I don’t know exactly when
The movers came, packed,
Then departed with my soul.
Or maybe it ditched
Over the Pacific,
With no parachute.
Yet I don’t mind the simplicity,
The sunlight, the space.
And you are free,
To come only as you are.
Tag: Poetry
Catechism
Three stones.
Quince.
The aura of perfection.
An illumination.
Parsnips, uncooked.
Telescopes.
As always, questions
Left as an exercise
For the reader.
For dVerse Poetics
Haibun – “Shimo no koe ~ First Frost”
Well, I’m not so sure that frosting the cake or anything else before you bake it is a good idea. Leave it to the Japanese: ‘Shimo no koe – First Frost!”, probably some kind of trick they know how to do – a Samurai baking thing. What if it is a Zen Koan: “What was your cake before it was baked?” asks the Zen Master. “First Frost!” replies the student. I don’t know, it is beyond my limited mind/body duality Western brain. If I tried to frost something first there would be nothing but goo.
Maple sugar drips
Baked long in Summer’s oven –
Cool Autumn Frosting
For dVerse Haibun Monday
Haibun – Waterways
The geese here on the Hudson have no intention of heading south for the winter. They are New Yorkers, with hipster lifestyles to maintain. No way are they giving up Sunday morning bagels, Thai take-out, and small batch artisanal truffle fries. And the kids? Like all good Millennials, the gosling mini-me’s are going to live at home with Mom and Dad until, well, whenever.
This week the weather began the turn from Summer to Fall, and the fair-weather, friends-of-a-feather tourists began their landings, take-offs, and flyovers. The river is a busy runway of watercraft and waterfowl.
Our dog raises her nose and sniffs crisply at the drop in humidity and temperature. Her daily confrontation with Mother Goose goes as usual: barking vs. hissing and nipping. Another stalemate in the city of fairy tales.
Tidal river shifts
Salty city’s evening lull –
Fresh uncertainty
Haibun – Why I Write the Way I Do
Whiskers from shaving
Sticky with soap
In the sink
Like the stubble
Of Autumn’s harvest
Thatched with mud –
I think I understand
These words
Now
Butcher-bird calling
Poems that visit my grave –
Shakespeare’s hungry ghost
For dVerse Haibun Monday
Haibun – The Shadow
We live on the Hudson River, and this morning the dog and I sat on a bench watching the working scows: tugboats and ferries, derricks and dredges. I was thinking how easy and fun it was to be nefarious back in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s – hide a boat in the rushes, muffle the oars with rags, row across in the dark with untaxed whisky. Who would stop you? I walk past the kayak rental with its bright red and yellow plastic boats. With my now bootlegger’s expertise, I calculate that I could probably stuff in a case or two per shell. But they don’t look dangerous; they don’t make me shiver that they are up to no good. I need creaky oarlocks, pitch tar smell in the staves, long flapping coats, not kindergarten crayolas!
The massive push of the river is indifferent. Its tide, running sin out to sea.
Harvest moon distilled
What lurks in the hearts of men –
Bottled shine, soul burns
For dVerse Haibun Monday
Endless Dust
A ghost ship washed ashore in Japan
Full of cargo and sailor’s bones.
The Japanese for “endless drifting”
Is “mugen no hyōryū”, which means:
“Dust motes in sunlight
Float like lotus blossoms
On the still pond”
Sure, I just made that up,
As did the sailors
Scrawling haikus of goodbye
On the walls of their bunks.
For The Twiglets
Haiku – Arid
Old pond is bone dry
Sediment of centuries –
Frogs crushed with boredom
Haiku – Solstice
Solstice gallows swing
The December sun hangs low –
Light does dead cat bounce
For Frank’s Haikai Challenge
To the Snake, Anon
My reply to Jilly’s reply to the Denise Levertov poem, “To the Snake“. Full text in-line below.
To the Snake, Anon
Eat thine own tail, Ouroboros!
As I must eat my tale
and know we began only to end infinity,
leaving just our stories forever
twined, wrapped, twisted
as the caduceus we made in the forest,
our bower of staff and wings.
Would you shed me so easily?
Do you not taste of your venom?
Your lie forks your tongue
that such pleasure was not love,
the brush of our skin immortal.
My garden flowered with too much joy;
I cannot regret now
what I will bear alone.
The Snake’s Keening
by Jilly
Bright Girl, when you plucked me from
the grass and round your neck I hung
felt your seering warmth
and whispered in your ear the secrets
of a serpent’s curse
the weight of sin and shame I bare
wounded in your ears —
Bright Girl — I swore to my scaled children that certainly
you were sinless! But truly
I had no hope of ever passing your heel, only desire
and be held by you, for that thrill,
which bereft
of guilt, as the grass closed
behind me, and you with that dark
assurance in your eyes,
I shall never share.
To the Snake
by Denise Levertov
Green Snake, when I hung you round my neck
and stroked your cold, pulsing throat
as you hissed to me, glinting
arrowy gold scales, and I felt
the weight of you on my shoulders,
and the whispering silver of your dryness
sounded close at my ears —
Green Snake–I swore to my companions that certainly
you were harmless! But truly
I had no certainty, and no hope, only desiring
to hold you, for that joy,
which left
a long wake of pleasure, as the leaves moved
and you faded into the pattern
of grass and shadows, and I returned
smiling and haunted, to a dark morning.
qbit 