periwinkle vines
emerging through the mist
morning butterfly
Polish your shoes, poet!
I agree that words, phrases and epithets
trickle into your cerebellum and engineer
elaborate helical strings that squirm
in the void of immobile hours.
And I’d love to believe that after eons
these obscure strands would interwine
and fabricate cluttered images, and you'd sigh
with a solace for accomplishing a chef d'oeuvre,
Yet it baffles me, why coerce your poems
to give in to the whims of an evil wind, why accept
the fallacy of yielding to obscure omens
when you still have a house, a garden
to protect?
Why pretend to whisper with the papery leaves,
while all they can do is to infest your mind
with countless apparitions.
Have mercy on your verses, poet,
you’re treading on a path that’ll soon
lose its way to wilderness
and you’d again have to start a fire
with flintstones.
Better polish your shoes and step into
the highway instead.
trickle into your cerebellum and engineer
elaborate helical strings that squirm
in the void of immobile hours.
And I’d love to believe that after eons
these obscure strands would interwine
and fabricate cluttered images, and you'd sigh
with a solace for accomplishing a chef d'oeuvre,
Yet it baffles me, why coerce your poems
to give in to the whims of an evil wind, why accept
the fallacy of yielding to obscure omens
when you still have a house, a garden
to protect?
Why pretend to whisper with the papery leaves,
while all they can do is to infest your mind
with countless apparitions.
Have mercy on your verses, poet,
you’re treading on a path that’ll soon
lose its way to wilderness
and you’d again have to start a fire
with flintstones.
Better polish your shoes and step into
the highway instead.
half-buried (Tanka)
in the damp sand
a spiral conch shell
half-buried
memories of writing
our names with fingertips
a spiral conch shell
half-buried
memories of writing
our names with fingertips
the footprints (Tanka)
the footprints
near my garden wall
are not hers
china roses wobble
bereft of fragrance
near my garden wall
are not hers
china roses wobble
bereft of fragrance
Clown
He hasn’t put on his face
today. Forlorn, he walks through
a bronze autumn, mashing brittle
memories underneath,
sauntering bewildered
around mist hidden woods.
Last night, finally, he had vomited his all-
the entire wrath that had piled up
each passing day.
No longer does he have to tolerate
the stale porridge of ridicule,
ogles and mimicry.
Life has given him many autumns.
He is now free, free for his ultimate act.
Let the vacant road and glum-faced willows
be the witnesses.
today. Forlorn, he walks through
a bronze autumn, mashing brittle
memories underneath,
sauntering bewildered
around mist hidden woods.
Last night, finally, he had vomited his all-
the entire wrath that had piled up
each passing day.
No longer does he have to tolerate
the stale porridge of ridicule,
ogles and mimicry.
Life has given him many autumns.
He is now free, free for his ultimate act.
Let the vacant road and glum-faced willows
be the witnesses.
Songsters
Don't fritter away an entire winter
staring out of your pensive window:
measuring depth of snow that has piled up
around your cottage, reading weather
forecasts, trying phone numbers that are
out of your network’s reach. Get yourself
some warm cappuccino, throw a few more
logs to your fireplace.
The wind and the willows and the snow
indulge in a whispering game.
Let them.
Strain your ears: listen to the robins,
the chickadees, bluebirds and kinglets
rehearsing springtime verses.
Not all are migrants.
staring out of your pensive window:
measuring depth of snow that has piled up
around your cottage, reading weather
forecasts, trying phone numbers that are
out of your network’s reach. Get yourself
some warm cappuccino, throw a few more
logs to your fireplace.
The wind and the willows and the snow
indulge in a whispering game.
Let them.
Strain your ears: listen to the robins,
the chickadees, bluebirds and kinglets
rehearsing springtime verses.
Not all are migrants.
Late afternoons
Nearing the end of a long walk
I feel the mellow sun on my tired limbs
my hat covering the eyes
my thoughts roaming with a half-finished
novel
Characters prop up on the roadside
some wrinkled grumpy faces
foulmouthed humans hold out mirrors
concave and convexly shaped
showing me in varied
forms
Just a few paces left to get
a short rest in the cool shade
of that yellow-flowered tree
With butterflies fluttering about clusters
of sweet pea
What could be the purpose of scripting
waned memories amid this April green
Planets would revolve in their own
orbits and small men like us
would fulfill their day's work
and watch their reflections on the pond
quivering in summer breeze
I feel the mellow sun on my tired limbs
my hat covering the eyes
my thoughts roaming with a half-finished
novel
Characters prop up on the roadside
some wrinkled grumpy faces
foulmouthed humans hold out mirrors
concave and convexly shaped
showing me in varied
forms
Just a few paces left to get
a short rest in the cool shade
of that yellow-flowered tree
With butterflies fluttering about clusters
of sweet pea
What could be the purpose of scripting
waned memories amid this April green
Planets would revolve in their own
orbits and small men like us
would fulfill their day's work
and watch their reflections on the pond
quivering in summer breeze
the rock wren's song (Tanka)
in the prayer hall
sandalwood incense
continues to burn
that slow April
and the rock wren's song
sandalwood incense
continues to burn
that slow April
and the rock wren's song
flamingo ( Tanka )
coming home
after a vacation
I receive her note --
flamingos are perishing
on her island
after a vacation
I receive her note --
flamingos are perishing
on her island
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