Rice paddies

Rice Paddies

 

Bustling bursting streets in chaotic streaks of color

raging sea of raucous crowds climbing up each other

mother, child, squealing pigs in joyous muddy home

bent back man with mangled cane jangling crinkled can

 

The whining scream of the weaving bike rending through the mass

riders coat billowy white puffs back in the wind

like a sail on journey bound ship sprinting through the waves

narrow gaps and practiced hands leave angry shouts behind

 

Weaving through the push and pull of capricious tides

faces turn and broken greetings meet the difference of my skin

on and through my smile speaks words my mouth cannot

grandmother in leopard print puts food to my lips and I partake

 

White faded building speckled with paint rises suspiciously

it's appearance forgotten further back at the hands of the scene

each mother's clothing like an ill-matched tale

poke-a-dots, flower prints, rose pink visors look fit for welding

 

Aching backs and awkward gaits tell a story lost in clothes

they amble forth with beaten bodies vicious as a storm

pressed by life and work in field with spirits never to be broken

sending message forth to us all that often remains unspoken

 

                                                ---

 

Swaying stumbling bus arrives stirring up a nervous herd

seats so precious and hard to find a brutal battle ensues

bony elbows, patchwork baskets, rusted metal carts, weapons carving a path

crushed and lost in the stampede I'm funneled up and on

 

Bouncing out and onward the bus driver's final call rings out

I stand connected by mingling limbs a tree of life inside dilapidated bus

bodies rub haphazardly as bus navigates the raging harbor

a hundred or thousand carts swing out from hidden streets

 

Buildings shrink and flatten out and sounds drain to a whisper

the bustle has been left behind the open window lets in country air

winding roads curve mysteriously until my breath is lost

the street is straight and all around tall strangers looking down

 

Cutting crisply through the valley and into a bowl of peaks

the bowl a great ocean as the green shoots dance through the rice paddies

in unison they flow creating purest green waves that rise and move alive

the waves lap up against a tree covered mount that stands frozen a tsunami

 

Silent branches untangle the living tree as they step out to haggard shanties

bus falls into the artery of the valley a well paved road through country town

awakened from my reverie I step down creaking steps and follow daily path

before me stands a rubble strewn avenue that many pass but feels a secret still

 

                                                ---

 

Light kissed hanging limbs reach like hands as I make my way to step

children’s laughter wafts down from windows above like faint angel songs

slipping off dusty shoes a smiling child's face peeks spying around corner 

I hear a bell and know that children will be gathering above

 

"Teacher, Teacher" a chorus of voices blend as smudged faces meet my roving eyes

their call for me a daily refrain that falls on my ears a purpose to rise

attention runs so fleetingly my grand mission capsized buried and never to be found

intentions reached myopically expressed so extravagantly look far past basic needs

 

clanging bell rings, heads perk up, bright grins are shared, excitement reigned in tenuously

students shuffle to teacher's desk to say their daily farewell one wraps arms around my leg

I sit at desk staring out window recalling words and faces of the day

the mountains reflect in glowing but obstructed form on the patchwork quilt of paddies

 

My eyes fall on a lone figure wading through the thick earthy birthing fluid of the rice

each year the harvest comes and the men of the fields bring it up

and in my desk sitting still I plot my plans and schemes for rising far above the rest

they plant with practiced movements ordained at birth just the farmer and his land

 

His plot an extension of his heart my what an extension of my heart

for man so lost in his complexities so often loses his power to see apparent things

that the faces of the children may be more to me than a simple means to an end

He looks up as if to talk to me and Burn's words on his lips I hear

"The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft agley   

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!"

 

 

- Robert Burns: "To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough"