I am Home.


I am home, just woken.

I’ve done my morning ablutions,

and take my first sip

of steaming coffee.

I put off the vacuuming for

another day,

I wonder what to do with

all the fresh mint, how to cook

with sesame leaf.

There is indigo dye

to experiment with,

the grey sky is readying for rain.

Last weekend,

when we went to the mountains

in a mountainous prefecture,

it was another sky, cerulean,

allowing the dazzle of sun through

so that everything, including

ourselves, glittered

like jewels.

We came upon a pond,

on one side of which

a gaggle of retired men

with the longest camera lenses

I’ve seen were at attention, silent

and stealthy, waiting

for a kingfisher to appear.

On the far end of the pond

was a house in the traditional style,

large and cavernous, gaping holes

on the roof, and it was hard to

imagine, on this sunny day

how wet and cold it would be

would be most days of the year,

if it were still inhabited.

Today, the house was flanked by

trees of every kind and colour,

like the four seasons decided

to hold congress in the

fractal rays of this one afternoon,

so that we could delight in

this fold in time and its

embrace of all our bleeding

emotions and sun-drying experiences,

as if to give every single one of

us visitors the warmth and

liberty to say it loud:

I am home.


Joy Now


And once we round the bend?
Once all that the horizon is ours?
Is there something waiting there
grander than the vast open road
with its trees glinting in the sun
stone structures mounted for gods
Mountains just off to the side
ready to cushion your dreams
The clouds, too, shifting shape
always waiting to tell you a story?
May we not wait for what comes
but bring joy to everything we meet. – TS

The Mountain of Her


The mountain of her
Carved in eons
As the water flows

Permeating earthy flesh
As we try to quantify her
Measuring fluctuations

How do we gauge
The way we have loved?
How hopeful we’ve been?

The river of her
Flows into her own succession
Marked not by time

But by all the mountains

Creating the world

In her. – TS


My Street Japan. Day 46

My Street Japan. DAY 46. Tammy S. Stone

My Street Japan. DAY 46. Tammy S. Stone

Autumn giving way to winter

Too soon – the sun has been

Guiding our days infiltrating our dreams

Inviting mountain views warming the skin

And then it rains

And then it rains

A sweet whisper about passage

And the view comes closer

We draw within, examine cold hands

Attend to shortened breath

See the tree in the foreground

Color clinging still

Life upon life upon life

– Tammy T. Stone 2015


Mandala Haiku.

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone


National Poetry Month. Haiku, Day 21.

Wow. I’ve been doing these daily art-haiku for three weeks. So much fun! I’d love to hear yours!

Photograph and haiku by Tammy T. Stone

Photograph and haiku by Tammy T. Stone


There’s No War in World: the fading mountain

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

The Fading Mountain


The new moon is a mist behind clouds but I turn to the mountains in the near distance, on the other side of the very narrow river.

There’s a small rickety bridge that crosses it and last year they were building a second bridge not far away. Now it’s done. It’s not rickety yet, like the others, but it’s flimsy so there’s a lot of promise.

Now the sky is thick like you can touch it and it’s a dress from the Victorian Age made of endless folds of velvet. I want to watch the mountains go dark the way you want to watch water boil without ever taking your eyes away from the pot.

They say a watched pot never boils, but of course that’s not true. It’ll boil as sure as the sun rises everyday (so far that’s a sure thing, until one day the sun will just run out of energy and die). I’m not sure what that expression is trying to tell us, maybe not to be impatient but just to go on with life and let the proverbial water boil on its own?

Personally, I just think we don’t have the patience to watch water boil and are afraid to see this. The mind goes elsewhere and the body follows because we’re not as in control of ourselves as we’d like to think we are. If you’ve ever tried meditating, you’ll see how difficult it is to watch your breath go in and out, in and out, with full concentration. This is mind-training, and the mind is stubborn. It wants to be anywhere else so you start thinking about the past and future, all sorts of happy and bad things, and before you know it you’re anxious and miserable and the breath has been forgotten.

How I love the mountains of Laos, their curves and shapes and strength, and I want to watch them change in the night, all night. I want to watch this water boil. There’s a large mountain covered with trees, and next to it is a series of smaller mountains, with one darker one dominating that’s also covered in trees. Above these the sky is now several intoxicating shades of blue. I look and immediately I’m back to when I was here years ago, and how I felt so protected under these nurturing mountains, and how lonely I was then.

The mountains were everything. I see again: the sky is darker, but you can still discern the varying blues of the sky. The mountains behind the darkest one have faded into the background. The large mountain next to it has become a silhouette. I missed this in the space it took for nostalgia to grow.

I hear someone start to cry. I try to find her but I can’t. I think of loneliness again and now my attention has moved away once again from the mountains, which are almost gone now. But I remember these mountains, and I’ll keep on remembering them. You can feel them even as they disappear.