POEM: Neighborhood Rhythm

Hear the “schwoop-CLACK-schwoop-CLACK” of an automated loom playing in steady, relentless repetition. It’s an iron machine, but listen to those wooden parts clap against each other, the hardwood timbre. Note the metallic jingle, a subtle accompaniment. Strings, stretched out like the innards of a piano, ironically, remain silent as the tune plays around them.

 

Walking, one picks up the rhythm from one building to the next, wondering whether the machines are in synch, or if your mind deceives you that they play one tune.

 

All else, the horns and hollers, sing in discord.

POEM: Crossing


Walking into the river,
sliding chin deep in the waters,
pulled, thrashing, toward the channel,
riding the rim of an undertow –
like astronauts slingshot around the moon.

Fond memories invade my mind,
steeling me for a dire fate,
but I’m ejected at the bend.
Clawing mud and gnarly roots,
I come out on the other side.

POEM: Thinking

I think,
but without Descartes’ insistence that I am.

In fact, the more I think, the less confident I am about knowing what “being” means.

I think — without knowing,
and recognize the hazard of that condition.
It’s what got Socrates killed.

A smart person who claims to know may raise hackles,
but is dismissed as arrogant.

It’s the smart person who admits he doesn’t know…
[let’s hope I’m not wrongly classed among them]
… that’s the one who arouses murderous intent.

For what hope exists for priests, professors, or politicians —
or any of the many oracles of our age —
when the most astute confess that uncertainty is inescapable?

What airy sands are our castles built upon?

And, yet, I think.

POEM: Overwritten

the jungle writes over the acts of man
without rage or animus
but with infinite patience

growing one vine at a time
a cracked brick will be clay again in due time

grand palaces will become strange mounds
only the crease of a cornerstone,
hidden in the shadows,
to betray the grandiosity beneath

not even Alexander the Great escaped being overwritten

POEM: Pelican on a Piling

wings flare,

a nanosecond of hover,

and a deft drop onto the column —

the piling of a pier of years long past?

it waits with chin tucked to chest,

perhaps, to look down for fish,

or, perhaps, so that the fish in the water

can’t see the fish flapping in its pouch

or is that only in the cartoons?

long before I’d seen a pelican in person

they’d been popular on the cartoon shows

mind you, not as popular as the storks —

unitaskers who delivered animated babies

precariously — I might add — in loose linen bundles,

clenched into their pointy needle-beaks.

And I can’t remember how the storks landed

without impaling the baby with its pointy beak

or bouncing baby’s head off the ground.

Maybe, that’s why there are so many mentally defective cartoon characters:

e.g. Goofy, Ralph Wiggum, Patrick Star, Chris Griffin…

Not to mention the emotionally ill-adjusted ones:

e.g. Yosemite Sam, Eyore, Pepe LePew, Ariel,…

Because it’s all about sticking the landing.

Haiku of Japan Travel




so much blood
soaked into this soil once
now daffodils


stone statue
goddess of compassion
looks through me


the bonsai
grotesque beauty
your secret?


Hachikou,
patience and passion —
a rare duo


wooden gate
too grand for such as me
where go I?



POEM: Focus Flagging

bell clanging
incense burning
garlands hanging

a hint of sacred in the air
and yet the mind is tossed
nothing sticks in one’s attention

any more than a rider can stay saddled on a dragon

if you can trip into the space between peals,
and ride that into the void,
you may find what you’re looking for

Sunflower Haiku

a thousand suns
shine upon my face,
one on my back

 

golden field
exalts the summer
while it lasts

 

lone flower
with stem to sun’s rays,
miffed or broken?

 

flower heads
twisting in unison
rapt attention

 

speeding by
the sunflowers blur
yet still flame

POEM: Sepia Seeps In

I see my twenties in sepia tone — grainy

— not to mention flat.

Should it surprise me that my memories are cast in the hue of old photos?

I never remember owning the pants that I see myself wearing.

It seems to me that if I really remembered that time I should remember the pants.

A kid born today will probably have holographic selfies,

and thus a chance to look back on youth in 3-D,

but it’ll never be quite right, will it?

POEM: Overstory

that’s my forest
— deep and dark —

but, yet, I see cracks of azure dome
through the canopy gaps,

and when it undulates
competing species wave together —

tousled by the same hand
so, even though each sways at its own rate,

it looks like one gasping organism