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5.7k · Dec 2012
This Earth, This Life
life nomadic Dec 2012
A Serotinous Pine there,
Where winter snows soak into thirsty soil but relentless summer sun bakes motionless
Every plant a tinder held close to conflagration,
in a season's Russian roulette of forest fire.
This pine seals precious seed away from every spring’s promise,
lest burning destroys every one.
Only searing heat during torched consumption triggers the last gentle act,
At the knife’s edge of apocalypse itself,
opening cones of seeds.
Fluttering down to new life on the other side of time.
Tiny bright green amid black ashes.

Swimming Penguins
Birds evolved to fly in ocean.
Wings to flippers, feet stepping clumsily from water.
Yet eggs must still nest, their babies still breathe.
Safety is the very precipice of existence, on bitter ice at 60 below,
Sheltering their young clustered from blistering winds,
fasting from sustenance,
While heaven’s glorious Aurora flame silently over their winter dreams.

So what then are we, on This Earth?
Cerebral Creatures, Storytelling Animals.
Minds created to sense spiritual constructs.
Living is the method of our creation,
Sheltering each other from inherited trials
With contrived joys and sufferings distracting each other
from the soul freezing fearful cold of the Empty Void
And consuming fire of electric chaos.
In the End, our sacrificing gift for our children
is God.
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(part 1 of 2)  The next one is called This Earth, This Life Finished
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Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
5.4k · Jul 2013
tomboy (prose)
life nomadic Jul 2013
A tomboy, naturally barefoot, gingerly walks the white painted line because the asphalt is just too burning hot.  Scrubby tufts of weedy grass are welcome respites on the way, briefly cooling her steps even if they are stickery.  The ***** soles of her now calloused feet were intentionally toughened just before school got out, with mincing steps across the roughest gravel she could find.  Her mother accommodates her preference, leaving a pan of water outside for her to scrub her feet before going in.  Even then, a black path has gradually appeared leading from the front door in the old orangish carpet.  Two months of summer barefoot every day when she had the choice. Keyed roller skates clamped onto last year’s school shoes were the exception.  She can flat out run anywhere.
  
This particular expedition began like every other thing they did, which was anything to fend off boredom.  She had been sitting on a cement step shaded by an open carport, just three oil-stained parking stalls for three small apartments on the tired poor side of town.  There is a little more dirt on the street here, and grass is a little neglected.  Just like the children, but these kids prefer that anyway.  Two scruffy friends stomp on aluminum cans, brothers sporting matching buzz cuts and cut-off shorts.  They are flattening them for the recycling money by the pound, so the carport smells vaguely of stale beer.  Another boy attempts to shoot a wandering fly with a home-made rubber band gun; rings cut from a bicycle tube made the best ammo.  “What do you want to do?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”  Thwack…  The only requisite for friendship here is vicinity, yet it is still true.  The idea of choosing friends is about as odd as the concept that one could chose where one lives... Strengths and shortcomings are completely accepted because it is just what it is.  

Their amazing three-story tree fort with a side look-out had been heartlessly taken down by the disgruntled property owner last week.  Two months of accumulating pilfered and scrap two-by-fours, nails, and even a stack of plywood (gasp!) from area construction sites had yielded supplies for a growing fort.  A gang-plank style entry had crossed the ditch to the first level.  Nailed ladder steps to the second offered a little more vertigo and a prime spot to hurl acorns.  Another ladder up led up to the third floor retreat, with a couch-like seating area and shoulder high walls.  A breeze reached the leaves up there.   The next tree over was the look-out, with nothing but ladder steps all the way up to where the view opened up out of the ravine.  When the wind blew, it gave merciless lessons in facing any fear of heights.  But now that was all over, discovered gone overnight.

Someone says again, “What do you want to do?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”  “ 7-11? ”  Good enough, so they head out.   Distance measures time.  Ten minutes is the end of the street past the cracked basketball court in the church parking lot.  Fifteen minutes and the lawns end at the edge of the sub-division.  Half-built homes rising from bare dirt and scattered foundations could offer treasures of construction scraps, (where she suspects the stack of plywood came from.) but they keep walking.  Twenty minutes is where industry has scraped away nature, and railroad tracks form an elevated levee.  But time is meaningless if there’s a wealth of it, so there’s no going further until an informal ritual is completed.  Wordlessly they each dig around their pockets searching for equal amounts of pennies.  Each of them carefully arrange them lined up on the rounded-surface rail, and they settle in for the wait.  It could be five minutes or it could be thirty.  They all understand it’s a crap-shoot of patience waiting for the next train. It’s an unspoken test; quitting too early means losing your coins to the one who stays, so that’s not an option.

Heat presses down and the breezeless air smells like telephone-pole creosote.  She sits in a dusty patch of shade found next to an overgrown ****.  She knows it tastes like licorice and breaks off a stem to chew, but doesn’t know what it is.  The boys throw rocks randomly until she finally stands up to join in, tempted by the challenge of flight and distance.  Then she stands in the center of the tracks, looking one way then the other, searching for the first random distant glimmer of the engine’s light at the horizon.   A flash, so she places her ear to the metal Indian-style, and the imminent approach is confirmed.  She calls out, “its here!” and double checks her pennies’ alignment.  Heads up or tails, but always aligned so the building might be stretched tall or wide, or Lincoln’s face made broad or thin.  That happened only rarely, since it could only be rolled by one wheel then bounced off.  If it stuck longer, the next wheels would surely smash it into a thin, elliptical, smooth misshapen disc of shiny copper.  Its only value becomes validation of a hint of delinquency, Destroying-Government-Property.  Once she splurged with a quarter, which became smashed to just a gleaming silver, bent wafer discolored at the edge.  Curiosity wasn’t worth 25 cents again though, so she had only one of those in her collection.

The approaching engine silently builds impending size and power, so she dashes back down the rocky embankment to safety because after all, she is not a fool, tempting fate with stupid danger. She knows a couple of those fools, but she finds no thrill from that and is not impressed by them either.  Suddenly the train is here, generating astounding noise and wind, occasional wheels screaming protest on their axels.  She intently watches exactly where she placed her coins, hoping to see the moment they fly off the rails that are rhythmically bending under the weight rolling by.  It becomes another game of patience, with such a long line of cars, and she gives up counting them at 80-ish.  Then suddenly it is done and quickly the noise recedes back to heat and cicadas.  The rails are hot.  Diligently they search for the shiny wafers.  Slowly pacing each wood beam, they could have landed in the gravel, or pressed against the rail, or even lodged straight up against the square black wood yards down the tracks.  They find most of them, give up on the rest, then continue on.

She has thirty cents and at last they reach the afternoon’s destination.  7-11’s parking lot becomes a genuine game of “Lava”, burning blacktop encourages leaps from cooler white lines, to painted tire stops, to grass island oasis, then three hot steps across black lava to the sidewalk, and automatic doors swoosh open to air conditioning.  She rarely has enough money for a coke icey; she is here for the bottom shelf candy, a couple pennies or a nickel each.  Off flavors but sweet enough.  She remembered when her older brother was passing out lunchbags of candy to the neighborhood kids for free, practically littering the cul-de-sac.  She had wondered where he got enough money for all that popularity, or could he have saved that much from trick-or-treat? She wondered until he got busted shoplifting at the grocery store.  The security guard decreed that he was never allowed in there again, forever, and the disgrace of sitting on the curb waiting for the mortified ride home was enough to keep him from doing it again.

Today she picks out a few root beer barrels, some Tootsie-rolls (the smaller ones for two cents, not the large ones that divide into cubes) a candy necklace and tiny wax coke bottles, and of course a freeze-pop.   Sitting on the curb, she bites off small pieces of the freeze pop, careful not to get tooth-freeze or brain-freeze, until the last melty chunk is squeezed out the top of the thin plastic tube.

“What do you want to do now?” …”I don’t know, what do you want to do?”
life nomadic Jan 2013
A moment is never singular, exactly;
nothing on This Earth lasts, obviously.
Yet People still search to locate a focal point,
identify the axis, ground the spar tree.
Molecules have been examined down to Music;
infinite harmonies taking perceived shape,
Each element ever-changing as our senses are tuned.
Particles are waves of color, our own hand turning the kaleidoscope.

But our mind's-eye has been clouded;
Selfish fear of inconvenience escalating,
leading us all to the cliff of catastrophe.
Inching feet-forward hover over black air;  the void right there.
Regretful feet-backward discover lost ground,  toes grasped by gravity into falling gravel.
Stilled to painful awareness, but at least to finally see

Ancient Sequoia,
giants rooted in misty epochs,
wizened moss-covered faces sleepily meditating
under their own constellations turning.
We hated their shadows, felled them for the void, stole their place in the heartbroken sun.
Our vain history in tiny arrows obscures their rings of years like graffiti.
But in the hushed forest remaining, sheltering treasured few seedlings 6 inches tall,
One breath in lasts a season; one breath out purifies the years
with timeless patience for you as well.

There's no need to hurry;
wishes already happened when they are dreamed.
time was measured to distract.


A Humpback Whale arrives to calve in sanctuary’s dawn.
Still water, then her nose appearing,
then her monumental presence rising like a building;
then her entire whaleness levitating on her tail for a moment in our thin world.
Only faithful joy has that kind of power.
Then arching to fly,
and slamming, bursting, the surface for the generations to hear and feel.
She fills an ocean with her soul, a year with one song.
She is alive today, escaping slaughter
After swimming through the blood of her family spilled by our grandfather's harpoons,
Even with all the seas poisoned and starving,
Swim in the echoes of her call; she loves completely.


Keep no tally from the intangible past,
forgiving is possible.


Swimming Penguins
Birds evolved to fly in ocean.
Wings to flippers, feet stepping clumsily from water.
Yet eggs must still nest, their babies still breathe.
Safety is the very precipice of existence, on bitter ice at 60 below,
Sheltering their young clustered from blistering winds,
fasting from sustenance,
While heaven’s glorious Aurora flame silently over their winter dreams.

Extremes reveal the Sacred, but we’re confused.
Fear mistakenly chained with control; but both dissipate with acceptance.


A Serotinous Pine there,
Where winter snows soak into thirsty soil but relentless summer sun bakes motionless
Every plant a tinder held close to conflagration,
in a season's Russian roulette of forest fire.
This pine seals precious seed away from every spring’s promise,
lest burning destroys every one.
Only searing heat during torched consumption triggers the last gentle act,
At the knife’s edge of death itself,
opening cones of seeds.
Fluttering down to new life on the other side of time.
Tiny bright green amid black ashes.

This apocalypse was our contrivance, but so is the word.
Beginning of the End or End of the beginning, all the same.


So what then are we, on This Earth?
Cerebral Creatures, Storytelling Animals,
Minds created to sense spiritual constructs.
Living is the method of our creation,
Sheltering each other from inherited trials
With contrived joys and sufferings distracting each other
From the abyss both sides:
Soul freezing fearful cold of the Empty Void and consuming fire of Electric Chaos.

In the End, our sacrificing gift,  greater than ourselves,
for our children,
is God.
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I already wrote this in two parts, but I've been working on and revising them to bring them together better.
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Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
4.7k · Jan 2013
Yes, we have no mangos
life nomadic Jan 2013
In Ohio I order a pizza.  The menu says one of the items I can put on it is Mango.  That's curious.
I buy a Hawaiian mango at the new Supercenter Grocery Store, and the check-out girl asks
what's this? and I say it's a mango.  She says, no it's not, that's a mango, and points to the green pepper.

In Hawaii, I work at a farm, and pick some Lilikoi. A customer asks my co-worker if we have any passionfruit, and she says no. They ask me if lilikoi is like passionfruit and I say its dakine, but she's a visitor and doesn't understand, so I say, it's the same thing.

There's a Hawaiian family with a fruit stand; I like to trade the extra lilikoi for their really good mangos they grow, but the Hawaiian word is Manako.  Since they know I always want manako, I ask dakine?  They were out, so instead he asked you want some Apples?  I thought he meant those little red pears they call Mountain Apples and looked perplexed when I couldn't see any, so he picked up a clump of miniature bananas.  *Oh, yes I love Apple-bananas.
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Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
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this is all true, couldn't make this up.  :)
2.7k · Jan 2013
Jesus held my hand
life nomadic Jan 2013
I don’t have faith.  
I just know that I belong to my Savior Jesus.  I met her once when I was 11, at her humble single wide in a cramped trailer park and she made candied walnuts on a hotplate.  I didn’t find out until years later that she paid for my scholarship.  She had passed on by then; I wish I could have thanked her.

He arrived at Juvenile Hall at 7:00 pm looking like Mrs. Santa Claus, to take me into her home for a year.  I made some sarcastic teenage comment about the stupid country music on her car radio, and she tolerated it with a smile; saying ‘its not stupid, its simple.’ She showed me what a caring family looks like and didn’t kick me out for being a smart-***; gave me chores and a curfew to show me I belonged.

When I had no family or boyfriend in my life, I lived in a maternity home until my baby would be adopted.  Jesus was the stranger in the hushed hospital room holding my hand, after the medics couldn’t find the heartbeat in the ambulance, which was confirmed on the maternity floor, and I was taken to another floor so my crying wouldn’t upset the other mothers.  The room was small and dark and alone, and the clock on the wall took an eternity to move two minutes, for the entire night that I was in labor, the longest night in my life.   I didn’t remember someone holding my hand; I was so drugged for pain.  She showed me her arms two days later, so bruised because she didn’t leave me.

Jesus was the woman from Planned Parenthood on the other end of the phone, listening to me when I called the Women’s Clinic asking how I could find a doctor.  ‘ I just moved here, and I work at a minimum wage job, and I lost my baby a month ago, but how do I get a post-partum exam when I don’t have a doctor, or any money, or insurance?’  I was very matter of fact about it, I mean this was my circumstance and what to do?  She arranged a birth control exam because the state would pay for that, by a doctor who would give me the post-partum.  She also referred me to a support group.  I had been alone but she found me people who understood and could sympathize and help me accept grief.   I look back on that now; there were no sign-carrying Christians or Churches arranging the adoption who helped me, she was the only one who cared.
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Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
2.4k · Nov 2013
Amateur
life nomadic Nov 2013
Amused I'm a poet, where's the muse?
Blank white papers inspire airplanes;
daydreams sail across the room
through windows, to cloud shapes.
White swans, dragons, loons...
fly elsewhere's way
in sky blue
erased
too
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nine syllables first line, incrementally down to one syllable
2.1k · Jan 2013
Gaea
life nomadic Jan 2013
Ethereal and Base a harmony so diametric a solid.
Wisdom's forgiveness lands to the unyielding new,
white spray on black lava, merging
elemental minerals in salt water.
Life the mediator, yearns for compromise
algea harvests sunlight at the hard shore, grows into plants
fish munch coral creating sand washing up, a tree's foothold creating soil...  
can rock become Earth any other way?

Mother's beauty, an unknowable generous smile
and confident grace from the sun.
Ages
sitting wrinkled and depleted to her waist,
beauty transforms
into unknowable generous laughter alighting graciously from wise eyes,
like a flock of Heaven's doves so close to home
stirred by her running children: daughter and son.
All the while all the yearning is unrequited.

For her children, Beauty is vertigo,
painful reality rooted to the shore.
Eyes long for the horizon, Vision Country
between sky holding its breath and water measuring out patience,
The heart spills out futile on the crystalline sea,
but Sadness, belonging to clear water,
lightly buoys lonely Ecstasy,
Completes the voyage.

The Vision pairs selfless love with unmet desire,
opposites' harmony the firmament,
but the sound breaks from tension and the echoes fade,
and the senses footing gives way;
vertigo with dove's wings tied shut.
Descending minuscule between dissipation
falling through molecules of bliss,
and diffusing atoms of despair,
to the last remaining positive and negative
and the tension's silver thin wire between.

It cuts tied wings free,
slingshots the dove's soul back up,
at the last second, the tension's iridescent thread tangles loosely on her foot.
She hurtles back up through the scales of size:
Microns, amoeba, minnows, birds, primates, people,
over trees, looking down at cities, mountains, yet higher
borderless nations, green and sand continents,
and again all the crystalline blue seas.
The silver filament draws taut, holds the dove's ascent,
wings slowing in awe as she views Mother Gaea
her intensely brilliant sphere accompanied by vivid tiny stars.
in a cold cold soundless night...
Grandmother teaching her children to fly;
Beauty's yearning realized complete.
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Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
life nomadic Dec 2012
By dumb luck our toes have kicked the dust from remnants, mysteries of the Ancients.
Sandblasting time has reduced their instructions for miracles down to perplexing sketches,
Littering a roofless sun-baked labyrinth of echoes.

Science in Genesis?  To be brief, just one example:   Turn the pages to
God broke off Adam's rib and created Eve.
Crowded centuries' have defected over this one in utter disbelief, perhaps you as well.

But analyzing the ancient Hebrew hieroglyph, by letter, by word, by connotation:
within a circumferential envelope, an exterior covering, protecting, shelter
to break off one of the involutions of him
the fixed form, configuration, exterior appearance, animal substance
in repetition, or doubled
    (thus a spiraling winding)
into the action of shaping, and the other the object of this action.

Did Moses learn about cellular DNA from his Egyptian royalty pharaoh-teachers?
or was this observation divinely bestowed, a vision in the burning bush?
To describe God's breaking and altering part of Adam's spiral blueprint,
Moses tried to steal electric fire for his goat-herding brethren.
Either way, translators scratched their collective heads and wrote "Rib."

Then, so that humanity would not be alone, God created "Eve"
(But btw, her word actually writes out as Aisha )
Which does not translate to universal woman, Moses repeats that several times.
It translates to a companion, auxillary force, the intellectual woman of universal man,  
The Power and the Act in Will.
Now unique among animals to imagine complexities and bring them about.

With this Creative Volition, Adam becomes a shadow of and a companion for God the Creator.
Moses gave this creative ability a feminine aspect, paired with logic's masculine.
(Not only did he describe our very cells, he understood our minds' anima and animus.)

Does this restore faith, or shake it?  
Sweet on the tongue, but how to digest it all?
And what about the snake?
A serpentine looking hieroglyph, one meaning among many is leaving God's Will.
And if one does, life become difficult, hard labor.

So how do translators pack so many meanings which they don't even fully comprehend,
into a smaller language?   pick one, maybe two meanings:
adapt pictorial and symbolical highlights into an Allegory,
populated with Ribs, Apples, and Snakes...discarding the literal.
The organic sphere of activity = a garden
sentient and temporal  =  basic sensual desire
anteriority of time  = morning      
matter in travail  =  a tree.
Feminine Creativity paired with Masculine Logic  =  "she" is a helpmate.

History will have to apologize,
The new patriarchs couldn't accept Woman with such an equal trait,
Interpreting Allegory literally for use in a power struggle,
Blaming "Her" for their own ignorance,
Bestowing only on her the wayward's punishment of difficult labor. (childbirth).
and having already edited out Yahweh's wife.....
(oh, gratefully a different poem.)

I've barely explained   four   words,   but what do I know, this amateur philosopher?  
Fabre D'Olivet said it best:
"language, the ineffable language.
Those whose dull glance, falling upon these pictures, these symbols, these holy allegories,
saw nothing beyond,
were sunk, it is true, in ignorance;
but their ignorance was voluntary.
From the moment that they wished to leave it, they had only to speak."
referencing
The Hebraic Tongue Restored,by Fabre D'Olivet in 1815
(Part 2  Cosmogony of Moses; 67: IHOAH,  87: DNA,  91: Aisha)
I think it is interesting that Mr. D'Olivet worked on restoring Ancient Hebrew Hieroglyphs in 1815, so when he re-translated the word that is now "rib" into what is clearly DNA for us, he couldn't have known DNA back then.  In his notes, he even stated that he was translating each letter by meaning, not understanding exactly what it meant, and left it to the reader to interpret.
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Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.

http://archive.org/stream/hebraictongueres00fabriala/hebraictongueres00fabriala_djvu.txt
1.4k · Dec 2012
Haiku summer.1
life nomadic Dec 2012
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warm breeze island street
stern squeezed man steers red scooter
sidecar girl texting
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it was such an entertaining sight, wish I had a camera but this will have to do.
Only things missing in poem are two matching red helmets
1.4k · Jan 2013
A Gift
life nomadic Jan 2013
Someone gave me a round metal button with a picture of Ghandi spinning thread.  He says the best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.  This is true.  Finding the depth of life, what love looks like, was the most substantial, amazing gift my daughters gave me.

Even before each was born, I found myself tying my heart to each life, their future.  Before, I had always revolved around me and my survival, what was best for me. Now even what I ate and drank affected someone else directly.  Babies born so vulnerable they needed everything I am and needed the best I tried to be, with them first.  Their needs decided when or if I slept, when or if I left the house, where or if I would go.  But in return we both merged into the same clock, the same life for a few years, and I could see the world through brand new eyes.

A Preening Ego, fluffed from a career's fleeting recognition, is told to sit down for awhile.
Timorous Self-Esteem, a façade validated by producing the world's tokens, is put away awhile.
Resentful Self-preservation's ******* up importance, first in line grasping time, is ignored awhile.
Gratification never satisfied by a quick rush from the temporary is told to wait awhile.
Self-centered Goals, a calendar filled because empty is worthless, is taken down awhile.

The Grand Illusion is cleared away.

They grow so fast, I treasure their company.  The afternoon sun shines warmly through the living room window, skims over the top of the couch, reveals some lazy dust floating peacefully in the quiet house, and lights up my 9 month old daughter's baby fine brunette hair.  She has been studying a tiny colorful empty double sided box, the same size as her tiny palms, for 20 minutes. Little fingers working the top, figuring this all out;  I am so impressed with her attention span; this moment is so much more important than a schedule.   My younger daughter was born with brilliant blond curly hair, and tomboy laughter; so laid back nothing phases her.  She is a toddler, standing in front of the toy jeep driven by her older sister, who sits knowing she has all the power right now.  The younger is daring and knows she stands with all the power right now.  I hope they both remember they always do.  When they were in school, Iwas pleased getting notes from the teacher, telling me one is talking in class, or the other can't sit still, interrupting, because I knew they are happy.

Both of my daughters walk around with my heart in their hands and all I can do is pray for their well-being.

And that so happens to be the point of it all.
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Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
1.4k · Jan 2013
They Call
life nomadic Jan 2013
Rising before instinct completes my sleep, rousing common sense out of bed,
I pack the car.  It's so dark the moon is still drowsing.
Soon I am in the cool ocean, arms propelling me and a surfboard,
stomach submerged and chest free through white water splashes,
then crests breaking, then up and over their shoulders
to arrive at the very place where waves emerge from calm water.

At this hour there are only a handful of other dawn-patrol surfers, all Hawaiians.
Greeting with a smile of bright grace learned from the sun, and a cheerful How'z It?
brown glowing skin tattooed with small triangle patterns on strong arms, chests, backs,
emblems of kama'aina heritage and Aloha's honor.  
A little talk story, sharing a laugh, and I sit up to take sentinal,
beginning the quiet meditation
searching the horizon for the sea's ever-changing intention.

Morning wakes color, with sleepy palms rubs away the world's hushed gray veil
revealing sky blue on royal aquamarine and palm-tree green silhouetting tropical canyon jade.
The mountain's gold-rimmed halo of mist is announcing dawn's imminent arrival.
She bursts over the ridge, arms showering the water with tiny pebbles of light
gold jewels skipping across the sparkling surface and turning silver.

It must be so beautifully curious from below, the whale's eye view here in their sanctuary.
First we see a mysterious dark shape, a nose, that morphs into an ever-expanding building,
that materializes into the entire magnificent whale suspended in our thin world
then arching over, she bursts the water, scattering dawn's sparkling treasure.

We surfers call with uncharacteristic exclamations, pointing in excitement,
So close we can feel the whale's contagious joy.
One Hawaiian woman slides off her board, to place her ear on the water in reverie;
hearing the Kahunas ancient Aumakua call.
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Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
1.3k · Sep 2013
planting a seed
life nomadic Sep 2013
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mind the eye
mind the I
seeing the world's reflection
inside-out

if lost is a place
where on a map
is contentment
never found

if money's enough
full of emptiness
hunger's on the menu
eat the recipe

make-up on a mirror
shoes on defeat
all that's built is broken
steel as good as rust

love what will
will what may
will lets go
love's will creates

spark the seed
mind inspired
poke a finger in the dirt
and out springs light
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ego has things backwards, trying to find happiness and fulfillment in the outside world where it cannot be found. Its a temporary illusion, because what is perceived as the outside world is a reflection of what the mind is able to see and feel. The last couple paragraphs reference quantum science, where matter is vibrating energy of potential, and our own intention creates what we see around us.
life nomadic May 2013
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Shopping when hungry
the wallet gets empty,
so first a pizzerie
before the grocery,
But no one warned me
not to shop tipsy.
At the store I'm in bliss,
but at home, whaaaa? is this?
1.2k · Jan 2013
she knew
life nomadic Jan 2013
Black plastic nametag with white letters,
slightly off-white and not-so-flat from a trip or two through a bachelor's dryer.
I remove it from the bottom of the washer, lightly ******* the engraving,
and ask what's your middle name, this letter T?

From the kitchen you say, my grandmother named me,
with a private grin.
She might have been kinda drunk.
Walking behind me, your caramel-rich low voice soft in my ear,
TsuneoKawehiwehiokekuwahiwionouaioku'uhome.
(saying with careful pronunciation)
Tsu-nay-o-Ka-vay-hee-vay-hee-oh-kay-ku-va-hee-vee­-on-oh-vay-ee-o-ku-u-**-may
and I was just sent

No, she wasn't drunk, she knew exactly what she meant.
Kapunawahine, holding her little mo'opuna kāne,
sensed your father was restless with rock fever,
would be moving away to the mainland with her first grandson soon, so she says to you
*This land of water and rainforest trees of the mountains, Hawaii, will always be your beloved home.
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Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
1.2k · Dec 2012
A Tangible Illusion of Light
life nomadic Dec 2012
Gold's untarnished yellow feigns
dawn's igniting of soft edges behind a mountain cloud,
or sunset's beacon flashing reflected from home's far window.

A diamond's clear flash imitates
bright glints of blinding sun across the afternoon shore,
or a star's brilliantly precise ray through eternal night.

A sapphire's velvet marine resembles
the limitless horizon between azure sky and tropic sea,
or the vertigo of fathomless water below suspended feet.

An emerald's tantalizing green mimics
the vividly penetrating beam warming a rainforest's singular tree,
or the disarmingly beautiful captivation of a strangers eyes.

A rainbow necklace of delicate gems pales
on a summer afternoon porch shaded by stately trees
and a butterfly sanctuary of whimsical flowers,
calm breezes stirring blue shadow leaves
brushing intimately on white shiny paint.

By accident these jewels mirror life's ephemeral essence
Grasping for this illusion to hold fast the spirit
distracts one from living.

One can cling to stones for one's life,
Or
One can live moments for infinity.
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Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
life nomadic Dec 2012
Analytical minds share symbols like currency, defining the present's possible.
Tip an 8 sideways and infinity tumbles out,
but sadly for us, there is no word for          , so it doesn't exist.

Modern idioms can string together only hints of divinity:
A Hebrew Prince raised by Egyptian Pharaohs wrote a book about the I Am.
Our language fails pathetically, scarcely the words for what Moses saw in that burning bush.

We know he saw God, lived to tell in writing.
Grasp the Key for the 6th Angel's Little Scroll, unlocking his original Ancient Hebrew.
Like math, each letter is a picture hieroglyph, and a meaning, and a number.  
Add letters together, each word is a painting, and a poem. 
One sentence is paragraphs of meaning, on four dizzying levels.
One concise chapter speaks a vertigo of encyclopedic volumes.

First to Analyze the most important hieroglyph in Genesis,
so important, do not pronounce it, so its sacredness will never fade:
At top, the sign of Life, then doubled, and the sign of Intelligible Light between.
So becoming a unique verb; all other verbs derive from this, the Creator.  
Then add the sign of potential manifestation, with foundation in eternity.
IHOAH  
a verb/noun signifying exactly The-Being-Who-Is-Who-Was-And-Who-Will-Be
A vertical hieroglyph pictorially resembling a Man.

Then:
The letter with the sound of A looks like:     , and means the physical manifestation of  
A= the physical manifestation of, D= man, A= the physical manifestation of, M= woman.
ADAM, with its root word in red clay.
A noun, collective humanity in physical form resembling spirit. (one meaning)
Vertically hieroglyphic one sees a man; but it is smaller  (another meaning)
Adam, a shadow of IHOAH.

Let me explain how Moses reveals DNA....
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Part one of two
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Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
life nomadic Jan 2013
I've learned you're good at poker, but you're no player,
this, the second time I've seen you;  sizing you up, I like you.
Competent, aware, smart, unassuming. You're fit, tanned; obvious you take care of yourself.
Don't spend too long in these smoky sunless rooms fishing for money,
sitting for hours with pale coughing gamblers and their deceptively friendly banter.

There is only one other woman, her arm inked with a script tattoo Bad Jamie
One guy asks just how bad are you?
She replies, I'm so bad I drink milk straight from the carton, and the table chuckles.
But all joking aside, you're the chip leader and I'm only interested in you.
I raised from the Big Blind, I'm serious with pocket Aces, and everyone else folded.  
You on the little blind stayed in; you could have anything, with a practically free ante.  
I don't know why you've stayed even this long;
something tells me you want to see what I have.
  
The flop comes and the table tries to contain a collective gasp, three 8 s roll out.  
All the potential of infinity between us,
and I'm holding Wild Bill Hickock's dead man's hand, black with bad luck.  
Wow, how to manage this.

I've had no success of anyone staying with me before.
If I slow play it, hiding my cards close to my chest and check it down to the river,
he would fold at any hint of what I have,
and I’d be left just wishing with nothing in the ***.
If I come on strong, and he thinks he didn't catch anything or he's not even drawn to the river;
he would fold,
and I’d be left just wishing with nothing in the ***.


I study you, ascertaining me
with a look on your face like you just may have found something good.
So I do something totally unexpected, just say the truth outright
I've got a house full of dealbreakers.
You're looking at me as if no one else is in the room, and with a smile in your eyes you say
Lets not call them Deal Breakers, lets call them Deal Makers.
...... and I'm All In,
You call, but then ask chop the ***, be equals?  revealing
once-in-my-life quad eights, all that infinity in your hands, and the Queen of Hearts.
You say, hey, lets go...  and as we're walking out into unspoiled sunshine,
you reach into your pocket, show me a few sparkling diamonds in your palm and ask,
*you want these?
.
.
For my husband, who loves poker.  I remember what he said when we met and how I felt beginning our life of adventures together.  I wrote it to see the way he smiled reading through this, and the laugh we shared.  He said, I didn't know you knew so much about poker!

Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
1.2k · Jan 2013
That picture to the left
life nomadic Jan 2013
4 dates since we met, 9 days on the calendar, each one a surprise.
a coffee date, mt biking, (you rented the best bike for me)
***** shooting (oh, you loved the sight of me with a gun)
visiting your dad discussing books and gardens, then a surprised brother;
God, you knew the best food for dinner tucked into small funky streets.

Then today, a hike. A firehouse lookout at 10,000'- scrambling boulders, skinny ladder to the top, 
the view epic, cliffs fours sides, miniaturized trees way down,
sun rays to this warm spot on the wrap-around porch for lunch, tucked out of the wind
The sandwich you made just right.  You had me at avocado.

Thin air and a delicious little bottle of sake from a wooden box-cup made us giddy,
trying to figure out that Japanese label, some cartoon figure of a victorious mean Samarai?
So we named it Kick-*** Sake, and I took a picture.
Then you asked me to marry you.
And I said yes.
.
.
Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
1.1k · May 2013
Still, It Reigns
life nomadic May 2013
.
The World's faceless greed steals our homeland.
You don't live here, yet burn the fields.
Smoke chokes our lungs; ash drifts down,
Land poisoned for sugar.
When will Phoenix rise,
Empire's grasp ebb,
We can eat.
Ashes
reign.
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Nine syllables to one in nine lines
1.1k · Dec 2012
A Natural
life nomadic Dec 2012
Small boy, running toward me by the gentle waves' edge.
Soon our opposite paths will gift a welcome passing;
I am running, jogging, barefoot too
but your 4? 5? years are more buoyant than mine.

Benevolent morning sun lights your blond hair flying
but you glow
with more than children's happiness,
more than that burst of an uncontainable sprint
that all babies with new feet gleefully rev-up like a brand new motorcycle.

Your running/flying sprint surprisingly does not slow.
You must be tapping into the other side,
from where you so recently arrived;
remembering your weightless spirit.

You recognize this paradise, don't you?
waves sent from past the horizon by the warm Pacific,
benign intention spilling out of the water, washing out onto golden sand,
revealing small frothy iridescent wings as peace takes flight,
dispersing into island breezes.

You are finally here,
releasing the silver thread behind,
between you and the tourist father with a camera.
Dad is dutifully following, jogging half-effort because he understands.
Like raising a baby wild mustang who must run-out, this is not chase.

When passing, I impulsively u-turn to run at your side,
wanting to share this contagious happiness.
I tilt my head, ask a playful wanna race?,
But I am already running to keep up with your bright half-sized person
miniature long strides in perfect form.

You look up over at me, I glimpse in your smiling eyes
your wise smile says you don't need boyish competition to fly like this.
I slow, and watch the back of this little boy still sprinting.
Your father runs by my shoulder, feet heavy in sand;
he shares the smile of a marathon.
.
.
Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
1.1k · Jan 2013
When I left, When You Left,
life nomadic Jan 2013
my bed became a sanctuary of nothingness.   But I fear emptiness.  Its close.  A paralysis of indecision permeates like frigid winter through drafty walls.  I decide to sleep in.  

Occasionally turning to see the clock- minutes, hours pile up like ***** dishes.

During broad daylight, the distant noise of a cessna impedes into my room, defining a vast separation.  One, maybe two people up there have an interesting life, an important destination.  Listening to their flight gives me something to do.  When they are gone, I have nothing left but a fingerprint stained glass of water.

By late afternoon, the lost day vaguely disturbs like seeing one shoe on a highway.  
Either painful or a waste, nothing good about it.  

Finally light dims.  A broken clock is right twice in a day, but since I'm the one who stopped, the clock catches up with my uselessness in bed.
The period on the sentence that I have, truly, accomplished nothing.  

Darkness justifies my nap.  A relief as I can finally end the day with some sleep.

I dream of being infinite, traversing the universe a narrow beam of light.  You pass me by a little faster, but turn around so we can create time together, to become here.

I dream of when we camped by a river's waterfall.  Half awake my eyes can see the tent filled with soft green light.  No light source but bright enough to see by, everything in the tent and you sleeping peacefully. Logic corrects me, says it a New Moon and I shouldn't be able to see anything.  My eyes agree and slowly darken, blind to the color of love's aura that I can still feel.

I wake.  Pour one bowl of cereal instead of two, remembering when you looked up from breakfast and said, "let’s ride our bikes across the country," just like that.  And just like that we did, halfway anyway.  1500 miles was just the beginning.  I love the places you take me.

I call you up.  "Let's not call them dealbreakers, ok?"
.
.
Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
988 · Dec 2012
Modus Operandi
life nomadic Dec 2012
Arriving like a Queen,
with ego so solid,
her gravity dwarfed mine;
with self-importance so momentous,
she steamrollered me.
Acting like she owned the place;
and for a minute I accidentally let her...
I was stunned by hubris so stealthy,
picking my pockets of self-esteem.
She demanded and I served,
taking what she wanted,
and leaving.
Just      Like      That.

before I could realize,
before she could realize,
she is an impostor, a thief.

She's rich with everything she ever wanted.

Poor Thing.

Next time I promise to recognize her m.o. in time,
so she might recognize herself as well.
She needs me to stop her in her tracks,
because I am the Queen of me.
a mirror in self-confidence to say,
*may I ask who you are?
.
.
.
Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
944 · Jan 2013
haiku winter.2
life nomadic Jan 2013
.
white fox, snowy owl
doze, crave cousins summer fare
ice hones beauty, will
.
.
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Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
892 · Jan 2013
at the end of status quo
life nomadic Jan 2013
Every last highway narrowed to road diminished to ruts reduced to trail
eroded to footsteps and ended, choked by weeds, in all directions. Every last one.

Status Quo has led to dire starvation, protected behind walls.  
With no options the city is dumbfounded in famine.

But Nature concentrates disconnected genius and ungrounded creativity in a few souls,
So unique they don't fit in, isolated by their own perceptions.

Society cruelly throws them out to suffer alone the cold wilds,
into the throng of ravenous wolves.  Just as Nature intended.

Few of the outcasts survive, and fewer of those resourceful souls live to tell, or care to return.
The town warily welcomes them home, but celebrate the path that was forged to a new harvest.
.
.
.

Copyright © 2013 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
858 · Dec 2012
Message In A Bottle
life nomadic Dec 2012
A moment is never singular, exactly; it is obvious nothing on This Earth lasts.
Even with a God, People obstinately search somewhere to ground the spar tree,
The focal point, the axis, the Self.

Molecules have been examined down to Music; infinite harmonies taking perceived shape,
With each element ever-changing as our senses are tuned.
Particles are waves of color, our own hand turning the kaleidoscope.

Vainly a self-deceit of lasting solidity harbors the illusion of power to hold fast
the fluidity of this cherished existence, like collectively barricading a levee
between our perpetually sinking firmament and the inevitably rising sea.

Ink fades; paper burns; stone crumbles.
But imagine by tenacious persistence we succeed in preserving at least some thoughts,
In digital binary a corked message hurled over entropy into a hot, dry future.

Comprehension itself would surely evolve away,
abandoning our I's and 0's in their past,
bits scattered from a broken bottle useless in a windy desert.

By dumb luck our toes have kicked the dust from remnants, mysteries of the Ancients.
Sandblasting time has reduced their instructions for miracles down to perplexing sketches,
littering a roofless sun-baked labyrinth of echoes.
.
This was supposed to be a continuation of different poem, but this one wrote its own ending.
.
Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
853 · Dec 2012
we've met before
life nomadic Dec 2012
We took some time off work, to meet for lunch. A flight of stairs down from the sidewalk.  A basement coffee/book shop with ubiquitous old-Seattle esprit.  Our easy conversation passed hours like minutes.

No, we met on the sidewalk. I thought it was you because you were standing, waiting, looking at your phone, wearing a (why are they all?) oversized firefighter's jacket.  A man in uniform.

Actually, we met online.  I was curious, checking out the site.  Only one guy caught my interest and you emailed me first.

But we've met before.  When I first saw your eyes, I recognized you from when we were infinite.  I saw the deepest, clearest water and peace, a glimpse of life in love and summer sun.
.
.
Has it been 4 yrs this anniversary? Such an adventure.
.
Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
758 · Feb 2013
at 3 am
life nomadic Feb 2013
The water
splashes my face, ears ring restless
emotions flood a dream                                           a dream of ceaseless noise
chemicals ignite synapsis                                                         ­        winding-up anger        
stir lonely restlessness                                or                                           causing failure
seeking an angry place or                                                        did the angry place stir shame
am I the dreamer                                                          ­                    or a memory
palms feeling the surface                               a hand's reflection stirred
Am I difference     or the surface
Doer or the Deed
All of it, I am
the water
.
.
.
Copyright
© 2013 Anna Honda
all rights reserved
645 · Dec 2012
Haiku autumn.1
life nomadic Dec 2012
.
my Garden Abounds
Woman thinks I'm small, wants Thyme!
I agree, and pick
.
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Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
theres a long story behind this, but I'm trying to be less wordy
643 · Dec 2012
Haiku spring.1
life nomadic Dec 2012
.
Life's spiral stair rounds
full circle to intended
high branch now too low
.
640 · Dec 2012
haiku winter.2
life nomadic Dec 2012
.
warm inside, cold out
then free to punch out time clock
and a cold clocks me.
.
the Irony the inspiration... get well soon Chuck!
619 · Dec 2012
Haiku winter.1
life nomadic Dec 2012
.
beggarly giving
presents from right, takes from left
only Christmas once
.
.
Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.
life nomadic Dec 2012
You did it anyway,
right?
you nod your head yes.
not right,
you shake your head no.
.
.
Copyright © 2012 Anna Honda. All Rights Reserved.

— The End —