a collection of brief poetry, part 2
Morning
Black it starts
Unwritten and without ink
Before the words of birds and man
Yesterday’s tomorrow on the brink
Of beginning
anthony forrest
Tag: Travel (Page 7 of 7)
The Chair
The fog lifted and the clouds drifted away, revealing a warm sun. I at the edge of a duck-infested fountain. The day had been filled with perfect clichés—cobbled streets, old cathedrals, and romantic statues. A perfect Paris day.
Hearing the bells at Notre Dame had meant more to me than I’d thought it would. There was something haunting about the ever-looming tower, protected by the watchful eyes of Gargoyles. The bells sang out and rang the hour—warm and mysterious.
I now relaxed at a fountain near the Louvre, eating a croissant and feeding the little birds directly from my hand.
A screaming 20-something cut though the ambiance. She walked aggressively up to her presumed boyfriend and began shouting in French. They argued loudly for a while.
My birds flew away.
The guy on the receiving end of this balling suddenly exploded. He picked up a metal chair and hurled it into the water.
My birds flew further away.
She was apparently part of a group. Her comrades beckoned her to give up the violent debate and move on. Before they left, a couple of guys did try to retrieve the chair. A kind gesture in a dark moment. But they eventually gave up.
No matter where you are or what beauty surrounds you, there will always be somebody screaming and throwing chairs into fountains. It’s human nature to ruin the good things, ruin peace.
But the angry girl and her angrier boyfriend eventually left. Heads and conversations returned to their previous state.
And even my birds came back.
anthony forrest
Walk with me
Where cobbled stones abound
Cross the street
To the tower
Soon, the hour
Will sound
Wait with me
On a courtyard seat
Under the tall
Dark tower
Soon, the hour
Will beat
Listen with me
To the ringing knife
Cutting hearts
Echo the bells
The song of life
anthony forrest
New Friend Dave
The mobile passport app saves frustration and loads of time. Prior to landing back in the US, the user simply takes a selfie, adds passport information, and answers a few simple questions. When walking into passport control, the traveler bypasses all lines and shows a Homeland Security agent their phone. It’s a breeze and very efficient.
But no time saving app or brilliant travel secret was going to help us make our flight. We landed, collected our bags, breezed through passport control and customs, and promptly missed our flight.
It wasn’t even close.
Although we live close, getting a shuttle home wasn’t going to happen until the next day. Cars were outrageous for a one-way rental. Taxis were even crazier. Time crept on and we continued to trouble-shoot. It was looking like we’d be spending another restless night in an airport. Though I am no stranger to the comforts of a scum-encrusted patch of carpet near a closed Wok-n-Roll, I would have much rather slept in a bed.
There we sat—right outside of customs in the baggage claim. What could we do?
I prayed.
“Lord, give us just a little glimmer of hope. I hate to wish that somebody else missed this exact flight, but if they did, send them my way. Maybe we could split a car rental. Amen”
Opening my eyes, I saw an older guy walked our direction, talking on his cellphone.
“Yeah,” he bellowed into the phone, “I missed flight! I’m thinking about renting a car.”
I collected my mouth off the floor and introduced myself. We were heading north. And so was our new friend Dave.
Thoughts crept into mind. What if he’s a serial killer? It was unlikely, but if he was, we never “found out.” With car rented, Dave kept us company, regaled us with stories from his childhood, and drove the whole way.
We won’t soon forget Dave.
We also won’t forget how God answered prayer. That was perhaps the quickest and most specific answer to prayer I’ve ever witnessed. Though it was a simple request, God showed Himself once more that He is a God who hears. Earlier that day I read in Psalm 6 that, “The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord accepts my prayer.”
I’m thankful for Dave. And I’m thankful for a God who hears.
anthony forrest
Foreign Bathroom Series
Chapter One: Bidet
Names have been changed to protect the innocent (also embarrassed).
I peered deeply into the strange toilet. Along the side of the foreign commode several buttons and settings looked back at me, questioning my every move. To make matters worse, I couldn’t even read it.
No English.
What to choose? Back home I have one setting—flush. But here? So many options. It was a good thing that this was just practice. Call it a “dry run.” The panel had ten options. The first one looked promisingly like water. I pressed the button and listened for the sound of a successful flush. To my horror, a robotic arm extended from the back of the bowel and paused ever-so-briefly.
“Bidet,” I yelled (out loud mind you). And, faster than I could close the lid, the little arm began spraying water.
Upon closer inspection and further use, the electronic bidet in our hotel bathroom also had a seat warmer, temperature setting for the water, and a speaker that played the comforting and bladder stimulating sounds of a flowing stream.
Some friends we were traveling with met up with us later that day. I asked James what he thought of the toilet in his room. With a crooked smile and a breathy giggle, James said that he though the bidet was, “very accurate.”
anthony forrest
a collection of brief poetry, part 1
Ueno Park
My feet from under cover
Step with a new day
In the warmth of sunrise hope
Seeking a sunset peace
anthony forrest
Throw Coins
(story below)
Men throw coins seeking grace finding none.
With clapped hands they bow, but not to the Son.
In Danse Macabre their culture sways till finally in death’s arms they lay.
Have they hope in this dire state?
Where will they find grace?
Beyond a doubt, one of my favorite places to visit is Japan. Smiling faces, terrific food, ancient structures, mystical remnants of forgotten wars, and friendly people make up a culture that warms my heart each time I go.
Most of the people in Japan observe Shinto, a religion made up of mysticism, spirit worship, and ancestral longing. On the outside, Shinto is beautiful. I travel to Shinto shrines every day I am in Japan. Towering pagodas and looming archways beckon followers to bow, clap, buy luck, and recite prayers.
Albeit beautiful, every time I visit a shrine, I walk away with a sense of emptiness. All the ritual practices and rigid rules leave the worshiper fallen short of perfection. In a sense, Shinto is puzzle missing pieces. It is up to man to maintain a connection to their ancestral past. It is up to man to live up to expectation of Shinto. It is all up to man. Hopeless, graceless, and endless. If man is the end all be all, count me out.
The God of the Bible gives hope, grace. Second chances and forgiveness abound. It doesn’t come from me. And that’s a good thing.
anthony forrest
a collection of haiku
Inhale: a collection of haiku
Sky glows red
Light passes through
A new day
Rubs tired eyes
Sleep falls away
Mind alive
One breath then another
A new place
A new breath
Exhale
Feet step out
Carry forward
The street takes
Also gives
Taste all
Smell all
Inhale
Journey on
anthony forrest
Too Many Señoritas
My dad and I gathered our unorganized gear and stumbled out of the Jeep. Both of us had dealt with juggling schedules and flights just to make it this far. He flew in on the red-eye connecting through Guadalajara. And though my flight was direct from Minneapolis to Cancun, my brutal night shift had left me depleted and groggy.
Cozumel, Mexico is beautiful. Sure, the island is nice. But I’m talking about what’s beneath the surface of its perfect waters. We were now headed to Palencar Reef off the southwestern coast of the island. The scuba diving in Cozumel is some of the best in the world. Still waters, abundant sea-life, and a massive coral reef create a diver’s paradise.
Our boat (The Chingilada. No idea what that means, don’t ask) showed up and our captain and dive master began loading tanks and gear. The sun shone bright, the water was warm, and the boat crew had fresh-cut pineapple. Even though we were tired, this was going to be a perfect day.
Right before our boat left the marina, a taxi pulled right up to the pier. Two very beleaguered middle-aged Americans piled out of the vehicle.
“Sorry we’re late,” growled one of the men, orange-haired and sunburned. “Crazy night.”
They hurled their gear into the boat and fell exhausted onto the bench across from me and my dad. As terrible as we felt from our long days of travel, we were a picture of health compared to these guys. I leaned forward and said over the sound of the boat engine, “you oaky?”
A pause.
The other guy took off his sunglasses and groaned with bloodshot eyes, “Too many señoritas.” They were obviously having a completely different Mexico experience than we were.
anthony forrest
They do that. We drink beer.
Warning: this story is political—but barely.
It was late and everybody was hungry. It was also cold. Tokyo, though sprawling, is easily walkable. Each section (or prefecture) can be reached quite simply by the extensive public transit, coursing through the metropolis like blood vessels carrying people to the vital areas of Tokyo.
We found our hotel after having walked too far. Tired feet, cold bodies, and empty stomachs make traveling the opposite of fun. To make matters worse, many shops and restaurants had already closed. We stumbled about Tokyo near Ueno Park for a half an hour before we walked by a dimly lit café down a dark side street. Elated, the four of us opened the door to the tiny diner to find only two other customers feasting on noodles and beer.
We sat down and a boisterous lady came to take our order. She reminded me of a classic diner waitress back in the US: pen in hair, notebook in hand, maybe smells like cigarettes, treats you like family, maybe is family, maybe her name is Marge. All of that—but Japanese. You get the picture.
She spoke no English.
We began grunting at pictures of food on the wall. Her clarifying questions were met with more guttural noises from us. Communication was going as well as could be expected.
Fortunately, a kind-hearted soul at the nearby table began translating for us. With food ordered I talked with our newfound friend.
“Where are you from? I asked.
He pointed to his chest and said, “China. Where you from?”
“United States”
“Oh, Donald Trump?” (His broken pronunciation of the President’s name sounded more like Donut Chum, but I digress.)
We all perked up and agreed. Why yes, we come from the land of Trump. A stern look crossed his face as he leaned in as if to tell us a secret.
“Trade war!” he growled.
Our smiles vanished and a silent pause hit the ceiling. His stern look quickly dwindled and he and his friend exploded into laughter. We all joined in.
“No, no. Is okay,” said he. “They do that… we drink beer.”
Across the Earth, there are people like us—people trying to enjoy life and carry on. As the world’s leaders play political crochet, there are noodles to eat, places to see, views to view, lives to live, and people to laugh with.
Don’t miss out.
anthony forrest