Winding roads climb high. Tin roofs, clay roofs touch and overlap. People spill out onto steamy brick streets. Tangles of wire steal electricity from main lines. Bundled they climb stone stairs side by side with residents.
Motorcycles, chains of gold, white paper packets passed. No photos here!
A teenage lad shyly sells his paintings— bright colored houses in reds, blues, greens. I turn to look at what he paints— shacks of browns, blacks and dust.
Clothes hang from poles, lines, railings. Dogs roam. A tourist asks, “Are they happy here—in this clutter?” It is their culture. It is their home. These are their families. They are safe here.
White paper packets change hands. Motorcycles roar up the mountainside and down. No photos here!
Teach them to read, to write, to resist. To someday leave the Favela behind? Perhaps. Maybe. Hopefully.
But no photos here!
Musings at Grape Creek Mary Earle
What does the fish know? The underwater perspective is something I've always desired. The knowing that comes from hiding in the rock crevice, watching the surface for evidence of dinner. The flash of movement, resulting in a gulp, swallowing whole a wiggling fly. What does it feel like, that tickle in the gullet? What does the fish know, swallowing life whole?
How Can I Hold You? Connie Beresin
In tandem behind the loons we glide along the water’s silent edge.
Your slender torso, designs a chart to where?
Among the lilies damselflies scatter tilting at the sun’s rays stroking each petal just.
Crossed stitches along your soft thigh stump. Patches squared around your belly. Gauze pieces in your side.
Where can I hug you without pain?
Months of artful etching leave grooves and notches. I taste your neck, trace a circle.
May I hold you?
Soul Work Lou Taylor
1533 On that specific Pillow Our projects flit away- The Night’s tremendous Morrow And whether sleep will stay Or usher us—a stranger— To situations new The effort to comprise it Is all a soul can do. Emily Dickenson
A soul’s life Is born in every mortal
Children know with all their being That sleep does not stay
Night of complacency Dawns day of new discovery
When we meet the stranger We thought we knew,
The soul says “Welcome, we have work to do.”
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