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. |
I gaze into the old photo album, for regret, a secret vice, so loyal, grabs the heart like a vise, never deserting, and I recall you showing me your old dog cuddling the stray kitten: “See, how unlikely! If they make it, why can’t we?” But I, too juvenile too unwise, believed in the silly counsel of others in my clumsiness, since you, an ancient poet, had already written your past in volumes and tomes. Now, thirty-two years later, in broad daylight, no more are there stars to wish on, and a gibberish, akin to smoke spiraling up through the chimney, rises inside my mind: “Why do I still weep for not dancing with you?” This may be heresy, but I think, then, if I knew, where to stand... I’d stand beside you. If for nothing else, I’d have good photos to show for my life. |
Impossible to imagine that hand etching the stone with toil, fascination, patience, and yearning, chipping with the fire stolen from gods. A vision of a blessed mind in gasps of anticipation sleepless under black skies, through deadly storms of living. A dream alone, accomplished passion, whisperings of love, implied in the object only through labor; yet, left to a sparrow’s screech. Bird droppings on marble a sculpture in chains with power to crumble a steel heart. |
A shadow wandering under neon lamps, still searching for a merciful gaze, I, a fated tiger, not as sleek or fast in my bony frame, pray that the forest grows apart from me, and, if not to the sound of my roar, the rapids run down through time, so part of me lives on. Since in this arid circus the ground is wrinkled with greed, I stay silent solitary, locked in, though growling at gestures now and then. What else is left when people just recognize the fur I’m wearing or the metals glittering on my collar under moving lights? If I am a prowler, so why am I the prey to the whips snapping? Am I an impostor beast with little substance, yet waiting, for their sticks to crack? Or is my reflection a lie conjured up by men of sinister deeds? Is there nothing else to do but run around in circles and stand on hind legs for morsels of flesh? Yet, I’m the one who got caught, who exiled herself, who built her cage bars from her own stripes. So now, almost extinct, wounded by lifelong blows, I lurk among the bookshelves for words I need. |
That fierce warrior, the night, battles on, binding the earth to ebony sky, trapping the unknown within the mind. I, at first, shiver inside this bare windowless space, searching for blame. Who broke the sun and blew specks of gold dust into heavens? Or are these just shapes passing through to God, only to get stuck in serving time for a promise? What a maze of culpability, as entangling as vines, when evil enchantresses lure Orion to trails of stars to hunt; so when he unfastens his belt, they strangle his devoted canine Betelgeuse, hanging fear, a suspended chandelier of black lights, on its cold jaws! Then, guarded by grey shadows, thin feathery cirrus thread under a moon too bright, maybe tonight, La Luna floats beneath those clouds, looking for a savior. My impatience expands into edginess, with claws scraping, I toss my cape off, bare my fangs, to howl. So, hearing my tune, the stunned moon becomes my prey and feels my pain. |
My shadow, trailing behind me in geometric shapes, daring to interrupt the light, feeling not cherished. At times, it sways out of sight to thwart off onlookers. Yet, then again, it scans ahead uneasily, like a presentiment. The higher the sun the more it shortens, with a devious tilt, akin to miserly violets on a mountain path, veiled inside purple shades, hiding their fragrance. I relish the piquancy of its many ways, for my shadow throws its net steadily, shrugging off dimensions, acting sassy, as if to say it doesn’t care. I guess, it’s afraid of fading from view and dying unloved. |
Nostalgia 1 A whiff of jasmine, my mother’s perfume, Elegance captured in dreamlike prose, I travel through time, a free trip home, Vistas from the past, remembers my nose. 2 A lone beach chair by the serene dunes, A deft overture, where memories start. Winter’s puzzle, an icy serenade; Ambiguity, the treason of the heart.. 3 Love’s fable in the darkness, Wilderness quickly prevailed, Fragile comfort in travel, An old road, raptures unveiled. Like steam on dark glasses, In romance, comedy caught, The flavor or the technique, Darting pleasures it has brought 4 Reading alone my highway tales, I concentrate on battlegrounds, Loving faded ancient rescues, In my old haunts mischief abounds. When fall enters flowers lament, Bereavement tunes console the ground, Skimming through spoil of years, I celebrate the peace I’ve found. |
She faces backwards from the window of a train, watching the lemony-yellow straw piled up from the summer harvest on the fields. Yellowed, twine-tied straw running through well-rehearsed lines, waiting in silence. Fleeing southward, as birds do, toward where the sun still shines, in chase of another existence and new dreams, she locks her hands in fists inside her mitts, rebelling against the change of colors in her life. Her decision, hanging on to warmth, has something to do with her heartbreak. Wind-blown memories flattened, clunky and useless, within bales of hay. Tears anchor themselves inside her eyes in order not to imitate the raindrops that have started slanting against the glass pane. In the gentle dim of autumn, terrified of the ice that would follow, -- ice, outside and inside-- she decided with an adrenaline rush to hit the brakes on a cooled-down love, once and for all. Drops rigging along on window panes after stress as convoys of loss. She knew she missed again when the communication cords were cut. Now she wonders what she’ll make of the rest of her life. What if the number of her losses outnumbers the places she can escape to? She trembles like a compass needle; yet, sure of her direction, as if she’s going upwards inside a spiral, she feels that hope, her ripened fruit, is waiting for her at the top. Fantasy cycle bared trees, scattered leaves color hope for sights beyond. ------------------ Haibun: Prose plus haiku |
Dance as if nobody’s watching, rising from the soil naked, cane-like, spinning your golden legs, stomping your feet atop clouds of sparkles, so nothing stays the same. Make your own music with your own special voice, sensing the touch as if giving birth, to the new you. If you recall your name, do not stop the dance, just raise your head, and purse your lips to blow a kiss at the silver streaks of remembrance. Then, feeling a sweet strain, do not leave anything unsaid. Surrendering your senses, cast off your tangled ropes; as stylishly as you wish, release the woman within, to the heart of the universe, to the pain of pleasure, to your enchanted fire. |