solitary fish
darts about at lake's edge:
taunting fates & fishers.
One Fish [Haiku]
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Climbing Taihang Mountain,
On the green winding way.
The jade-lined trail in fog,
Floral scents from the gray.
Stuck in unflowing time,
'Til a song sung bright and gay...
I'm steered back to my past
With the grace of ghosts at play.
Skirting roiling waters,
A Roc soars after prey.
The Tao is unbounded --
Round or square as it may.
NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a crude translation of the seventeenth of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 委曲, and has been translated as: “Grievance” and “In Tortuous Ways.”
I usually don’t find it too difficult. I find reading and free writing conducive to relaxation. In cases in which I’m wound up, I move and / or exercise intensely. If I ever need to achieve relaxation expeditiously, I use Visama Vritti Pranayama or PMR (progressive muscle relaxation.)
Atlas of Paranormal Places: A Journey to the World’s Most Supernatural Places by Evelyn HollowListless he eyes the palisades
And sentries in the glare;
'Tis barren as a pelican-beach --
But his world is ended there.
Nothing to do; and vacant hands
Bring on the idiot-pain;
He tries to think -- to recollect,
But the blur is on his brain.
Around him swarm the plaining ghosts
Like those on Virgil's shore --
A wilderness of faces dim,
And pale ones gashed and hoar.
A smiting sun. No shed, no tree;
He totters to his lair --
A den that sick hands dug in earth
Ere famine wasted there,
Or, dropping in his place, he swoons,
Walled in by throngs that press,
Till forth from the throngs they bear him
dead --
Dead in his meagerness.