Our words hold close,
unhinge, this dream–
a singular
translucent dawn.
Narrative fragments
float around a room,
flotsam and jetsam
without back story,
without connection
to a set array
defining truth, lies
into difference.
An organic flux
tendrils arabesques
along fractal lines
until we shatter.
(November 11, 2019)
I read with difficulty,
poets I once admired,
not seeing anymore
the simplicity I once saw.
I worry stones smooth
between my fingers,
as if patterns emerge
through a force of will.
There must be something
more than what is here.
Certainties tremble, then
fall like ash into dust.
I’ve come to know less
than I have ever known.
(November 8, 2019)
When I read a poem, the voice
of another being is enough.
Someone extant in the world
who for this moment speaks,
resonant with each leaf,
with each burgeoning flower.
I do not expect epiphany
to fall from Spring’s mouth
for that would not be true;
truth grows in retrospect,
a mirror to distort the past
reshaped to an image more divine.
All gods are just us
without desire for more.
(November 7,2019)
I tell a story:
I am a part
as are you
being pulled
apart, each
part one.
The horizon’s shadow
flees before
I write this line,
a demarcation–
this path
versus another,
which word
takes us where?
(November 5, 2019)
He sat by his pond content
with the depth of his longing.
Then one day, she dropped in
laughing her way into his dream.
He thought he heard a splash,
and a glimmer near the bottom.
She played along the pond’s edge,
waiting for what he might bring.
When he returned to the surface,
the forest was dark and she was gone.
The castle was so far away—
and it was just a toy after all.
He sat by his pond discontented
with the depth of his longing.
(November 4, 2019)
if change will happen it will
happen now whenever
it happens so simple
–
yet still fear stays
the turn in the dance
the conversation the poem
–
where change shifts without
the moment noticed within
light which drifts through a window
–
or rose petals scattered
across an afternoon floor
oblivious as a sleeping cat
(November 1, 2019)
A little more than a month ago, one of my work mates proposed that she, a math teacher, and myself write a haiku a day for a month. After 37 haikus (I wrote more than one some days), I am going to stop the exercise. I think that my fellow English teacher proposed the undertaking in order to make her write everyday. I do this already, so it did not motivate me to write. I did find it a calming activity most days: a time to stop and think about what was in front of me either physically, mentally, or spiritually. However, it also deflected my attention away from other poems I had been working on. Usually I post about 15 or so poems a month (sometimes even pushing to 20). In October, because of the haiku event, I posted 38 new poems. I like haiku, and like writing them. Usually I make up parameters for my writing in an arbitrary and random manner. During the exercise, I used the traditional 5-7-5 syllable count, although I have in the past ignored that stricture focusing more on the brief flash of attention than on a numbers game. Figuring the syllable count is more of a guideline than a law. I don’t plan on giving haiku up; I’m just not going to sit down each day to write one. I have always written in small snatches of time, never having the leisure to write for extended lengths during the day. So, haiku, and imagism, lend themselves well to going from start to finish in the brief time I have to write. However, I also like spending time in my head as I go through the day, thinking about a longer piece. Therefore, as I stated at the beginning of this ramble, I am going to end my participation in the project. Thanks to all of you who read and liked the work I have posted over the last month.
(October 31, 2019)
