A poetry journal of everyday clippings |
"The astonished muse finds thousands at her side." R. W. Emerson I made this poetry journal because I like to play with words and lines and I wanted to put somewhere some of my practice work (or first draft) in verse, written--within a very short time, probably daily on the spur of the moment, with the idea to work on the entries later--with or without the help of the astonished (should I say shocked?) muse. Some of the haiku I have mixed with senryu, not only because I am not a purist, but also because I like to do what I like to do given what I feel at the moment. |
crows hop on the ground like jesters in a king's court swelled in flippant wings |
night lifts up sky’s edge and stars slip out of cover a mine of jewels |
rowing out too far masts like arms rising to sky dislocated boats |
A Distant Memory on elephant’s back reaching to a ripped up sky a wobbly howdah Howdah: A seat, fitted with a canopy and railing, placed on the back of an elephant or a camel |
flimsy butterfly off the cocoon with no care a silkworm in flight |
on sweet fallen fruit bumblebees tumble over each other, feasting |
morning birds chirping with ephemeral delight through all the sadness |
ghastly moon hangs down over the pond, bullying its fractured ripples |
with needle-thin itch pivoting on mind's axis a repeating tune |
lifelines in my palm clam building a pearl from grits hermit crab’s shell game |
Inspired by alfred booth, wanbli ska , I wrote a haiku a day (373 words altogether) in January, in my computer. Then, I finally got the courage to put them up in my book. They consist of daily observances of life, be it human, animal, or thing. . 1. reeds under moonbeams like silver snakes hissing at chills of nature 2. I heard a loon cry, a whooping lament, warning “Head above water!” 3. this strange, veiled yearning caterpillar in cocoon dimming, drifting words 4. rain falls between bars Eine Kleine Nachtmusik old wounds not healing 5. old garden turtle in his checkered shell tells me all kinds of stories 6. stumps wrapped in seaweed don’t catch the eye of the world such is fate’s presence 7. red-breasted robin carries a berry to nest like an old pirate 8. Wild emerald sea… Siren songs searching in tides infinite water 9. mystifying jazz tootling of an oompah band flaming with passion 10. behind frosted screen politician orating… rowdy machismo! 11. snuggled in, yawning, cat purrs off my foolish tales for an encore nap 12. A break in noon clouds… To keep things at ground level, puddles fill with sky. 13. Hovering over characters cast in world’s play, on stage, this old fool 14. lists nailed on the wall You changed and did not tell me wounds pile up like lies 15. curled up in the tub water churns against my skin whirlpool swirls with grace 16. rain drops on glass panes barren land turns to garden for yet-to-be life 17. nest-building intent wings folded back and resting wren pining for love 18. On the last hike south, rivers carried loam away while rain pricked our cheeks. 19. gulls, in flocks and flocks, on oceans of recurrence rising and falling 20. childhood gone for good our son votes for gun control promised lands in sight 21. (01/21/1966) Forty-seven years… Happy Anniversary! fairy tales shift shape 22. facing up to skies finding my swift inner wings I’m taming lightnings 23. Beneath rusting leaves, lies the earth, dark, stabbed with trash, a sign of our scorn. 24. Snow’s revolution traps a child’s shoe in bushes by the riverbank 25. desires disappear where the highway does leg splits, barbaric milestones 26. bulldozing a road inside the mind’s savage lands while I close my eyes 27. Full moon’s ecstasy like a goddess charges on as if it can’t wane 28. I fumble to catch the full moon through steamed windows to light my shadows 29. Tiny ants skitter across the room, acting like typical tourists 30. a dream of a house gingerbread trim, wood-planked porch… I’m searching for hope 31. I watch spider webs how they sparkle in the sun gossamer spirits |
old dinghy on sand stripped to a wood skeleton no stern, bench or oars content at sunset a carcass of memories old dinghy like me |
Wish-like, white flakes in the night imprint their logo, then nest on the ground, letting treetops peek through windows, to witness exhausted dreams leave ritual offerings for spirit gods. : "Winter" Acrostic. Won Kiya's impromptu contest late last night. (12/17/2011) |
We do not replay errors or hide inside a bubble under water. We do not dine in candlelight or dry ourselves with designer towels, but we make love to our memories locked inside our poetry in a hutch that opens to a desk that opens us to each other. Then, we pass the nights, back and forth, as if sipping beer from the same mug, rejoicing in how we built our family house. |
The recliners are senior style reconciling comfort and survival, with covers getting weather-worn under the sun, while they wait by the side of the curb. Do they discuss atherosclerosis, kidney stones, flabby arms, arthritis, and prostate enlargement, and tease the credenzas and the mahogany table with the unsteady leg? Probably, they all exchange woes with each other, comparing pains and people, who used them up and threw them out; however, they seem resigned as they prepare for the Goodwill truck to pick them up for lesser homes, like those people who grow old to perfection, then melt away in forlorn places. |
After hearing Sarah McLachlan on Jay Leno last night, which was Nov.13, 2008 You run in the middle of the traffic to ditch men with heads of frogs, refusing to own yourself and what went wrong; although, you’ll outlive your pain and the just-too-damn-difficult forgiving of the distances in between. Then, when you come back, you’ll still be covered with scars. and you’ll still sprint to ditch the carcasses on the black earth, as Sarah McLachlan sings: clueless and so high! |
Everything grows on me, growing up. To begin with, those story ideas-- shedding their chrysalis, thoughts that sigh--finding no solution. Then, the little boy next door who is a man now, the population of this town bringing poetry and repulsion, and the tyranny of shadows from each day of so many years. My reflection in the glass…so funny! Who bent that many lines on my face like buried tributaries and made moments flee like obscene gestures? Hard to believe… Today, even Google turned ten. |
The ant in the milk didn’t go in there by chance. Dissatisfied with its lot, it focused on the spilling universe of white in the glass. How paltry that desire seems now, when the ant is fighting for breath? Luckily, a wooden pick comes to its rescue, from the hand of one who seeks nothing after a thousand or more such drownings. |
Fickle moon feeds the aloneness in you, shining on flower beds, creeks, waterfalls, springs, hills, crypts, and boulders to make everything sparkle only to lose them in an instant to their shadows. Proud though on its own, just a rock thrust in heavens by titans spuming fire, it lulls you with night breezes to make you shimmer inside what you are not. |
The way you twirled the wine and sniffed, with a hint of prophecy, reminded me of a man I once loved, as if I smelt the brine from a wave. Then a fog covered my eyes and I docked my boat of antique recollections with an absurd longing. By the time you took a sip and nodded, I was already back in your presence, back from an ocean thrashing and swelling without forgiveness. |