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published at Asahi Haikuist Network

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would you
for the love of
me
tie this lace
upon a tree

when the wind
upon it blows
my heart
on yonder river flows

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Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach
that if not to myself be True
the possible best in life accrue

What if regret creeps on the morning
a thief stalking the shadow of dawn
a fresh form, bare motive drawing
crystal arteries of a day that is new

or shall we allow the mind meander
let it's "work" find itself crowning
there in its core uncover simplicity
s...

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It's hard to hear yourself thinking

when hate on hate is all around

there's a cry for freedom ringing,

its price, to keep another bound

our goals require such liberties

which defy our mental capacities

we hope it's worth all th...

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In a dream of night before me rose
I walked along an endless shore;
moist sand glowed a silvery pink,
danced to lights in the waning sun;
its length moving, curved around
dotted stars in the form of a heart.

I peered ahead and looked behind,
shifted my gaze from side to side;
waiting to catch a glimpse of you
and fall within your gaze as you
engaged my eyes in an embrace,
but only fee...

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There he goes pacing, this young man, 
I see his shadows through the shades; 
Drawn to lift them but didn't dare 
For then his face he hid and fled 

I know my shadow is all he'd see 
From behind the blinds that us divide 
He reaches out and reaches in 
His arms are weak, too frail and thin 

He cries out with all his being 
Screaming, cursing, with voiceless words; 
They fly and hurtl...

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.

people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,

while remains a phrase or
a feeling drawn from wells
deeper than memory can

reach, or device can retrieve
much like thread-diving as
we scamper for posts buried

by traffic and flood posters…
follow, subscribe, or friend
buttons can only do so much

so we hang on to what ...

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.

It may be dark;
but tonight
effervescent lights dance
to a blaring par-tay tune

while in the shadows, we parlay...

reach over me
and flick the switch;
let bokeh find clarity
in our fervent embrace.

.

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In this lifetime of striving
childhood's tentative bumbling,
youth's arrogant impertinence,
middle-aged regimented conceit,
in old age, encrusted intolerance;
when will we likely ever win?

.

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flame
running faster than
you can flutter a lash
flash
rushing swifter than
we can sniff a flower
fresh
rippling quieter than
they can queue on Black
Friday

.

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.

a husk, a shell that's fallen off 

the back that bore its longest day 

to struggle for release supreme 

from odious yesterday redeemed 




i gaze in stupefied wonder 

and peer into the dusky swirls 

of the distant pealing thunder 

that offers me a new day's thrill 

 

.

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.

over many moons and calendars
over many many miles of verse
both in sharing and receiving, lines
feeding an ever emptying purse
may these blossoms fruit among their vines

.

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filled with melancholy
mood lit by lampshade
names and faces dissipate

weathered post it sticks
if only the memory did

.

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`


My butterfly is no longer mine,
I wonder if she ever really was;
When she alights on my shoulder
I know she wants me to hold her -
Flies off and she's mine no longer.

My butterfly so frail and fine,
I wonder if I was ever hers;
When she returns to kiss me again
I know she's more than just a friend -
Flies off and gone forever more.





`

 

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none of these life choices
are mine
though they are yours to enjoy
without so much as a batted lash
none of these improvisations 
are theirs
though we live barely existing
with not much more than breath

no choice could be given
no chance to chance upon
living and loving out of bounds
perimeter embankment of
social media static hairs
we aren't what we seem

should gladnes...

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The birthing of articulated expression
will always find its means of entering
into the world outside and beyond
the inner recesses of our awareness.

I love the wee and trippy hours of the
after midnight when the glass slipper
lay glimmering aloof in the moonlight
and the weary dreamer sets some
ink of thoughts onto the parchment
of a woozy head - too early in the day
to ...

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Spun out of control. 
Bobbing then pommeled, squashed then bloated. 
A lone occupant within the confines of a tumble dryer 
at full spin.... 
An impatient hand lifts the lid off 
with deft, well practised fingers 
hopeful that in so doing would speed up the process. 

The spinning abruptly stops 
resuming only when the lid is firmly shut 
securely in place. 
With a banging and...

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there need not be iron bars
to keep a heart imprisoned
there is no white flag of surrender
nor o-d, nor cutting would resolve

nor does the coming-off of chains make one trully free
the stench of blood curdled cold
staining my cheek with ferrous-ity

on that flee bitten bunk each unforgiving night
a plaintive prayer wafts in upward draft
to rejoin the fraying bonds of you...

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in spite of what surrounds us 
whatever circumstances are 
we are learning to find peace 
within ourselves 
regardless of what's

going on around us, 
learning to self-soothe 
kind of thing and find 
we all are coming through 
to the other side, strong

persons we've missed; 
our friendships through, 
a new season approaching 
and a sense begins to...

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Is it not a foe who taunts — 
that in itself could be borne? 
Is it not an enemy's tirades— 
from them one could hide? 
Instead, an arrogant intimacy—
life's equal, companion & friend. 

What close companionship 
now scattered in the chill
of uncaring autumn winds;
from familiar paths once  
walked together in gardens
of fond affection and glee.

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You ARE,

however contrary your reality may be.

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some time, somewhere out there

someone had said
that one part of poetry
is a reservoir that holds
all the sadness of this world

What then does this say of a poet?

it is not seen how
that portion poets bear
bare on virginal leaves
all their flight and fears

are tears morphed in pressed ink

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turn your gaze to power 
of life and death:
they lie dormant,
seeded potentialities;

a flower's expectancy
in each quiescent tongue
and those who love either 
will surely sup of their fruit

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when
wriggly worms are done
with you
i shall await 
sweet scent of blooms
that should some day
sprout and mark
this very spot
in which 
you last
reclined
that is, 
if i don't 
follow
after you

soon

`

Fourteen days until your birthday, but you are no longer here. You have left us 10 weeks ago, Dad. All the special days are now another farewell.

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crocus buds burst forth
peep and poke through dunes of white
winter bows to spring

when the sun begins to shine again
vital truths on wood-lined paths arise  

 

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Join me in this boat of drunkenness, 
Come with me and we shall both be drunk. 
Let's sway beside what we think ourselves, 
Swerving as the waves swell beneath us; 
Lifting us to where lonely sounds warp, 
While many other things become clear. 


Come upon my mind, your tongue in mine, 
And utter words that rend this turmoil; 
The sound of madness not to be stilled, 
Our silent voices, ...

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When your winter breaks into spring
think of new and wonderful things

while autumn creeps passed your window
break this winter free of sorrow

wait upon seasons - wait on life
live each day loving - escaping 

weave each day's new strands - engaging
one day looking back - mem'ries rife.

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Where it not for one to play buffoon 

or to say of none we're way too soon

involved in peddling mass hysteria 

when it's been held in each posterior 

consciousness - makers of peace are

blessed. So ever to be near or far

we at our disposal have in hand

a power to write upon our sand.

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pan-fluted melodies
whisp’ring in the wind
blist’ring radiance
bleaches desert mud
send them tumbling
along endless dunes
temp’rature drops as
an astral masque ball
strings up fairy lights
across the evening sky

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more wistful now than poignant
while whistling with the wind
dancing dapples of recollection and forgetfulness
serve only to stir whirling notions
blowing willowy wisps of patinaed pirouettes
intertwining and reverberating shimmer 
that no regret has any hope of obligating

- - -
N. B. here are two versions, the first and the redacted immediately following. Which do you like better? 
Ple...

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