fardel of sticks
the apple tree’s fall
sunlight through her black habit
the taxi driver’s
on the road—
the wounded deer’s
the splenetic kid stops
the rocket salad
enervated sun emits
a plasma flare
oppugning the calories
in the chocolate cake
the riverbank awash in
pressed between the pages
turbid veins of the heart
no smoke without fire
on swidden hills
blood red poppies
even the sun
listening to the tenor of
his Master’s voice
AWAD: Jerusalem Syndrome
the charlatan adjusts
A few days ago I subscribed to the daily email from Wordsmith.org, A.Word.A.Day: Discover the magic of words, and started responding with a haiku.
Today’s word: charlatan
. . . endolymph. . . endo . . . interior . . . dreams . . . inner voice . . . nymph . . . Rilke’s “a girl . . . made herself a bed inside my ear” . . . my ear . . . labyrinth . . . cochlea . . . conch . . . shell . . . sea . . . Aegean . . . crashing waves . . . stop! . . . waves lapping the shore . . . sails . . . seagulls . . . shrieks . . . my tinnitus . . . rushing water . . . endolymph . . .
wherever you go
the ship follows you . . .
In The other bunny
In our hands, you said, we hold
the shadow of our hands. I know
the cold absence of the marbles,
olives sprouting from the cracks.
The coffee grinder turns
slowly, gently. The moon
still kind, bathes our wrinkled
hearts in light. In silver. In sorrow.
Old souls sitting by the river
listening to the boat engine
starting, coughing, spitting,
dying. Starting again.
(to Yiannis Ritsos, in response to his poem “Absence”)
Poem written to the poetsonline prompt: Dear Poet: Epistles to the Poets. For the other poems on the poetsonline.org blog, please see Archive, ‘Dear Poet’ on their site.
Please note English spelling of the original Greek name varies (Yiannis [e.g. Wikipedia], Yannis [e.g. Poetry Foundation]). Wikipedia lists a number of variants: ‘Yannis or Yiannis or Giannis (Γιάννης) is a common Greek name, a variant of John (Hebrew) meaning “God is generous.” Variants include Ioannis (Ιωάννης), Yanni, Iannis, Yannakis; and the rare “Yannos”, usually found in the Peloponnese and Cyprus.’
Whenever I thought of the ravages time would inflict on me, I thought of wrinkles. I imagined myself slightly plump, with a few strategically placed wrinkles and a very respectable grey sheen in my hair. I also considered liver spots, imagining myself smiling benevolently behind a seemingly sun-blessed veil of freckles. Now that I’ve reached a point when time weighs on me… let’s say, there have been surprises, indiscretions, indignities. Take the slight pearl that sometimes appears and glistens on the side of my mouth.
a blush spreads over the edge
of the precipice
In KYSO Flash, May 2015
the outpouring of
In Blithe Spirit (Journal of the British Haiku Society) 25:2, 2015
In her long life she owned six cats, each living at least ten years. As a child, she was afraid of her first cat, a street-wise tabby. Then she loved chasing her around the house, transferring her fear to the cat. As a teen, she helped a boyfriend taunt the poor thing. She ignored, tripped over, kicked, or spoiled subsequent cats, depending on her phase of life and her mood. Now resting in her recliner, she caresses and speaks to her latest, and only, companion, an ageing, placid ginger, with a gentleness she hasn’t known before.
the lifelong practice of
learning to love
KYSO Flash 3, May 2015
the dull ache of
In Blithe Spirit (Journal of the British Haiku Society) 25.2, 2015.
I enjoyed my reading last night, jointly with other writers, at the Open Reading for Writers event, Munich Readery. Many thanks to the writers for the company, camaraderie, their insightful comments and discussion; and special thanks to Lisa Yarger for so wonderfully, and calmly, hosting the event. I read eight haibun, all work in progress. Here is one of them:
With warmer days, newspapers are filling with news of migrant boats from Africa and the Middle East increasing in their numbers, sinking in droves. Hundreds of deaths each week.
We poets, who put our hearts in the shoes of the hummingbird and the beggar poet, the little frog and the mighty spring thunder, the cat and the star-studded sky, are confronted with a reality hard to fathom. I find myself at a loss for words. Reading about other people’s misfortunes, of their fleeing deserts, war, of their placing their lives and their childrens’ lives in the hands of fate, of their washing up on European shores lifeless, I stop writing.
My mind fills with questions: did they leave books behind? A favourite thimble, a tin soldier, a straw dolly? A mug they liked to drink from, a shady spot they loved to sit in, an icon they lit candles in front of? A carpet they knelt to pray on? Did they leave behind many beliefs, nourishing relationships, did they lose their innocence before or during the journey? What happened to their shoes?
wall cracks filling
In the background, painting by Maria Pierides, slightly altered in the process of making this haiga.
the last rays. . .
From my walk along the Schmutter
Photo of bridge over the Schmutter, Neusaess
that look on her face . . .
a feather stuck
to the egg