A lone table
in a grove of trees.
The sun is shining
upon the richest
of blue skies.
What shall I serve?
Or be served?
What music is playing?
Everyone is there.
Or am I just wondering
why so and so
didn’t show?
How long will we linger?
The sun goes down.
Our feast is done.
We forgot to take a picture
again.
This is what I conjure.
It’s Monday morning. Start of a long week, is what I was thinking. But I will scratch that. Just: start of the week, and it will be a good one. There will be texture, and there will be calm. Going to make a list, and keep it rational. I will seek out the texture of things, make time to process and consider, and I will create calm. Here we go (calmly).
An extended run at the theater of Fall. On a cold morning, when the park is mostly empty, especially in its deeper reaches and hidden away nooks of tree groves and patches of leaf strewn grounds, you can walk upon this stage and give a listen to the performances of the past. The curtain may have fallen, but the show must go on, at the theater of Fall.
Comings and goings in a fleeting stretch of a moment on a perfect day.
The ways in which a cold front inspires bridges of reaching, if only for a moment.
A refuge of silence, for the ice, for the wind, and for all those who follow the winding trail and find it.
Updating the site with a photography section. Here’s a photograph from a series (“Wind on Rain Slicked Skin”) published in Former Cactus literary magazine. Check out the new photography section here: jeffreyyamaguchi.com/photography.
The slow cut hits ground
on a long day unfurled
as your eyelids dance
into the collapsing glow
of last light on waves
crashed long ago
More sea poems can be found in Always Find the Sea.
Sent a telegram to the sea
coded in wave crashes
and the ink of salty mists
Through thundering clouds
and a lightning storm
I received the sea’s reply
More sea poems can be found in Always Find the Sea.
Jeffrey Yamaguchi 