There was a lady from Lima, Peru
who had only seen llamas at the Zoo,
and though the trend was big,
she didn’t eat guinea pig.
Such is life on a Miraflores avenue.
Limerick of Peru
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Tag Archives: poetry
POEM: Will 2021 Be the Year…
One has to love the irrational exuberance of people who believe they’ve reached the finish line, the end of the worst possible 366-day period imaginable, as if the world will reset at midnight, as if waking up on January first will be waking up from a year long dream that was usually a nightmare, but was, at its best, a bizarre and incoherent (but emotionally-charged) dream.
I can’t help but wonder if 2021 will be the year in which…
–a ferry sinks in tropical waters, struck by an iceberg
–the virus will mutate on the eve of my vaccination day
–the drone of Brood X will get on last nerves, triggering a tsunami of riots
–a tsunami of water will wash away beachfront property
–there will be a plague of frogs [did we have one of those? I lost track.]
–aliens will land
–AI will make its move
–someone will misplace a thermonuclear warhead
It’s not that I’m a pessimist, I just don’t think Lady Fortuna will acknowledge Auld Lang Syne as stop sign, or as a bump in the road.
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POEM: A Sinking Feeling
lead boot sinking,
looking up to halo’d light,
a light that gets smaller & dimmer
as one plunges down through cold waters —
deeper & dimmer;
&
dumber & numb-er;
until there’s nothing left to exhale,
and every urge to fatally inhale
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POEM: Awaiting Winter [Sonnet]
The winter skies are drifting slowly in,
and soon the snow will begin to amass —
the powder settling so scant and thin,
accruing between blades of withered grass.
How many times will skies sputter, thusly
without it piling up or drifting deep?
Just coating soil like the world went dusty —
not snow one shovels but the kind one sweeps.
A child’s and an adult’s prayers differ.
While grown-ups are content to prolong Fall,
kids wish that winter will get here quicker —
but all wish Christmas snow will come to call.
“And when will snow liven our bleak doorstep?”
A question I once asked, but now forget.
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A Few Indian City Senryū
I
crossing the street
in Bangalore traffic —
never more alive
II
even in wee hours,
if I hear only silence,
I know I’m asleep
III
random backstreet:
yet, more color than a
carnival midway
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POEM: Parallax [a Rubāʿī]
The grass is growing through the cracks,
but each man’s view is parallax.
So, while it seems ill-kempt to one,
others are charmed by the same facts.
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POEM: Infinite Ships
The voyage, now, is at an end.
The anchors have been cast.
The fleet bobs silently offshore,
looking boundlessly vast.
For fog has settled on the bay
and ship shapes fade to gray.
They count themselves infinite ships
while bounded by that bay.
The sea deceives, that much is true;
the rest we’ve yet to know.
Some will swear that trawlers sit there
that were lost long ago.
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Netherlands Limerick
There was a sweet girl from the Netherlands who worried the hard rains might never end. When the streets became moats, she traded bike for boat, and rowed fast that girl of the Netherlands.
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Rewilding Haiku
under jungle
creepers, trees, and moss
lost cities wait
one clean edge
of rough chiseled stone
peeks from mound
when we’re gone
something will remain
of us, and not…
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POEM: Cloud Color
The sunset glowed orange in a wrap of clouds,
looking like the interior of a hollowed tree trunk —
fallen, split open, and with fire burning inside.
The vibrant colors fire my child’s mind —
colors as unsubtle in hue
as the clumsy building blocks were in shape
that I played with as a boy.
