Paris

Beware of the siren

One should beware of a woman who writes poems
And silence that speaks louder than her voice
A mind that's prone to change with words of poets
A heart that's pure, but keen for making choice

Beware my friend, but don't mistake her notions
As shifting as she seems, she's loyal in her ways
She's made of care, love, tenderness, devotion
And peace awaits one strong to solve her maze

Affection labors anger when forsaken
And thoughtless words as penalty for tears
The poems that rage with smugness when mistaken
Thy soul may ache, but knowing heart forgives

And she believes that everything's connected
There are no accidents; there is only choice and faith
There is not secret prize at doors of those awakened
There are no ancient scrolls, just wastages of haste

There is only echo of one's covert soul
There is only stillness of one's aching heart
There is nothing less and nothing more
There is only muse from love that fell apart

The intimate embrace can be deceitful
What mind and heart desire body takes
The journey's long and arduous, but equal
From sting and fury stronger will awakes

Don't fear what you don't know
Don't judge the past or present
Thy trust was not misplaced
But wrought with doubt and blame

It's hard to love someone
And be forever pleasant
Her heart lives just for love
Yours lives because of pain

Although you'll never change
From past that had you shaken
You'll find a new beehive
With younger honey bees

You are not the "Outlaw"
Of that I'm not mistaken
But you can make love stay
By setting your doubts free

To whom, who can understand it

Nurtured in solitude of winter rains

With breath of summer, flowers bloom estranged

And butterfly has fluttered from thy plain

Away from wanton safety of the ranch

I hear in whispers of one mind’s defeat

I watch in silence as the heart betrays

I feel feet moving to the secret beat

I see one scouting crowds for younger prey

I speak of things forgotten by the brain

And memories of lips that lie with ease

Of mocking words that sting thy soul with pain

Of eyes that smiled in the summer breeze

Of open rooftops, midnight swims and laughs

Of hair lockets safely tucked away

Of love that is too strong to ever pass

Of pride too heavy for the mind to slay

Thy mind will lie and waiver and forget

Thy memory will play a trick on thee

Thy heart will beat forever stronger yet

Once time allows thy will to set it free

Hawaii

Still Life with Woodpecker - a book review

"The tears of the Princess, if placed end to end, would have circled Seattle like a moat.
The tears of the Princess, if dammed, would have provided refuge for the hunted whale and moorage for the Ship of Fools."

- Tom Robbins ( excerpt from Still Life with Woodpecker)


Still Life with Woodpecker is a love story that makes one feel the depth of despair of a woman in love.


 The tears of such a woman are the sacred tears -  they are endless like the ocean of her aching soul. When she cries, snows fall in avalanches from the mountains. When she sobs, rains pour over the city, filling earth with salt.  She cries gently but passionately, burying her head deep in the heart of the pillow, searching for the softness of her lover’s touch, reinventing images from the past, going over all the things that went wrong and all the terrible things she had to endure in the name of love.  Feeling forsaken, misunderstood, abandoned and deserted, she weeps a plea of justice.  But knowing that love is unfair and often unforgiving, she dwells in her misery, narrowing her eyebrows in pain and wishing she could call him and tell him how much it hurts and blame him for everything he did to her and make him repent. But her pride would not allow it.

 If you have ever felt such pain, you would know that her will to live is stronger than her grief.  You would know that her mind is more powerful and conniving than an army of angry ninjas.  Oh, but if you knew at least half of what she has survived, you would not stand in the way of her happiness. You would not hope falsely to posses her heart for, although she smiles brightly and her voice sounds chipper and sweet, her heart is shut tight, and she is determined to slay every man who dares to ask her for the kind of love she managed to survive.

Yet, a day will come when she will move on and meet the kind of man who will instill trust and comfort in her doubting head. And when such man will come, she will forget the one, who once has caused her so much pain.  With time, she would not even be able to remember his face and she will wonder why she was so in love with him and, without finding an answer, she will shrug her shoulders and curl up next to her new love and drift asleep peacefully.

"So Princess ... blew her nose. She sat her bare buttocks on the cot wires, careful not to snag anything. She thought for a while... Then she smiled. She turned to Gulietta. her voice was determined and gay.
    "Bring me A'ben Fizel," she said."

(c) - same as above

The Traveler’s Gift by Andy Andrews

Andrews is a casual storyteller, who does not use big words or sophisticated imagery to carry his point across.  Yet messages contained in this half historical fiction, half motivational one-man journey carry words of wisdom that travel through time.

In a way, the message of the Traveler's Gift is similar to the message of Masahide:

"Barn's burnt down—
Now I can see the moon."

The moon in this book represents awakened awareness of a man, triggered by foreseeable, but nonetheless very sudden misfortune (like a burnt barn). By his simple, but moving story of a man in the face of a loss, Andrews is motivating its readers to awaken their minds and follow the principles they have been taught as children about awareness.

Although many will look down upon Andrew’s simple style, everyone can take away some value and motivation from this inspirational fiction.  

New York in June

I leave my stuffy smoking room at the Renaissance hotel (the only descent room available in New York under 600 bucks per night) and walk out onto the Times Square, which is already packed with tourists, and maneuver between numerous taxicabs towards Avenue of the Americas. 


The sun is beating through my sunglasses as I blindly make my way through the crowd of businessmen clad in smart black pinstriped suits talking or frantically typing on their phones.  A sea of stylish briefcases, designer purses, sunglasses, ties and shoes floods out surrounding architecture, mixing the air with the sweet smell of pastries, warm bus exhaust and loud taxi horns.  


Ah the Big Apple, clad in gray high scrapers  perversely covered with colorful billboards, flyers and giant advertisements, vast vestibules with strenuous security and metal detectors, gold leafed elevators, receptionists clad in a stylish dresses and matching Jimmy Choos, colorful art deco chairs,  attorneys, bankers, Oliver Peoples spectacles, cream colored business cards with raised lettering - all of this gives me a feeling of deja vu a la American Psycho.

To ward off boredom, I e-mail friends on my blackberry and make lunch plans with one of my transplanted New Yorker buddies.  Leaving skyscrapers behind, I track towards the Rockefeller Center, thinking about how much I miss walking in the big city.  I meet my friend among the group of tourists taking pictures of the fountains. Despite his protests, I make him sit on the bench in front of the fountains and snap my own picture.

We stop to look at the menus of two outdoorsy restaurants and decide to proceed downstairs to the hopping Rink Bar. We pick a small table under a shady umbrella right in front of the waterfall and order ice teas, vegetarian wrap and crab cakes. 


I watch New Yorkers as they eat their food. Other tourists look at me and mistake me for a native New Yorker. One woman even asks me where I bought my pinstriped suit. I tell her. She sighs "Oh!"

I breathe in the dry New York air and relax in a lounge chair, lulled by the sound of the waterfall. I cannot get enough of sitting outside and catching up with my friend and stay too long. I then run back to the Avenue of the Americas and walk into the deposition late, with my jacket slung across my shoulder and slight perspiration on my forehead. New York lawyers do not approve.  They raise their eyebrows. I smile and apologize. Then smile again.

Sitting at the long pinewood conference table, surrounded by stuffy lawyers rotating in thier comfy contemporary leather chairs, I start thinking about how much I enjoy visiting New York, taking in its grungy air, loud noise, old buildings, and stylish but smile-less people, and wonder if I could live here.

No, I could not. I am too spoiled by comfortable Houston living, cruising around in my air conditioned SUV right up to my air conditioned office building and house, being able to enroll my child in an affordable private school, swimming with her in my own private pool and relaxing in our huge backyard right in the heart of the city, just minutes away from work, shopping, restaurants, parents, friends. 

No, I definitely could not trade my lifestyle for busy New York. Yet, I love taking a small bite of the Big Apple without the inconvenience of actually living here.