A contribution to the recent discussion on food safety and quality.
.
Make believe
While toxins of our lifestyle
poisons water near their slums,
we sip cool bottled water
and chew on crooked carrot sticks
from make-believe
organic stalls.
I have been reading some fabulous books lately, and this week’s poem is in praise of authors, stories and the joys of reading.
.
On the bench
Reading your tales I’m not here
on the bench.
I’m a rider, a fighter,
a Queen.
Alone no more,
I’m in battle,
at war.
I am moved; transported,
I’m in awe.
Last evening just before dusk we had a violent rain and wind storm. After the storm the evening became still and there was a lovely golden light as dusk fell and the Maghrib call to prayer was called.
Maghrib (2)
Dusk turns to near night’s golden moment –
an amber street cat on still-warm pavement –
air vibrates with the call to prayer.
.
A poem inspired by… walking.
Reasons to walk
I walk for exercise and inspiration,
for health and maintenance, and for my moods,
I walk to be in nature – with trees and flowers and clouds,
to be part of my species – I join the walking crowds.
I walk because that’s what I do,
I walk to dream, to meditate, reflect and freely think,
I walk because it’s practical and easy to get from A to B,
I walk at dawn and dusk to know my immortality.
I walk and talk because it eases words,
I walk to hear the birds and feel the breeze,
I walk to laugh at squabbling crows and think philosophy
I walk because I live and love my life.
On May first, a poem to celebrate how good work can be when we love what we do.
Good days
Beyond just a job lies engagement
where challenge is nourishment;
where time looses shape, effort
grows strength and means is the end in itself.
Not simply adequate, but a thriving place
where work becomes love made real.
Beyond good enough is a flourishing world
where work is its own reward;
where energy lifts wide-stretched wings
on upward spiraling drafts.
Around the time of Friday prayers, beggars flock the streets of Dhaka, demanding a share of the goodwill of the wealthy mosque goers.
.
Friday beggars
Red gaping mouths;
the beggars are out –
paan-spitting, nail splitting,
scratching hard tinted glass.
Options are simple – using pathos or fear
keep people’s attention long enough so they hear –
long enough so they see; so they must cast a glance
on lives torn to shreds by choices or chance.
Aggressively pleading,
demanding,
despair.
Discomfort,
cold shivers,
in the dirty, hot air
Paraphrased from the words of the pilot who flew me back to Dhaka.
.
Back in Dhaka
.
Landing –
5 am,
on time.
Weather report –
30 degrees
and grime.
Inspiration from a morning walk on chilly, sunny Easter morning;
.
Easter Morning
.
on every trembling blade
dew condensed
to a single drop
reflecting
Easter morning
.
.
At the National Art Museum in Copenhagen I was deeply touched by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo’s painting of ‘Latinus offering his daughter Lavinia to Aeneas in matrimony’. The painting, from 1753, of a proud, independent woman facing her fate. How far we have come and how far we have still to go.
.
Arranged
.
Proud neck turned away.
Your sire’s self-satisfied smile
contradicts the crease on his brow.
Your eyes half closed consider shrinking options.
On bended knee the warrior pleads,
lions upon his shoulders.
Behind you, solid pillars.
Standing proud,
isolated as they crowd.
They have all power,
but still desire your graceful surrender.
Your proud neck turned away,
while unseen,
cold shackles tighten.
.
.
Enjoying the chilly beauty of Nordic spring, not least the wakening flowers.
.
Daffodil
.
Resurrected gold in dark, dormant earth,
lifting cheerful heads to tattered boughs,
dancing joyfully in springtime’s chilling breeze,
shines her sunshine hopes on pale grey days.
.
.