The injustice of being sick on vacation

the injustice

how dare I call it that, the injustice of being sick on vacation

when true injustice surrounds us, we have only to open the New York Times

to see injustice oozing from the mouths of our Supreme Court injustices

the injustice for the toddler shot at a Seattle fair just yesterday

oh, injustice you are everywhere and yet looking past the Kleenex box

towards the tranquil bay, does the seagull know injustice or

does the rain gently pattering outside on the railing

know injustice or does she wander freely with the clouds first

towards the east, over the hillsides and open water

does injustice only reside with us, who have strayed so far from

the natural world that we cannot even know what justice is,

or injustice

the injustice of being sick on vacation, the endless coughing and sneezing

the nose rubbed raw, would nature call these injustices or only the 

weary and spoiled traveler in her warm clothing, her white skin and well-educated

mind

she dare not call this an injustice.  

 

This is British Columbia

this is what i imagined 

a white yacht bobbing through channels

endless water, rain pattering 

bleached logs 

stacked onto rocky shores

peaceful

far from it all, what happened in Seattle

would not happen here

this is why we are here

 

the Dalaï Lama in Victoria

His gaze upon us at the restaurant calmed my sense

of not being fully here yet, in Victoria, the place not having 

captured me as I had expected,

jarred by the fencing on Paragon Street seeming to cage

in the homeless and their scattered trash and belongings

just blocks away from the Empress Hotel where one spends

one hundred dollars for high tea

isn't this the way it is in big cities, all of them

the Dalaï Lama gazes down upon all of us who land

somehow in this restaurant with an empty table

after having searched in vain for hours

he somehow knows that I needed this calming here

surrounded as he is by prayer flags and colorful wall

coverings, the serene voice of the Tibetan waitress

I can almost feel the cool breeze blowing off the Himalayas, I

can almost touch his cheek with my

fingertip

 

"When there is no Internet at the hotel" - the Reading

I just walked right up to the clerk

aware of his look of guarded concern, no doubt fearing

a complaint but wasn't it too early to complain about anything

this glorious morning

in Seattle, Washington, the sort of morning where 

happenstance results in a handwritten poem waiting to be released

like a bird from an outstretched hand

yes, it was the internet that didn't work, a might have been complaint that

turned into a golden gift of freedom from the screen

the feel of the pen held between the fingers, the noticeable

drag across the hotel pad found under the TV

I just walked up to the clerk, his gaze transforming to fascination

as I presented the poem that needed to be spoken aloud

to him, the clerk, that early morning when only one 

other woman was gazing intently at us as I read

this one that needed air to breathe

to remind us all that we are free, after all

we have only to remember

(The poem that I wrote is on a previous blog post https://le-poeme.blogspot.com/2026/07/when-there-is-no-internet.html)

 

Trois baguettes, trois amis

pourquoi pas

cuisiner trois baguettes cet après-midi, 

meme s'il

fait une chaleur à crever,

que le four, 500F pour 15 minutes

serait trop trop trop pour 

cette petite cuisine

parce que j'attends trois amis

ce soir, trois baguettes pour

trois amis, ils en auront tous

besoin d'une.

 

When there is no internet at the hotel

 

When there is no internet 

my iPad is simply a lamp

the screen shedding light onto

the reality of our dependence

the unopened books, the 

mind spinning free unshackled

from pre-digested content

when there is no internet, I 

notice the pen and paper  beneath 

the TV screen and consider what it 

might feel like to write,

not type, or even whether the 

magazine in my bag, the one

about how no one reads anymore,

might be read this morning

or maybe I will look out the window

of this sixth floor and watch the City awaken

yes, I'll do exactly that, unplugged

the world beyond the screen is 

waiting for me to notice.  

Joy

Joy can be found on the floor of the library

playing a musical instrument from across the sea

where I had watched their dark skin melt into the dusk,

the shine of the rising moon glistening on the ball

rising high into the air, whether from a well placed kick,

a header, they rushed towards the sea to meet it while

he settled onto the cool tiles of the library floor,

only feeling their joy the way that babies do

through intuition not mind