Red house, a poem

-
Nightingales and finches in wonderful song, savour the golden sun

Who breathes life into the very depths of the wood.

The air is crisp with the scent of untainted peonies,

And here I sit, sheltered by a striped veranda, satisfied as one can be,

With Chet Baker's sonorous voice drifting from inside the red house.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

An Upper East Side Adventure

-
I had quite the adventure with my black metropolitan museum bag a few weeks ago. Momo had been busking at Carl Schurz Park and I left it on the bench when we went back home, but I didn't realize it until two days later when I was searching for my songwriting notebook in vain. In a state of panic, I had my mom post on NextDoor (the app where people are always asking where their cats went) to see if anyone picked it up. I didn't hear from anyone that night, nor the following morning, so I got up early to run to East river and search for my bag. Not a trace. I even found the park office, but no one had seen the bag. This was the first time I'd lost so many things in a bag- my notebook, Kindle, sunglasses, songwriting pen (very, VERY special), and the bag itself, which was quite high-quality. Praying for a miracle, a miracle came. Walking to get my new prescription glasses the other day, I saw flyers posted all around the Upper East Side for a monthly volunteer cleanup. I was t
Read more

Thoughts from San Vito

-
Honeysuckle and lavender pervade the warm Italian breezes, The ageless mill churns water into the distance, How simple and sweet this rustic life seems to me! Far from the imposing gray buildings that blot out the sun, from the unhappy noises of city-goers, pushing past each other for the illusion of greatness. This place where the lady down the road smiles as you pass her, turning her head to tell you "buona giornata".
Read more