None too soon

 Francestown, New Hampshire (60 miles west of home)

A spire to inspire 

straight paths amid

sprawling undergrowth

the tangled dry weeds and

gnarled roots

Riding through 

on an easterly path
to the sea and home

Travelers in these
strangely familiar hills
Under these stones
lie the bones of those
whose legacy rolls on,
rolls on in lines 
in destinations.

Almost home,
here we pause and
tarry awhile

Caution signs

Fair Haven, Vermont...

Caution signs in Amish country

After days, weeks and now three months of dodging careless (and sometimes enraged) drivers, passing the sad carcasses of too many wild animals in varying states of decay, and hearing the tragic stories of joggers and cyclists struck down by speeding, overpowered machines, it seems to me that respect for life is a state of mind. I thought of the followers of the Jain path in India who carry brooms to sweep the road ahead to prevent ending the lives of the tiniest animals, and wondered how many flying insects I had inadvertently collided with. I thought too of the gentle Amish people we had met, whose everyday practices so purely express their religious beliefs. Extreme, perhaps, to believe that all loss of life cn be prevented, but Jacques tells us that the practice of caring for others is fundamental to peace and happiness, and this is his dream for Haiti. If we could successfully cultivate this state of mind as part of educational processes, could there be just one composite caution sign? I imagine that the North American version might look something like this.

no

passing

narrow shoulder

blind corner rock falling

cattle roaming foxes chasing

cougars turtles dear elk children

crossing life is sacred slow

down save one

when you

can

Chasing cloud shadows in Ontario

Chasing cloud shadows

Surfing mind channels

Tuning in long term memories, my eyes

Skip on butterflies' wings, and on

Other creatures in my restless entourage

July 25, Ontario (Lake Erie north shore)

Wind
chimes in morning,
ripples on the great lake
humming through branches and mainstays,
lifting tattered prayer flags
to the ancient timbre of perpetual Om

Si l'ete est pluvieux et morne

Many thanks to our good friend and fellow traveller through life, Jaya Conhye-Soobrayen for pointing us to the beautiful work of Haitian poet Jacques Roumain (1907-1944). The following is an excerpt from Bois d’Ebène. For more verses, please see 'Négritude et Créolité' by Lise Willar at Aux rives de la francophonie


Si l'été est pluvieux et morne
si le ciel voile l'étang d'une paupière de nuage
si la palme se dénoue en haillons
si les arbres sont d'orgueil et noirs dans le vent et la brume
si le vent rabat vers la savane un lambeau de chant funèbre
si l'ombre s'accroupit autour du foyer éteint
si une voilure d'ailes sauvages emporte l'île
vers les naufrages
si le crépuscule noie l'envol déchiré d'un
dernier mouchoir et si le cri blesse l'oiseau

Would anyone be willing to translate for English-speaking readers? If so, please send as a comment or email to jbrollinghome@gmail.com

Made in Cambodia

(Why is it that only this morning while putting on my high-tech Shimano bicycling shoes that I noticed where they were made?  Maybe it comes from thinking to the rhythm of the road day after day, but I started to imagine by whose hands. Thinking of Cambodia and its tragic recent history, the changes that have come to many poor countries along with globalization, this poem came to mind.)

Named for the moon,
her child-hands form perfect crescents,
fingers stretched into graceful pinwheels,
tracing celestial pathways, connecting constellations
in the lamplit shadows

Entangled in ageless karma,
her woman-hands repeat perfect stitches,
fingers spread across pliant leather forms,
feeding foreign markets, keeping economies humming
under the flourescent stare
of artificial suns

Eastern Montana shopping list

 Saco, Montana (all services)

 June 4, 2010

Road Sounds

   the

road

speaks

uncovers

 in stretches

white stripes

staggered lines

crushed gravel of

faded promises and

passing conversations

abandoned dreams and

destinations beckons anew

insists yes I am alive in these

rolled phrases, painted rhymes

jb

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are
    not all that is here
I believe that much unseen is also here

                                        -Walt Whitman, 1856

Leaving Spokane

everyone has somewhere to go
          inasmuch as we know
                two astride, step aside
          for wheels in spin
eastbound, awakening

                
 jb 12 may