i wrote you a song and left it on an island far away beyond your reach
because it was for you and only you can listen to it
but you don’t deserve that anymore, you don’t deserve to hear the words i say and the songs i sing
and that’s why only song island will know these words that were meant for you
only song island will know how my feelings were true

It's a beautiful day and the sun is shining,
Every cloud has a silver lining,
Being bathed, showered in pure warmth and light, is for every plant nothing less but a wonderous delight,
As every river and stream is sparkling brightly,
Not even distrurbed by a soft breeze slightly,
Shining beyond the scenery of an azure, majestic sky, I want to lose myself in this wandering fragnance,
Such would be, a gift of life of mother natures remembrance,
The scent of the flowers alines, with the gentle song of the wind,
After this day ends all what will be left is...
But a memory of an eternal spring dream, filled with great bliss,
A season of green, sunny days.


~ Umi

.
1
death dirges

Frogs in distance sing  .  .  .
Foxes, herons, join in too,
  .  .  .  A round of croaking.



2
love gifts

Her gift of flowers  .  .  .
Came at night without garden,
  .  .  .  Were picked in bedroom.



3
twins demure

Full moon and she  .  .  .
Beauties without crescent smile,
  .  .  .  Naked in starlight.



4
light music

Before even sun  .  .  .
Gleam opens to paint each day,
  .  .  .  Beauty in birdsong.



5
iridescent

After sun showers  .  .  .
Sparkle of rainbow colours,
  .  .  .  Busy hummingbirds



6
chilling

Hollow sound through trees,
Naked and bare branches sway,
  .  .  .  Old winter creeping.



7
flirting

She wanted a child  .  .  .
Rushed from one suitor to next,
  .  .  .  Clock set to maybe.



8
super villain

Truth once singular  .  .  .
Mucked all up with politics,
  .  .  .  In cowl of falsehoods.



9
casualties

Blood spills in gardens  .  .  .
Naïve worms torn from loose grounds,
.  .  . Red robins, green lawns.



10
stigmata

Each spring miracle  .  .  .
Trees blessed by caterpillars gifts,
  .  .  .  Holey hands of leaves.



11
consecrations

Ripples lead to bows  .  .  .
After fish breaks the water,
  .  .  .  A kingfisher dives.



12
constancy

Steadfast as always  .  .  .
Wildflower in sun and rain,
  .  .  .  Showing true colours.



13
roommates

Chaste lovers wonder  .  .  .
How bodies weather the cold,
  .  .  .  Never knowing touch.



14
swept away

Suddenly we kissed  .  .  .
At beach as tides rolling in,
  .  .  .  Drowning by ocean.



15
seductress

Her red hair so long  .  .  .
Brushing my face, hiding eyes,
  .  .  .  A kind entrapment.
.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?