Morning haikuA burning sunriseThe eyes catch fireWash my face in the pond
Piano in an empty roomMoving out. In the living-room, only the grand piano remains,black and shiny, like an insecttrapped on the ground, one wing extendedas if trying to fly right before death caught up with it.The sound would be different nowwith no furniture around,no books to soften the notes,no rug to dampen the low vibrations.I never learned to playand now the piano seems to epitomizethe black bulk of my regrets...defiant, untouched.On a whim I sit in front of it.I let my fingers flow as they will,my mind wondersand I drift away for a while.After I don't know how long, I stop.The sound is different in an empty room...and with a trace of excitement I realize I had something there.Later that day, when workers came to pick up the piano, I just sent them away."I'm gonna keep it" and didn't back down before their protests.I will place it in my next apartment,in an empty room,so that it sounds different
FireIf life is a slow torture anyway,Then it is a blessing to be,From time to time,Tortured by loveAnd if be consumed,Let it be by fire
ZenSometimesIn the zen gardenRocks contemplate people
The reality conjecture. Monolithic dreamsWhen you live so long among dreams,they start shaping your realityWhen you live so long without...reality shapes you
PhantomWhen lifeor fateor whatever it isthat puts things togetherand takes them apart...when Itamputated you,it left mewith a phantomlimband you are still attachedto my bodywhen I danceand make lovealone
EmptinessI stopped cleaning my roomdust lays everywherebut I'm confident the void inside mewill suck it all inand leave my roomclean
Metamorphobiait is a wonder all the changesthat one endures in a dayat dawn, in fear, desperation,then words pull you from the abyss,your lungs inhale a swift elation,the eyes perceive a kind of bliss,then clouds, dark clouds, again in silencethe rain, the wind, the sun againat last the dark, the taste of violence,the sensual rhythm of a trainand like emerging as imagoyou exchange fear for delightyou are a thing of many facesdepressed by day, a god by night
Nature morteI tried to paint herI had already set the backgroundthe cold and warm colors, the surroundings,the atmosphere, the light,the soothing feelings,the sheets on the bed, forever unmade,a plate of fruits on the nightstand...but then she leftand all I have nowis a fresh paintingd'une nature mortewith a plate of fruits on the nightstand,the tortured feelings,the atmosphere, the dust,the cold and distant colors, the surroundings,and her form, imprinted in the sheets on the bed,forever unmade...
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.sweetheart, let's head out. let'sdrink up the desert asphalt and that last bottleof johnny walker blue--one last toast to the copper sunsets,to the good earth. a pair oftailgate stargazers, you and i:roaming curves across the glove compartment map, untilevery foldline is worn flannel-softand it'd rather stay openthan closed.let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget the numbersand pick up terra cotta dust--breathe in the mojave. let's pretendthat the world's already endedand it's just us.let's leave the door unlockedand gowest.
on watching the night close its eyes on you1. I will not tell youyou are pretty.How can the halls and angles of such honest humanitybe so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?2. You need not be two stringent boughs of syllablesnor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty letters,whirling in the fire of the riverStyx.Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,leaving all the disgust behind.Do not tally your body six linestoo short, hemming the holes intopuckers red as those volcanoes of strengthbursting at the base of your hips.3. Blood is not satisfaction.Blood is not patience, waiting for the rooms to empty
Mandela's ChariotIn silence your chariot approaches. Bright light, a piece of heavens.A man of destiny, a prince, grandfather of his nation, returns hometo the heavens that birthed him. A moral authority, of grace and peacewho helped lay aside the chains of oppression with a soft laugh and guiding hand.Your ride home is here, not to the village where you took first breath,but to the heavens where your soul was forged to change the courseof a people, a nation, a world and the history that is to follow. Relax,enjoy the ride home, knowing that you have sown well the seeds of peace.Madiba, you are a leader who did not need a gun or threats of terror,but lead by simple moral authority, not so simple in this graceless age.Twenty seven years in the stone belly of the apartheid beast, releasedto forgive his jailors for the betterment of all, rising above fear and hate.Once around the sun and then back into the heavens, Mandela rides proudand the angels line his route home, his chariot carrying evi
wrists that roarmama sayspull down your sleevesthey'll see, they'll seebut no-one's even lookingi say mamatigers are proud and strongand tigers show their stripesso today i'm a tigerand who saysi can't be a tigerwhen razors made me fierceand secrets kept me lonelywho saysi can't tiger-roarwhen everything unsaidripped my throat rawi made my stripeswith tiger-claws and tiger-teethso damned if i'm not a tigerand damned if i won't roarmama, i'm a tigermama, hear me roar
Gather the Roses, my Love, And Fly AwayGather the Roses, my Love, And Fly AwayI hope to awaken in autumn one dayAnd find myself alone, like these withered leavesGather the roses, my love, and fly awayFate came, and tore us - thus were we set astrayToo late were we, for this weight that would not leaveI hope to awaken in autumn one dayThe waves of the sea, their tides striking the bayAn undefined weight, a hard burden they heaveGather the roses, my love, and fly awayThis soul is lost, its cries led by the wind's swayA heart taken, its pieces lost from each cleaveI hope to awaken in autumn one dayMarkings left show life, as you would always sayThe sea which cared for me, a friend who would grieveGather the roses, my love, and fly awayI waited by the sea, here is my last stayI make my last wish, by the end of the eveI hope to awaken in autumn one dayGather the roses, my love, and fly away
Through the LightThe cancer took Mary on a Friday, just after three in the morning. She was laying in bed, sleeping. I sat in the chair near the window, reading something, I forget now what, trying not to think about the moment, only thinking about the moment. It had just finished raining, and I had the window to the room cracked, the scent of fresh condensation floating in from the garden outside. The air smelled pure and relaxed. It was lovely.I was dozing slightly when the EKG started to beep. It took me several seconds to realize what exactly I was hearing, not that it mattered much. By the time I was out of the chair, the nurse had walked in. She moved down the corridor from the lobby to the room with calm purpose, her steps quick but not rushed. She kept a forced, tiny smile at the corners of her mouth, an expression I’m sure she had used hundreds of times, and nodded to me as I dropped the book. She went straight to the machine and silenced the godawful alarm.She checked Mary’s pul
Bowlesian Sonnet-en if this paper in your hand was oncean Aspen, thick with sunny leaves; aroundthe base of wet and living wood, a groundthat reeks of life and death at once, then conc--entrate, and know at least in brief the grandmachine you sleep in, twitching fingers, won--dering just how one feels a texture, sunlights warmth, bare prickled skin, bare feet in sand.Oh this body. How I will tend to itseventy-five or eighty. How I willbend arthritic knees, by five windows, still,the summers passing. Faithful friend! Now, bitby bit, you close each window to its clasp.This paper in your hand was once an Asp-
Survival of the FittestHear me read itI am crack'd. Open to the pitwith the nub and root exposed.I am silver pierced and puncturedwith holes and protruding piecesof rocked raw wounds rubbed open.I am barely shattering my lungsby inhaling the same air as youeven long after your departure.With a bile-laced smile I paveand fill in crack and crevicesI am more than disfigured limbsand disillusioned heart muscle,scraping a breath down my trachea.More than the mess you have made.I hold in my innards, and survive.
*Olympus*Mount Olympus weepsRain driven days and heartacheStorm clouds gathering.2013 Delice194110th March2013
.the oaks crouch to greetme, i sit with the ferns andthe forest listens
HaikuWriMo1Church spire, stretching,weds the moon.2Slate skyand a heavy heat;collapsing.3Embroidered stars—celestial needlework.4Fairy wrens:steeds of elven knights,armoured all in blue.5Raindrops—wet wings,startled honeybee.6Huntsmanupon orange glass:a specimen, fossilisedin amber.7Scarred grape,veined in gold—kintsugi.8White blossoms,fallen like snowdrops.9Eagle in flight,great wings cradlingthe half-moon.10Pastel sun,peeking from a soft,smoky grey duvet.11The world settles;the heavens awaken—storm.12Black swans:two arrows in tandem.13Mirror-verse—sunset’s reflection,river-bound.14The yellow of anold book:crinkled paper moon.15Tangled in old web—a spider, noosed.16Rough brushstrokesof a smudged landscape:Impressionism.17Giant’s treasure:pot of molten goldspilledalong the treetops.18Raindropslike gemstones,flinging light.
FineEarly mornin’ coffeeNever tasted so bitter.I’m telling you, I’m fine.Every mornin’, the same routine.Why do you still not believe me?I’m fine, I swear.I just couldn’t sleep…Again.But who needs sleep anyways?I write instead.I’m fine. Just a little brain dead.I was just thinking about the past,And I fantasizedThat there was a happy ending.I’m fine now.I’m just fine.Don’t worry.
sea dwellerswe drove to the seaside on a whimpacked ourselves into our golden chariotand were offit took us almost ten minutes to climb to Patrick's Pointand once our feet hit the cobbled stone pathonce our cheeks stung with the bite of cold ocean airwe laughed and jumped the wall, stood closer to the rocky drop off than we should haveand the ocean taunted usit laughedit mockedit beckonedand we yieldedwe clamored over branchesspiraling down down down like stairs only falling in a cloud of dust once or twicewe trailed after one another dreamilyunder an oak arch leading toan alcove of beautywith rocks andsea lions and "look; seaa-nem-o-nesanemo-nesanemones"cutting hands and knees on mottled salt rocksour adventurous blood slipped over one another's reaching handsover barnacles an
pollenwasp-waisted beautypray into my collarbonelet your snake tongue slitherwith the syllables.i wish for soft-chested nights,and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,nurse my coiling tongue with yours;tap my scalp like a silent drum,and wind my hair in between your fingerslike broken guitar strings.(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
I'll Wait by the WaterThis is the place where our memories began.A creek at the bottom of a canyon,red cliffs on either side and a giantpond dam to the north that wildflowers grow on.Paths that we created through the woodsand up and down those copper canyon wallswhile we pretended to be wild Injunsor wanted outlaws being hunted by a posse.You were on your knees,in the middle of the creek,when I found you.A neighbor girl, trespassing.I had a mind to chase you offuntil I asked what you were doing.You looked at me, smiled, and said,"Catching crawdads. Come help!"After that day, we spent Springs and Summersbuilding fort walls and chasing frogs,skipping stones and arguing baseball,sharing comic books and trading punches.You could hit as hard as any boy I knew.We had our own bridge to Terabithia,our own kingdoms of knights and castles,won the World Series with back to back homeruns,settled the Wild West and discovered gold in the mountains.My parents thought you were imaginaryuntil I bro
if death is a sentenceif death is a sentence,let mine beworth reading slowlyin the early morningand bring to your heart,my dear,the ebb and swellof the sea
You've Endured So Many Storms That You Became OneYou have endured so many storms that you became one.Your mother was a tsunami.Her emotions came in wavesand crashed down on you like“this is all your fault”.Her high-tide flooded your basement.There’s water damage in your roots.She taught you how to swim when you were five years old,but somehow you’ve been drowning for seventeen years.You once told me that you hid all the knives in your houseso that the waves wouldn’t carry them away.Your father was a thunderstorm.His voice shook your house so much,I could have almost sworn that you lived by train tracks.His thought cloudsgenerated enough electricity to light up your neighborhood.When his lightning cracked you’d count“one Mississippitwo Mississippi”to see how far away his hand was from your facebefore the friction in his bones was too much for him to bear.You have endured so many storms that you became one.You are an earthquake,and my heart is your San Andreas Fault
Night haikuThe moon comforts a waveBefore its impending deathUpon the shore