April 1, 2009
drawing by Slobodan Dan Paich and text by Moira Roth
He often did this–
sauntered through the labyrinth
until,
almost idly,
he found the exit.
It never worried him
Being lost
For a while.
He liked the solitude
Of the labyrinth.
He liked hearing
Only his own footsteps.
April 5, 2009
drawing by Slobodan Dan Paich and text by Moira Roth
She came along this path everyday,
Passing the old oak tree,
And heading toward her house
And its garden of pomegranates.
A humdrum daily walk.
It was only today,
Pausing to sing,
That she began to wonder
What lay below the path.
She began to imagine
A wheel below,
On which an uneasy structure swayed
And,
As she imagined this,
She heard beneath the ground a humming sound
Of the creaking wheel,
It was shortly after this
That she ate
The first of the three pomegranate seeds.
July 17, 2009
drawings and photograph of Armenian “shepherd” sculpture by Slobodan Dan Paich and
text by Moira Roth
She stood
At the window
Listening to the shepherd’s call
As the sun burst forth.
July 18, 2009
Internet images and text by Moira Roth
It was absolutely silent
In the Cave of the Seven Sleepers
Except for the sound of
The bats outside
Flying across the night sky.
July 21, 2009
drawing by Slobodan Dan Paich and text by Moira Roth
When he first saw it
He could not,
Literally
Believe his eyes.
It was only
When he passed under the arch
And felt the stone walls
On either side
That he believed
It was not a mirage.
Yet when he glanced back
It had disappeared.
July 22, 2009
Photograph of Armenian vessel by Slobodan Dan Paich and text by Moira Roth
Delicately
She touched
The vessel
Thinking of its history
Wondering who had made it
And what messages it contained.
July 22, 2009
drawing by Slobodan Dan Paich and text by Moira Roth
They sat in the forest
Preparing their evening meal
On the wood fire.
Of all the scents coming from the roasting vegetables
The onion was the most pungent.
July 23, 2009
Internet image and text by Moira Roth
Sitting in her home
In Berkeley, Northern California,
She opened the plastic bag
– a present he had brought her from his recent visit to Armenia–
And
held the dried laurel leaf in her hand
Smelling its fragrance
And imagining
The leaves
–once fresh–
On a laurel tree,
Somewhere in Armenia.