the in door…
when did a no trespassing sign
actually mean
no trespassing…
when was the last time
I went skinny dipping,
or became too drunk
to dance with you…
why am I slowly fading away
like a shadow in the setting sun?
I hiked a portion of the Harriet Tubman trail with boots upon my feet.
I can’t imagine walking the entirety of the path she, several times, had to complete.
I hiked it in the light of a sunny day when the weather was particularly nice.
I can’t imagine walking in the cold and rain, blanketed by the darkness of a Maryland country night.
Of course, no one was chasing me; no masters were left behind.
Being a privileged white American male, I cannot truly appreciate her state of mind.
But I have a creative imagination and have studied my U.S. history,
Enough to understand this heroine had more courage than that which resides inside of me.
I may have exactly retraced some of her steps, quite literally,
But in no way mirrored her brave journey in any way metaphorically.
After the hike I drove home exhausted looking forward to a nice long nap.
With only the physical and emotional strength left to tip Ms. Tubman my Oriole baseball cap.
.
'tiz
veracious
precisely mine
whut
were think'en
inch by inch
center hern meter
presently particularly
promptly
indulge'd with
reach
touch
whut were
hern
think'en
*triple dip"
<]')
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I.
my spine, a slow bow
osteoporosis bent~
silent architect
turning collarbones to stone
mirrors lie, but spines profess.
II.
velvet cloak draped low,
hides what the disease has built~
a secret mountain
where pride and carriage crumble.
sunlight warms my crooked peak.
*NOTE: A dowager’s hump, also known as a widow's hump, is a condition characterized by an excessive forward curvature of the upper spine, often resulting in a noticeable hump at the base of the neck. It is commonly associated with osteoporosis and/or poor posture, particularly in older adults. (source: spineinstituteoftexas.com)
In general it’s always,
Particularly in times of stress,
A good day to die
For the attitude alone
Of the one who actually
Lives forever.
(10/6/25)
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