On January 22, 2006, a northern bottle-nosed whale that was stranded in the River Thames expired as the rescuers tried to airlift him to the ocean.
This is really a very sad story and I am not making fun of an animal's death, but it was the prompt for Writers Cramp.


A bottle-nosed whale
wallowed in murky waters
of the River Thames
on a frantic search for King,
to blow his top on the spot

at royal pain of
“Doing nothing is something.”
His tale lured London,
brought traffic to a stop, but
they turned him down from the Crown.

Cambridge or Oxford,
at least, he wished for culture
or to travel in
a red double-decker bus,
as he ailed and flailed to swim.

The heart-broken whale
on a makeshift whale mattress
was lifted in air;
yet, he missed on sightseeing
and died with heartfelt regret.


------------

Kyoka means "crazy poem". It's written to make fun of politicians, leaders, past and present day events. The syllable structure is: 5/7/5/7/7

 

Yours is a fishy love,
a frivolous firstling,
with flagrant teeth and claws;
you’ll go blind
or jump off a roof,
attempting to fix
everything.

You try,
as if my flack,
trying to fine-tune
my performance,
to sort out my mind
by offering
some stupid alternative
I do not need.

What’s the use
in frocking a lost cause
with cheery vestments?
There are pains so deep,
they are wordless,
and there is no way out.


 

Through the blue tinted mountains
where the horizon lacks clouds,
on a white horse he rides,
bringing his strange world,
drowning in strange words,
in shining armor.

Chivalry,
chased off
the road of deeds,
exiled with
forgotten faith,
opens doors for milady,
yet leaves space
to breathe,
to cherish the spirit.

Awakened eyes,
sharper than his sword,
see for the first time.
Uncommon capability,
this dulcet approach,
grasping
a heart full of love.

Caressing dreams,
that magic of ages,
nothing pretentious.
Instead of beauty,
empathy,
when one opens
arms of tenderness
to a gentle soul.





 

I refilled the bird feeder
with seed this morning,
thinking of old losses
with dark circles
under their eyes,
but I found solace
in the quivering
leaves of the branch,
forgiving the squirrel
after it leapt
and in the hovering
of the wood thrush
over my head
with a song carved
from her core,
showing no fear
of her own voice.


 

The depth of these walls
cannot filter hope
and jazzy midday tunes
for primrose pinks of fancy.

You feel the magic,
in pillows of light,
drapes charmed with ripples,
sinking in the billows for rest,
in this festival of daring.

On the agave plant,
quenching the thirst,
dewdrops aglow,
waltzing and
your smile implies
a challenge to gratify.

Amidst the honeyed reflections
and murmuring treats,
dormant dreams awaken
in whispers; beside the sizzling sun,
two accomplished hearts,
and your lavish view at display.

The bards of the afternoon
are singing with delight,
their cheers echo the
fortune's luminosity.
On the mantle of pleasure and pride,
a trophy to treasure
for our passion's feat.



 

My jungle-heart
forces my eyes
to look away from you
toward a shower of ruby sparks
from the fireplace
where oak logs writhe
in hair-raising moans
and cynicism.

Rupturing an impulsive cloud,
the bewildered rain,
knocks on the door
to beg pardon
for the frigid air,
as you had attempted
a few minutes ago,
not remembering
that we make each other cry.

You have come,
like the weather,
with the temper of a tiger
offering a hunt-free day,
to ask for nothing,
knowing I hold nothing in my hands,
but if you’re missing anything,
I don’t have it.



 

How changeable is this heart,
denying me to carry my pride
and to hold grievances
--not through noblesse,
but through frailty!

For, with gentler motion, eyes
feast on the pillow,
cradling your head fast asleep,
just because sparkles of love
stick to my soul,
as the Milky Way does
to the night sky.

Hence, in the mood of the moment,
I see the forever part,
a lyric story,
threading through
your velvety breath.

Beaming with delight at my failing,
I whisper,
“pleasant dreams,”
to you,
after having rescued the moon
from my earthly dust.

Then I look up to count the stars,
to fathom their names,
so I can address them one by one
and console their sadness
of being so far away from you.




 

In the hospital room of a poet-friend

Before,
he wrote poetry instead of writhing.
Now,
outlook gone dark,
in the torque of fate,
his tangled cords
sing a swan song
to the hoarse tempo of a fever
barnacled to the body.

Around his bed,
no dreaded talk,
no cryptic comments,
no overtones of penance
for having walked all over his verse,
but fresh flowers,
coffee trembling in mugs,
visitors with hair-splitting wishes,
kind words
sieved through cheese-cloth,
against secret thoughts of loss.

Disclosing in silence
his pain,
a beakless bird,
the poet,
inside sterile sheets,
muses:
“Why all this hectic covering-up?
The world’s turning sepia and white,
and a poem
has to end sometime.”




 

Tiptoeing on a single thread
trapeze dancer descending
into my self,
through a darkness
refreshing.

Not easy to forgive
the rhythm lost,
while groping around
dumbstruck,
with an ache.

Sealed with a smidgen of hope,
a vulnerable vision
inside the depths of the heart,
my longing thaws glacier-like,
through the senses,
yet beyond them.

A beam of light,
this love for writing,
teases thoughts,
in tiny acts of creation
entering through the cracks,
impelling me to live
for something to die for.







 

His vision fixed on the mantelshelf,
the poet had struck his midnight twelve,
his words ended in monstrous sorrow,
hope locked up by the witch of tomorrow.

Ghost of a dove, snowy white,
a faraway love, within his sight,
came to rescue his nouns and verbs,
like worn-out clothes and scentless herbs.

An image sublime, subtle to the eye,
magical beauty, faint as a sigh.
The dove touched him as if to bless,
the poet picked his pen, a caress.

Through the words arched in a rainbow,
the lines of verse could flow and glow.
The poet raised his head to thank the ghost,
he saw the first rays of dawn and frost,

etched in the windowpane, but not the dove,
who had inspired him with her love.
Poet’s heart was certain of a blessing,
her spirit of beauty, he wasn’t guessing.

He thought of the woman he once knew,
who was added to the angelic few.
He reached his window and looked above.
and thanked Heaven for her sign of love.


 

Down the dirt road to Mackross Abbey,
Only few walls stand in disgrace,
Yet, a boy skips by like one honeybee,
Looking for nectar in an unlikely place.

What a piece of work is poets' peace!
In heritage stainless, a brave fleet,
For centuries, with history’s lease,
Guarding, wakefully, the muses’ feat.

As I stroll in awe among the stones;
With a laughter of joy and a giggle mild,
Scattering his delight around their bones,
Happily whistling, enters this child.

Inventing freely his adventures,
Surprises he uncovers, his face aglow.
Poets, too, admire little-boy ventures,
Envious of breath, under the snow.

With inward toils all ground to dust,
Winter has whitewashed the Shamrock.
It’s cold, I’ll be on my way, but I must
Pray for children's freedom and luck.





 

On placid waters an inevitable wiggle,
returning home with the mellow breeze,
through the luster of the moonlit hours,
a fisherman’s sail wishful to make amends,
blessed with the catch, his purpose justified.

A fisherman I am, through fantasy’s eye,
rowing in solitude among doubtful dreams,
innocent thoughts linked to a stirring
at the dark ocean floor, the mermaid of hope
wriggles, watching whispers go by.

Rugged roads, lackluster and dreary,
solace to this world, a liquid realm,
my laugh, a blessing through all sorrows,
a conscious vice or unconscious weakness,
among strangers, a tide of disbelief.

I enjoy the drama of writing down
into the wet sand, a prayer, to be carried off
out to open sea, whitening the waves,
spin-casting imaginings, waiting for return,
a creation, my catch, to thaw the ice in living.







 

I was little maybe six,
All my playthings were twigs.
Inside me I had a yen
What I wished for was a pen.
My eyes found it in a flash
Slouched in the neighborhood trash
The dance of the heart began
I ran for the broken pen.
“Girls with those things don’t play,”
Papa said and took my pen away.

Dreadful winds leave memories...
When only pens were in my dreams,
Fierce men invaded our hut...
Savage, smeared with blood,
In boots and clothes of green,
They shattered, scattered everything.
Mama and Papa were slain,
And thrown out under the rain.
People said it was my evil lot
I had left open the door of the hut.
Their words set me in a spin.
Was I the true assassin?

For years, in the fields I hoed,
For every bite I begged and pawed,
I didn’t care for clothes or men,
All I wished for was a pen.
Then oceans moved, lands drifted,
The world changed, the curse is lifted.
Gone will be the power of knives,
Silenced women, bruised wives.
I’m strong now, I have a plan,
My words reach out through my pen.





 

Here, on the coast, the jagged beach
shows off its rapture for high style
and tremendous class;
as waves recede to unload their foam,
sandpipers flit on the wet sand,
and the ocean’s brackish scent
drifts with the breeze,
meriting praise for variety.

While I wait for tide’s return,
eternity blooms in impassioned scarlet,
for the sun readies to abandon the sky
and the muse rises from the waves,
his words spilling from my cleansed nerves
through the devotion of rosy dreams.

When the time comes to depart,
I’ll find myself grateful
for one more breath of this salty aroma,
before the arrival of guilt
for hanging around too long.





 

Driftwood from the ocean,
naked on the beach.
I examine its grace
and motives for the perilous journey.

Washed ashore on the sand,
tangled with seaweed.
I envy its sincerity
in the way it came back to land.

On this cold coastline
a subtle beauty.
How I love to see
old friends returning to evoke warm feelings!

Those who are true blue,
but worn out at sea,
I ask you,
could you come back once more to me?

 

On rigid stems, tall, resembling a baroness,
or slouching, stretched out,
bright seductive flowers against the wall,
bashful violets, soaring carnations, smiling dahlias
unfolding a caress,
facing the sun.
Some hidden, strange,
rising up, garish, winding,
akin to people disguising their panic
in laughter.

Here, everything is relevant;
the bond is tied in color and aroma,
and I rejoice satisfied
with my solitude,
in this intimate reverie
as refuge.

When on winter’s snow
my shadow falls,
I shall be reminded of this:
the beauty of sun’s life in my garden.

For humans tend to forget things.

Yet, I shall recall the real event
with vague displacement
and sighs of recognition.
Truth will prevail
like Midas’s secrets,
when the reeds sway
whispering in the wind,
long after the fragrance
is gone.






 

          Edelweiss in the Alps blooms through the snow


Do not be afraid
to bloom in the snow,
white smiling with yellow,
like Edelweiss
on the highest peaks.

Even for the lowest,
nothing is beyond reach
and people get closer

by wanting.

The taste of lightning,
the smell of thunder,
the touch of wonder...enjoy.

Let your eyes dance
in the direction of stars,
for that’s how
you reach to love

by searching.




 

Chocolate mousse,
candied cherry on top,
in conciliatory silence
reminding another
poetic delicacy.

The creamy glow
evokes a longing,
for the cooing of doves,
a banquet of peace,
and silent recital
when the soul stirs again
for chocolate wishes
done to perfection.

My lips tremble
on the defensive,
an internal ache
weighing the weight,
the traditional struggle, acute;
yet, how can one
grow fat on love?

I proceed with care.

Aroma of power
brings back dancing
and staring in awe
at my ring,
sparkling inside a box
of Hershey’s kisses.

A moment of bliss,
almost holy,
to remember today
and all is right in the world
with chocolate mousse.
 

His song ebbing among the trees,
Lone bird caught in the crosswind,
A lump of feathers on the lawn.
Sigh to silence, my face drawn,
Propped on soft pillows, I rescind
A moan of pain, protest to disease.

My spaces inside I invert
To scattered bones of discontent,
Clouds huddling on distant peaks,
Tears, fever, fury on my cheeks,
Praying is over for time spent.
A shame to be buried in dirt!


 

On the easel,
the spell of a wounded heart
burning to feel
passion's grace.
Pain softens in hues
like a penitent waiting
a revelation
of unforeseen loves.

He’s painting a nude
who smiles in a friendly fashion,
holding on to truth,
wishing the night grew longer,
as earth-colored dreams rush
with a renewed hope.

From the artist's nucleus
brushstrokes roll on
without a rudder
along the longitude of recall,
art's timepiece for sightless eyes.
One lone giant with perception,
his desire demands
more than just living.