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 |   "Scattered leaved with poetic imprints." My new collection of poetry. |
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P.(tree)Log ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well, it's now mid- 2019 and this is still the only book I use to house part of my new poetry. I began using it years ago due to a lack of storage space in my over-700 item WDC portfolio. I really need to do some spring, summer, fall and winter cleaning. There are still lots of static items which have never received any mention by other members here. But that's part of the problem of being a writer ( musician, artist, actor ... ). I do not know how to network. Thanks for discovering this link. Please leave a comment. Bookmark it, please.... This is a writing site and not FarceBrook where it's so easy just to press the button "LIKE." (( And I am not a fan of the fact that WDC has added it. )) |
| full moon hidden by thunder clouds release [2019.30.4...a] #haiku |
| in the line-up of who gets Cupid's next arrow fights break out, war even no one can teach us to be at peace loving ourselves [2019.29.4...a] |
| even after the second dose of chocolate coated morphine the jackhammer continues its unrelenting assault the notice says no whiskey [2019.28.4…a] |
high from the highest branches I could not leap gracefully off fly and soar, catching slight breezes veer towards a more distant tomorrow I am a man, and we fall so often a big bang after a leap for freedom [2019.27.4…a] |
| whiskey's musings there is nothing but gray here, fifty shades of it, its turmoil its délicatesse, its unexpected flourishes after sunset and before night owls hoot when cats and mice get mixed with gray, it's a favorite for sex therapists studying human downfall, psychologists and philosophers studying the roots of evil and so many certitudes, meteorologists predicting the patterns of rainfall and explaining its rare happenings on sunny days against happier whitewashes, gray, it's the color of death’s hearth, its ashes, its tombstones, the color of odes, sonnets and epitaphs and every important thing remembered before we forgot why we had the blues through crumpled sheets hints of morning shine brightly late-night fog [2019.26.4...b] |
| a few five-lined poems: it’s a color that escapes from naked trees and dusty fields, bringing wholeness like a doctor’s discharge drying a wet sky [2019.25.4…a] ***+***+***+***+***+*** neon flashing over a mossy pond last summer’s fishing hole drying, waiting for lightning to settle an old score with fireflies and arsonists [2019.25.4…c] ***+***+***+***+***+*** without it spring has no backdrop no resilient trampoline from which springs a painter’s palette of life promise and every other cliché from Valentine’s to the season of mistletoe [2019.25.4…d] ***+***+***+***+***+*** I remember we searched all summer for a four-leaf clover, lucky in love we still have this plan to get rich in a sea-side casino luck has stayed in one place [2019.25.4…e] |
| …where the heart is we build fortresses of stone, steel and glass around us. they are not all called home, but all test our skills at climbing the ladder of life. war pierces most of these perimeters, as does death. cancer is a vicious foe, it slithers like a snake without a rattle and its poison submerges us before we know we need to fight a tsunami. after the final crashes dim we awake buttressed in bodies of frozen tundra. we thaw ourselves into a walled Eden to protect our new cardinal points and force ourselves into beacons, first shining outwards and then inwards. to watch and warn. to illuminate the shattering of thick icebergs as survival’s heat melts just enough so tears do not freeze again. skin pricked by rose thorns… happy, I bleed [2019.24.4…a] |
| what weeps for life I see shadows more often. they are the new aphorisms of the twenty-first century. save the daylight, twist the clocks. back and forth, like wringing water from the sky in an arid climate where dust infiltrates even the space between one’s bones. it evaporates even tears, which used to flow freely to ward off sadness and fright. there is a moment for death. death. it happens in more unexpected ways and its grip is tighter and more vicious than when old age appeared like a quiet shadow after a good life. a good life has nothing to mourn. like a well-tended garden, not everything will grow in any climate. roses do not begrudge their thorns. willow leaves grow to touch the ground a cocoon [2019.23.4…a] Haibun |
| I give him bread, cheese a small bottle of wine and a ten-euro bill he spends Easter thanking strangers on a dry sidewalk [2019.22.4…a] #5-line poem |
| I think flowers pray at wedding and funerals they can do nothing else but sing lux aeternam for our long lives theirs are so short [2019.29.4...d] Gogyohka Author's Note: I discovered this form yesterday in this forum, thank you Novacatmando. Briefly, the most frequent information I found on the internet is: Gogyohka is a new form of poetry which has been developed in Japan. Gogyohka simply means verse which is written in five lines, but each line generally represents one phrase and has a different feel to five-line verse commonly found in Western poetry. This new form of verse was developed by a poet called Enta Kusakabe, who first came up with the concept in 1957 I am having a hard time understanding the limits of this form as compared to the tanka. That's the research I'll be doing in the next few days. |
| could my hungry soul be fulfilled eating a cloud? and its taste? vaporous love, or silent butterfly wings? [2019.20.4…c] |
| and inside the dark smoldering church they found light untouched by flaming wood the gold cross [2019.19.4...a] #tanka #notredame |
| from two gaping holes the scream of flames still echoes silence returns and balances in a dance with light [2019.18.4… a] #tanka #notredame |
| in river silt charred remains flow away trees stand guard tracing new lines and curves man rebuilds peace [2019.17.4…a] #tanka #notredame |
| what will extinguish a world of broken hearts? no rain falls still, Quasimodo’s bells toll the fires of hope [2019.15.4…d] #tanka |
| Swept beyond the seasons I watch them pass by, unseasonable city snowfall, blossoms to cherries, human statues on the beach, the painful cringes of fallen leaves magnified by hearing aids. And finally, the irrevocable emotions of death. The fast-forward button reprogrammed into pause, years and months exhale abstractness. Individual days last only a week, until the rescue of my journal-become-superhero. And still those memories lack the clarity of a vision test. All their faces disappear. I accept this with furrowed brows and continue to laugh at myself. The paring down of my core identity, my inner and outer circles. Lovers, those of us who remade the world, the same strangers waiting for buses. Almost an afterthought, I wander from youth. how to love moonlight more than cherry blossoms? old man’s koan [2019.14.4…a] Haibun |
| he watches drops dry in streaks on a window his impatient tail doesn't worry the goldfish wet behind him [2019.13.4...a] #tanka |
| wings reflecting wildfire on noon ponds or the quick rainbow yes, the wet upturned palette flying away [2019.12.4…d] #tanka |
| Late for chronological posting: Prompt: birdsong they invent songs to follow night silence blackbirds praise each new morning note by note [2019.11.4…b] #tanka |
| beneath starlight field mice find their boroughs a feline shadow does not intercept nightingale song [2019.11.4…c] #tanka |
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