A Kyōka on Uninhabitable Islands
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Tag Archives: poem
POEM: Prison sans Walls
If you can dance in wild, weird ways,
then you are truly free.
If you can’t, while you’re home alone,
you’re a bodily detainee.
A prisoner of life, itself —
a man who never was —
a tragic figure cut from plans
who will do, but never does.
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POEM: Mountain Magic
Maybe there’s no moving mountains,
but blow out the clouds and one may appear.
Out of the wall of white comes a rocky shoulder,
clad in spiky pines and stony protrusions.
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POEM: Color in the Scrublands [Ottava Rima]
Up high and dry on a desert plateau,
where robust patches of grass dot bare soil
and rare oases form a green tableau
while desolate sands will not storm or roil.
The rippling temple flags, their color shows,
contrasting colors concrete as gargoyles.
The scrubland’s beauty is without dispute.
Here flags and flowers colors won’t dilute.
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Belize City Limerick
There was a salesman from Belize City
who called it: “where noir meets gritty,”
which means a crap-hole
that’ll suck out your soul.
Move on, the rest of the country is so pretty.
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POEM: Inconspicuous Zebra
I am a master of camouflage.
Blink and I’ll have vanished.
My stripy suit may make you think
that I have been banished
from the savanna to some jail,
but I’m still standing here.
Can you see me blending so well?
“Poof,” and I disappear.
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POEM: Nocturnal Mystery
In the hour of now and forever more,
I went in through the window, but out through the door.
At least I prayed it’d go that way,
leaving by light of sun’s first ray.
Now you’re thinking ’twas foul play —
that I’ll be caught by light of day.
But maybe I’m past catching?
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POEM: Bees at Work
Bees buzz around a red flower.
The shining sun betrays the hour.
It rises from the cloudless east.
On this day, a movable feast.
And so it sounds the garden ’round,
these teeming bees at work abound.
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POEM: Clifftop Flowers
Saffron-hued flowers huddle on a wind-whipped clifftop.
Sea breezes toss and twirl pollen,
eddies send some back down to the beach.
Land breezes feed pollen to the dark waters far below.
The flowers are ever-tousled by the wind’s rough hand.
What must they love, in their sightless stance,
that matches my sighted stare at sea and sky?
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Viennese Limerick
There was a lovely lass from Vienna
who couldn’t attend balls without a duenna.
Men wooed like gangbusters,
but dad didn’t trust her.
So, her’s was the meanest duenna in Vienna.
