For Carolyne Virginia Ashton Garden roses, Peruvian lilies, And hydrangeas– All meld together, In one mosaic. Wonder what they Call themselves, And each other– Red, pink, blue, And yellow? After the black, white, Yellow, brown Of humanity, Who see the
On Wearing Masks
There was a time, long gone, When persona meant Both a person and a mask, And lineage was traced Through death masks Kept in family shrines. There have always been masks. Egyptian mummy masks; African ritual masks; The voodoo masks
Love’s A Leap
Love’s A Leap Love is letting go Of familiar places– The corner store And the hairdresser. The habitual route To work and back. The park, the lake, And the avenue. Love is letting go Of the rope at the well.
さようなら、私の友人、河野さん！ Goodbye, my friend, Kono-san!
さようなら、私の友人、河野さん！ [Sayonara, watashi no yujin, Kono-san!] Goodbye, my friend, Kono-san! I still remember that evening at a restaurant in Hiroshima in 1995 when, in complete ignorance, I causally placed the plastic-coated menu at the center of the dinner table, only
Coming Back from the Dead
The world stops with death, The living say. But only for a while, really, Before it cranks up again To full spin and throttle, Even for the beloved, Save the anniversaries. This now is purgatory, But with no heaven –
Nature – the Spurned Gift
While traveling in an eastern nation some years ago, I marveled at how even something as insignificant as a business card, was received with both hands and a bow, with respect and gratitude, quite in contrast to the cursory manner
“A person’s a person, no matter how small.” — Dr. Seuss
The church I presently attend is small, and completely different from the last. It is neither the numbers (about the same) nor the theology, vastly divergent, though, that is the distinguishing factor, but the presence of children in the congregation.
Battered Memories
From out of nowhere they pop up, The highways and the byways; I-70 and 79 heading north to Erie, And Sligo Avenue to Silver Spring. My car’s with friends back home, And I’m wheel-less in India. When will this virus
The 105th Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day
I am not an Armenian (being neither a citizen of that country, nor of Armenian origin), even though the land of my birth, India, was, once upon a time, home to a large diaspora of Armenians, with their history going
Gasping for Love
Gasping for Love The miles haven’t lengthened; But with this darned virus, It’s no more the distance That’s galling. Sequestered in separate rooms, Bonded only by the Net, Continents apart, We pine. Strange though it might seem, The next rendezvous,