tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82691202724749651912024-03-12T18:40:49.913-07:00notes, tales and observationsWords, like clouds, shift through time, space, encounters.Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.comBlogger299125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-90359866427957547212018-08-18T13:08:00.001-07:002018-08-18T13:08:22.290-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
August 2018<br />
Progress takes a break:<br />
<br />
This new America, anxious and discontent feels unhinged and unmoored.<br />
Where is the old mythmaking spirit, the new frontiers and new heroes to guide our spirits?<br />
<br />
We need our old selves back: bold, strong, resolute to fight the good fight wherever justice and equality became trampled or trapped by greed and mercenary ethics.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-83314019840276400372017-02-01T10:43:00.001-08:002017-02-04T18:30:19.679-08:00Just<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the end, no country can sustain you<br />
no friend can lend you enough money<br />
so you can feel like somebody who has made it.<br />
<br />
In the end, you only have your story, raw<br />
and shameful in its nakedness and flaws<br />
due to birth size, color, contacts, simple provenance.<br />
<br />
You did not wish you had friends in high places<br />
invitations to balls<br />
dress designers fighting for you to wear their work,<br />
only that your work was just that simple to show off to<br />
those who thought you didn't quite say words right, for their taste and<br />
their compass, at that time, when the compass was stuck in<br />
one place and you could hardly know where North or True North was<br />
or had been, a year before, or right then and there in that office.<br />
<br />
It comes down to you and me, as sometimes we call each each other US<br />
as in us friends, us mates, us of this neighborhood, us women, us immigrants<br />
us transplants, us upstarts, us all speaking with the feeble voice of slaves<br />
who have the audacity to raise their voices<br />
to speak all the words they know<br />
and shout out: JUST. JUST BE JUST!<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-68835313855141297182015-09-28T10:15:00.001-07:002015-09-28T10:20:09.545-07:00Beyond the Pacific<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Beyond this berm<br />
an unknown universe<br />
sputtering<br />
toward comprehension<br />
bordering on romance.<br />
<br />
The finite cycle of life<br />
and all its cousin corollaries<br />
stretch on a single wave.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-85059247687260805722015-09-28T10:13:00.002-07:002015-10-04T13:39:14.145-07:00At my Funeral<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
At your funeral, my husband said as we drove to the doctor, I'll share<br />
your writings with everyone. If they show up at your funeral, they have known you. I plan on saying a few words then, but will encourage them to read your stories slowly and often if they wish to hear your thoughts.<br />
<br />
<br />
My thoughts in my words? Words are invented. We'll celebrate our fiftieth next July. You know me from my deeds. You know more of me than anyone else.<br />
</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-15748267939787233452014-04-27T09:37:00.001-07:002017-02-01T10:27:56.220-08:00Back to Basics<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear readers<br />
Thanks for the attention, the feedback, the camaraderie you have shared with me so generously. I have decided to go back to writing longhand, in notebooks that will remain private and familiar. Thank you for your encouraging words.<br />
They were salve to my wounds.<br />
Rosaria<br />
<br />
post script: i'm doing fine, after a year of writing with paper and pen, after a long year of medical traumas and political shit keeping me up nights. I do hope to return to blogging with a new energy. Soon.<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-59021902980636618732014-04-24T08:26:00.000-07:002014-04-24T08:26:04.172-07:00A straight talk about fear<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
You don't have to have faced death to know<br />
the paralyzing slow motion<br />
of minutes<br />
becoming<br />
hours<br />
face- ripping- drowning<br />
of senses<br />
slipping into an ocean of nothingness.<br />
<br />
Just read it in the faces of the survivors.<br />
<br />
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Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-77327388937222197812014-04-06T15:15:00.001-07:002014-04-06T15:15:38.484-07:00When I stop talking...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Hands, without<br />
knowledge of<br />
night and day<br />
and seasons too, elevate and<br />
drum each tune<br />
and each sequence of discourse<br />
without any consciousness.<br />
They tell<br />
an immediate truth<br />
woven in the language of survival.<br />
<br />
Unlike eyes that hide behind shades<br />
maintaining the illusion that everything is fine, that <br />
this or other diseases<br />
will be conquered,<br />
hands pull the curtains down<br />
as we sit side by side and pretend<br />
will see each other, again, soon.</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-47878613825391939152014-03-31T15:57:00.002-07:002014-03-31T15:57:39.634-07:00Of life, and fishing, and things we remember...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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At a memorial last month, of a neighbor who walked these shores<br />
to and from her house,<br />
to and around town,<br />
at rivers' and ocean's edges<br />
people counted the way they had come to know her:<br />
<br />
Her grandchild almost drowned fishing for the big<br />
salmon with her, how the love of fishing took her grandmother<br />
to other states<br />
to major and minor rivers<br />
catching, cleaning, canning salmon.<br />
<br />
She played bridge with younger women<br />
and didn't mind losing, they all said. She just<br />
loved playing the game.<br />
<br />
I knew her as the beauty queen of Thomasville,<br />
a small detail she shared when I told her how<br />
I had come to teach at Thomasville<br />
decades after she had left it<br />
and how I had two beauty queens in my freshman class<br />
two beauty queens who had to get A's in their classes<br />
to be able to transfer back to the college of<br />
of their choice.<br />
<br />
I would have said, if I had spoken, that she still<br />
walked like a beauty queen after all those decades<br />
the one detail I would have contributed<br />
knowing her as I did,<br />
a woman with beauty, and pride, and by chance<br />
a title that connected the two of us.<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-66549367440113067022014-03-21T19:18:00.001-07:002014-03-21T19:18:15.247-07:00Rooting for the sole wolf.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
These resources, water, soil, verdant vistas ought to help us get<br />
along as Rodney King espoused<br />
a year after he was beaten senseless in the middle of civilized LA, in plain view<br />
on a crowded street. Are we just full of questions and expect the universe<br />
to fold out the map of solutions?<br />
<br />
Fear like wet leaves sticks under our city shoes<br />
as we slowly climb a rugged path in<br />
our impermeable clothes.<br />
<br />
When the waterfalls come into view, one<br />
in the West, one in the East, we feel<br />
rewarded for taking this<br />
outing in the Coast Range where a single<br />
errant wolf is making its way through old groves of Port<br />
Orford Cedars up rivers<br />
to a mate<br />
in this mate-arid territory where cell towers<br />
can scope the topography<br />
and pin-point each<br />
resource that can impact the bottom line.<br />
<br />
When all this is gone, waterfalls just pictures in someone's<br />
album from a different time, when taking a walk in the woods<br />
will become just a game we play on our mobile devices, will we be writing<br />
fantasy stories about a fertile wolf that traveled hundreds of miles<br />
as a new pioneer in search of his live mate under a double waterfall? </div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-85060839453249664282014-03-08T19:55:00.001-08:002014-03-08T19:55:16.175-08:00Spring Touches<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
A trimmed<br />
branch<br />
an errand vine<br />
corrected in<br />
volume<br />
light shining through<br />
solid objects.<br />
<br />
A spring silhouette.<br />
</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-63817980864398795582014-02-26T08:45:00.000-08:002014-02-26T08:47:27.337-08:00Sands<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
Beaches<br />
slip you out of socks and shoes<br />
and sink you easily into a<br />
winter's paradise.<br />
<br />
Life starts and ends here without thoughts.<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-14226184242377664662014-02-16T09:41:00.001-08:002014-02-16T09:41:14.385-08:00February Observations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The Elk River, five miles north of town, on a sunny day.</div>
<br />
1. Find new places to hike/walk/photograph.<br />
2. New places rewire your brain.<br />
3. Pay attention to the colors; they keep changing with light</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-80852804529543387752014-02-09T08:54:00.001-08:002014-02-17T09:37:14.414-08:00Beauty is a spicy dish<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Beauty is a spicy dish<br />
calling all senses to attention.<br />
Especially the eyesight,<br />
with its innocence<br />
hopefulness and eagerness<br />
stepping forever into the light,<br />
turning from bareness<br />
and isolation<br />
toward visions<br />
of brave new worlds.<br />
<br />
<br />
We see beauty with all senses.<br />
We name it Art and wish it eternity.<br />
<br />
And worship it from afar</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-8183679487395205742014-01-29T08:30:00.001-08:002014-01-29T08:30:04.221-08:00Remains of an Old Mind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I wasn't even trying to capture this pose<br />
the lower end of me, as the upper end<br />
fumbled with buttons<br />
to find pictures<br />
in my new phone, received recently.<br />
This is an easy life<br />
in so many ways<br />
when new tools<br />
keep data<br />
accessible at finger-length<br />
responding at a moment's notice.<br />
<br />
Until this<br />
this befuddling moment when<br />
the tools<br />
are not<br />
what<br />
you<br />
thought<br />
they were.<br />
<br />
What remains is frustration.<br />
<br />
And Awe<br />
And gratitude,<br />
especially come tax-time to find<br />
that miracle tool<br />
you hated for a while<br />
organized<br />
your expenses and kept them in a folder easily identified.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-48967527889523540062014-01-16T07:00:00.001-08:002014-01-16T07:03:43.122-08:00He Looks Like All of Them<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Grand-baby arrived before Christmas<br />
before his due date-by design. His perfect body<br />
a beauty to behold, cuddly and warm<br />
sleepy one moment, hungry<br />
the next, eyes curious to see who is holding him.<br />
<br />
Now almost a month old, his demands are revealed<br />
by the twitch of the mouth, the wrinkles on the forehead he makes<br />
before he wakes, the rooting motions of his entire little body looking for that<br />
maternal place where love and nutrition rest, and unexpected loud<br />
wailing at some yet unidentified intervals.<br />
<br />
He looks like his father, and his mother too, and his<br />
uncles and cousins, and way back to his namesake grand-<br />
grand-parents. His red fuzzy head keeps the line going, the<br />
hope of lineage marked.<br />
<br />
What new things will he do today?<br />
Stare and smile at that Chagall's painting<br />
in the guest room where he cuddles with me?<br />
Will he turn toward the blinds, fascinated by the shadows they make?<br />
Or, will he suddenly smile at my big glasses knowing he's not in<br />
his mother's arms?<br />
<br />
Our singing and rocking define our little moments,<br />
little hands in big hands, his burping and tummy cries<br />
just like mine, at importune moments<br />
all adding lyrics to our talk- lullabies<br />
between dog's barking, time passing, day breaking...<br />
<br />
We close our eyes, he fitting snugly on my chest, tummy down right after a meal, dozing off, with me ever watchful: how is he breathing, does anything obstruct his mouth and nose, is he warm enough, contained enough, free enough to allow every little movement his tiny legs and hands aspire to, can he be re-positioned easily, for burping, for a pacifier, for masking the bright lights...<br />
<br />
And as winds and rains and snow pummel the world<br />
this town shows mercy this January, breaking a sunny ray now and then,<br />
a bit of kindness to this child<br />
born in the deep of winter<br />
just as the new Pope's comments are beneficial<br />
to him and all babes who need nursing at<br />
inconvenient times.<br />
<br />
Just as I was about to throw religion out with the bath water.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-30866775705005776962014-01-09T09:16:00.001-08:002014-01-09T09:16:05.080-08:00Between states.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nothing. No words will do.<br />
You don't know what it's like to return to the specialist<br />
and watch him shake his head, and say<br />
let's try this new pill...Every new pill a delay<br />
for the dreaded final word.<br />
<br />
Your eyes are already off on that wall behind me<br />
feeling left out; or feeling sorry for yourself, for what you thought you had<br />
forever.<br />
<br />
I want to tell you: I'm OK with death.<br />
<br />
There, I said it. What's the fuss? We must go sometime. What about those young ones<br />
who didn't even know death was waiting for them on that Sunday evening drive in the fog?<br />
<br />
You tell me to fight, as though there is an enemy in front of me other than myself. I'm fighting, I want to yell back. Can't you see that I know when you touch me you think of me already gone and I know what you're thinking before you even know? I'm fighting to keep you close and trusting and giving in this insane state we are in.<br />
<br />
Say nothing.<br />
<br />
Just be alive for the both of us. Take me dancing. Better yet, take me away, where there will be so much to do and see that the distractions will be my cure. You can make this happen.<br />
<br />
Can't you?<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-13382756958823124692014-01-02T06:50:00.003-08:002014-01-02T08:55:54.493-08:00Space<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
A small step<br />
a random protrusion<br />
and your space has changed<br />
to something you do not recognize<br />
something compounded and multiplied<br />
beyond sight and imagination and into new tentacles of existence.</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-54908766489786499312013-12-28T13:40:00.001-08:002013-12-28T13:40:47.290-08:00Expect the unexpected...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
Expect the unexpected, or<br />
it can tax your resolve<br />
when you have to change gears<br />
to think everything you hoped for<br />
got cancelled<br />
mid-way<br />
to its fulfillment.<br />
<br />
There was always just a small chance<br />
that by the actions of<br />
nature<br />
and circumstances<br />
and infinite variations<br />
could have aborted every<br />
single wish you willed into being.<br />
<br />
We're just random forms<br />
swimming in medium whose elements are<br />
mostly unknown, though we have made<br />
charts of some<br />
and potions of their variations.<br />
<br />
We are variations of variations of infinite randomness<br />
a drop of rain hitting the windshield before<br />
other drops smudge it to a poultice.<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-780153540444794022013-12-15T10:07:00.000-08:002013-12-15T10:07:23.709-08:00Counting Back<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
We can count up<br />
to something we anticipate<br />
becoming more certain<br />
with each telling<br />
of those angles<br />
and bluffs<br />
to be navigated<br />
in the dark<br />
and with each counting<br />
we grow in<br />
confidence at the<br />
veracity of each marker.<br />
<br />
But<br />
counting back<br />
to that road full of<br />
potholes and difficult lighting<br />
counting back<br />
verifies the story<br />
even if we missed many markers<br />
even if we ended up at the other<br />
side of the globe. <br />
<br />
Like watching a new life<br />
struggle to assert itself to the full light of day<br />
to the full approval of his<br />
elders who have thought of all that could<br />
happen that<br />
didn't happen<br />
all that was feared<br />
that didn't amount to much.<br />
<br />
Counting back shines<br />
new light on the moment<br />
puts a frame on the painting<br />
and is now ready to be displayed<br />
and give hope to new voyagers.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-68228301291587113122013-12-09T10:24:00.003-08:002013-12-09T10:24:35.090-08:00Still.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid0o-nrZITUPyKOTc641SPwPNTmBhtcIT5kxbSLsTGnznBnbbxLZA8oDY2I2BEDFFG_1oM3RCWrDSSQzQIKdZ897zPLG7877h08wbb-nDxq7gaSh2kFjahlghW2yuXI20XMuhNcoR86NE/s1600/gardening+ideas+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid0o-nrZITUPyKOTc641SPwPNTmBhtcIT5kxbSLsTGnznBnbbxLZA8oDY2I2BEDFFG_1oM3RCWrDSSQzQIKdZ897zPLG7877h08wbb-nDxq7gaSh2kFjahlghW2yuXI20XMuhNcoR86NE/s320/gardening+ideas+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I need to be<br />
still<br />
whenever<br />
and however<br />
the thought of that moment surfaces to<br />
unplug my tear ducts<br />
and become ripples of sorrow<br />
tears of regret, until<br />
the soul reaches the<br />
edge of<br />
a brief<br />
understanding<br />
the hint of an acceptance.<br />
<br />
The trauma of the minute<br />
repeats itself. My throat tightens<br />
pins me between the eyes<br />
chokes<br />
all thoughts<br />
disturbs all rhythms.<br />
<br />
And the clock stops.</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-84017117040941411752013-12-04T17:25:00.000-08:002013-12-04T17:25:24.603-08:00Find me.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
She waits for her father to come home<br />
eager to trot away<br />
and play hide and<br />
seek, giggling<br />
and falling<br />
before she<br />
reaches her hiding spot,<br />
getting up and<br />
running away<br />
her favorite game to play<br />
when daddy is home.<br />
.<br />
Daddy, come and find me,<br />
the last words he remembers.<br />
<br />
She hopes he will never stop looking for her.<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-46819758858015159292013-11-16T09:15:00.002-08:002013-11-16T09:15:23.910-08:00Spawning dreams.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
These rhythms and<br />
rocks are self evident, been here before any of us remember.<br />
But these grasses came as migratory winds of life, with our plows and our boats.<br />
And groves? The old ones became fences and houses; shelter,fuel and boats to survive on these shores.<br />
<br />
All compliantly working together now, trees and rocks and grasses, and<br />
a super-ordinary channel<br />
built to contain the enthusiastic orgy of<br />
winter rains and ocean tides<br />
determined to regulate time and space, runoffs and upsurges<br />
to spare property damage and maybe, as good measure,<br />
lure ocean-fatted fish pre-disposed to spawn on these rocky<br />
shores.<br />
<br />
This is the rhythm of modern Adams and Eves<br />
mediated, medicated, articulated in visionary terms<br />
like advertising slogans;<br />
wild species all<br />
contained in channels built by corporate dreams<br />
translated for public consumption<br />
dressed in comfort and joy<br />
from January to December<br />
from sea to shining sea<br />
importing grasses and dog food from cheaper shores.<br />
<br />
And the fish? They swim in and out of this channel, until tired and old<br />
and longing for rest and validation<br />
after a lifetime of<br />
mutations and escape games<br />
mastered on foreign soils. Then, <br />
craving those old<br />
smells and tastes of youthful vigor<br />
they return to spawn their last dream on these shores.<br />
<br />
By the time we return to our cradles<br />
to the apple pie and Mother's sauce<br />
we're too blind to notice how many trees were felled for our comfort<br />
how many rivers dammed to feed our cattle.<br />
Like the salmon, we'll swim upstream to keep our dream,<br />
to be counted among the species living on these blessed shores.<br />
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(Still in progress...<br />
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Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-30124004674036059882013-11-14T08:24:00.000-08:002013-11-14T08:24:15.273-08:00Stepping<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When I stepped on sand and made my way<br />
lightly down the shoreline<br />
avoiding the rushing<br />
waves<br />
and occasional carcasses of beached animal<br />
gingerly holding<br />
the enormity<br />
of the element that sorrounded me<br />
lulled into forgetfulness<br />
by the wind and the sound<br />
and the smell of ocean,<br />
I could have accepted death with joy<br />
if not for the hand that held the camera that day.<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-39814614610158745772013-11-08T10:37:00.000-08:002013-11-08T10:37:39.648-08:00You need to see the colors of their eyes.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Freedom Hall, Boston, Massachusetts, USA.<br />
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<br />
<br />
In pews arranged in a square<br />
neighbors face each other<br />
all smelling of the day's hard work<br />
and last meal.<br />
farmer,teacher<br />
preacher,farrier<br />
father, brother<br />
listening<br />
waiting to respond.<br />
<br />
<br />
Newcomers all, they<br />
agree on only one thing,<br />
one purpose to stop the work<br />
and spend time talking.<br />
<br />
This new world must be better<br />
than the old. They've come too far<br />
to go back now.<br />
<br />
They know what's at stake as they<br />
gauge each other's mood by tiny gestures.<br />
<br />
I wonder who chose to sit where.<br />
<br />
And did they discuss women and small children at these meetings?<br />
Did they not know how to read women's tiny gestures?<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8269120272474965191.post-18584015381155285252013-11-05T14:08:00.001-08:002013-11-05T14:08:12.091-08:00At the edge of the day...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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First, you notice the broken concrete<br />
weighing down<br />
the color green<br />
hoping to blend with water<br />
as clouds flirt with winged fishes<br />
and hide behind their true form<br />
catching each other briefly<br />
for the moment that<br />
the eye of god winks<br />
at the sun.</div>
Rosaria Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133147851332084180noreply@blogger.com8