Between bars and brothels,
I dance a whirlwind.
No one can see
with my blind eyes.
(April 30, 2022)
-
Ikkyu Reiterations: Iconoclast
All these rituals—
incense and prayer!
You speak too muchwith too many words.
I spit; the sour tasteclings to my teeth.
(April 29, 2022)
-
Ikkyu Reiterations: The Library Burned
by
What light does one see?
Without the body,
without a place,
without a context?
Truth remainsradiant throughout
a thousand worlds,
silently loquacious.
(April 28, 2022)
-
Ikkyu Reiteration: Picture Yourself
The lotus, like a kaleidoscope,
unfolds through individual eyes.
One doesn’t inherit grace,
nor the wisdom of the old:
our addiction to fame and wealth
devours with rapacious hunger.
If you were to stretch to the skybeneath a grove of pear trees,
or bend to touch the dark earth
in a field of ripe melons—
then you’d be suspect—
and obviously a thief.
We are given nothing,and that is enough.
There is no more to give:
No trinket to distract
the sharp-eyed magpie
from the moment’s gleam.
(April 27, 2022)
-
Nostalgia and Eternal Reoccurrence
Clouds cling to the cave’s mouth
disguising the demons who dwelt
there. Our words worked on us
like wine and laughter, while love’s
simplicity quickly complicated
all which was said. Thus the poem’s
parameters become the poem,
and our forms fall into function,
as peach blossoms frost
the temple walkways in spring
with a light pink brocade.
(April 26, 2022)
-
An Age Ago
The days go by unnoticed:
wake, feed the dog, make coffee,
drive to work, move the kids
through some bit of literacy,
drive home, cook dinner, eat,
read, watch TV, then sleep
restlessly through the night.
Then suddenly I find I am old,not that I’m surprised;
it’s been happening for years.
(April 25, 2022)
-
Sunday Afternoon at Hanover’s Tavern
by
four haiku with a tanka couplet
Old rock and country
play on the jukebox inside.
Song blends into song.
Men slouch at the bar,vaguely watching the Astros.
Once, they were children.
The volleyball teamsserve, set, and sweat in the sun.
We watch from the shade.
Beneath the old oak,I talk with friends over beer:
“Life is but a dream.”
The afternoon drifts like clouds;seasons fold into seasons.
(April 24, 2022)
-
Late Friday Afternoon After Work
As if in a Renoir painting,
shadow and light pulse against
each other across the tables.
Beneath the infinite hush
of traffic, people quietly talk.
The worries of the day loosen
and fall away unnoticed.
Waitresses move like dancers
under the oak’s dark branches.
(April 23, 2022)
-
Ikkyu Reiterations: Centered
by
A blood-red thread extends
into the dark. I’m lost
and cannot see the walls
until I walk into them.
I am cold and hungry,but cannot eat my dreams.
I must lose my sight
before I can escape.
Here is the problem:I have so much to say,
but desire’s not enough.
Nothing comes from nothing.
Each moment’s ripe with terror;a bull bellows in the dark.
(April 22,2022) -
Ikkyu Reiterations: a little water
by
Next to the whorehouse
is a bar. How many desires
drown within another?
the sky grows dark in the rain;
I straighten my hat afraid
I will be misunderstood.
Somewhere in the distance
a monk sings without remorse
about the end of love.
Nowhere exists a river
deep enough to wash away
what I must now give up.
In fire passion’s refined;a body does not leave a mind.
(April 21, 2022)
-
Ikkyu Reiterations: Turn
by
between regret and worry
the delusion is infinite
we spin centuries
in love
in tears
we try not to judge
to not say rightto not say wrong
to find a still point
in the flickering moment
to see the flowerin silence
smile
and shatter the mirrorforever
(April 20, 2022)
-
Ikkyu Reiterations: Pause
by
As I cut onions for dinner,
I listen to Lisa complain
about a fellow teacher
who loves drama more
than teaching. I wonder
why we make things
so complicated. I stop
chopping, and listen
to the stereo where
Allison Krause sings
of love and heartbreak.
(April 19, 2022)
-
Ikkyu Reiterations: Self-Praise
by
I am a skeleton wrapped
in failing flesh; I wheeze
and my skin bursts open.
I dreamed I was some
other, then woke to see
it was true. Heaven
is too far way to lean
against. I am no sword.
Even upon reflection,
no such fame awaits me:
too many complications
settle to the ground like dust.
(April 18, 2022)
-
Easter Morning Backyard
by
four haiku with a tanka couplet
The moon in the trees
tangles between the branches
and the budding leaves.
Last night a small owlhooted in the chinquapin
to the dogs chagrin.
A hummingbird sitsat the top of the burr oak;
the breeze barely breathes.
The brief Texas springmoves quickly into summer.
Heat holds the air still.
The dogs lounge beneath the trees;a squirrel fusses from the fence.
(April 17, 2022) -
How We Go On
“One must cultivate one’s own garden.”
—Voltaire
Scootching along on my butt
as I weed the large bed out back,
I hear my mom, dead now
these past fifteen years,
as she sat near her flower beds
pulling weeds. She complained
how she wasn’t as young as she
was anymore. I laugh to myself,
because neither am I anymore
as I pull my weeds forty years later.
(April 16, 2022)
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