"Scattered leaved with poetic imprints." My new collection of poetry.
Well, it's now mid- 2018 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 write ( 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. ))
|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.
grow to touch the ground
|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
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.
|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
|Wind pushes at everything, tests limits, breaks fragility. Its wailing/screech of tires that night. The forceful sway of bridge cables, snapping like kindling. Freakish falling. Dreams from childhood horror movies, mother wrote our bloodcurdling scenarios and never paid her actors. Her perps taught sado-maso perversion. The whip mark were not special effects. They left solid stripes on my back, lower, private places. No one touches me there – to speak truth is another whip. Trees bleed sap when gusts veer beyond violent. They grow new branches from stumps. I still have nine fingers. From my darkness, I conjured only one storm. My mind was the eye of it. As her car filled with water, she screamed. I made her hear only my voice.
Although I was a battered child, I never thought about revenge. I don't have that kind of conscious mind. But last night, deliberately trying to come up with very dark prose, this is what my muse came up with.
Rest assured, I have ten fingers.
|Japanese fans tap, a close up of tears shed on national broadcast
black was strictly forbidden
sixteen eulogies torn
from the raw canvas of rouged goblets overflowing
with sentiments portrayed at the end of so many operas
every color represented splashing
rainbows and brassy kaleidoscopes
national theatres lent costumes besting grand couturier red carpets
poets did not heckle, masked as Greek choruses, their declaiming
simultaneous, each with his verse
dealt a universal harmonization of life
this final celebration coronated with gardens of white blossoms
a tour de force of a thousand greenhouses, pollination with tweezers
to bear this everlasting perfection
musicians played brocaded melodies
of minor intervals as acrobats and ballerinas leapt behind the pall bearers
unified in turquoise, the color of her eyes when the lights were just so
her lips pursed in a fate-defying
"I have loved you all
in the momentous eternity of silence caressing each of my words, drowned
out, muted, overwhelmed by discordant tremolos, yes, I shall love you all
in this last breath beyond my death …"
Funeral rites for the death of an artist
After the piano piece of the same name by William Alwyn
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|I make the long hours race
reliving our pre-dawn
moments of whispered farewells
longing for this effervescence
a thousand times and
in as many different colors
I will love you beyond eternity
waiting for midnight’s shadows
to read to you by Venus’ singular light
the might penned
by Cupid’s nocturnal flight
and hope this time you follow me home
lines filled with rainbows of love
( alba, 6 )
|I couldn't not write this poem this evening.
she is yellow as gold
not a modern creature
touched by Midas, but the
purity he sought
hammers of loss try so hard
to unvarnish, to perish
to harness her in pale muteness
during the darkish drowsy days
accumulating like ghosts
she forgets her glow
doubts and hates
but these ghosts
a mother, a brother
need the polish of her golden armor
a torch to go beyond in their new paths
and once again help her
even the twisted alleyways
left by death's dull light
the one gold flower in my garden
|another magic hour
this one says 22:22
how much happened then?
because love stories end
in the loneliness of midnight
the four zeros of start and stop
that allow memories
angels, fallen yet still trying to rise
wings broken, bruised inside
where the ache sews invisible scars
patterns we carry like death's dread
all of us suffer
following this unfair direction
when life drives through red lights
this wasn’t the right way
no, nor were any of the others
does this pain ever subside?
we drown in the slow tow of the tide
ripping us from ourselves
and crashing against our dreams
we submerge ourselves
in these waves emptied of empathy
can you tell me when this turns into the moment
we laugh during a Shakespearean tragedy?
it's the final moment we walk away from pain
we are still caught in its web