(senryu)

autumn's embrace chills,  
it must now be that season,  
falling leaves and all.




(sijo)

The first frost of dawn kisses the withering maple leaves,  
Winds of change sweep the earth, whispering Autumn’s song.  
In this transient dance, memories linger, time stands still.



(chofu)

Under the golden boughs of ancient trees, Autumn sighs,  
As leaves descend in a swirling, endless ballet,  
The earth receives them with a gentle embrace, whispering tales of time.


🍂

by the sea face in face
a child’s visage open
fraught in fear, freedom and friendship
predators, salt, sand
waves crash, rocks cut
chest crushing breaths
from watery garden sea sponge plucked
beside shells and stones
by a farcical display
feigning, fawning, flaunting: fearful now
petulant sand in shoe
soaks nothing better
no return, no exchange

Lift your gaze, feel the fire in your soul,
Travel back to where your spirit thrived,
Relish the echoes that make you feel whole,
In every word, a pulse of life derived.

For in the silence of unwritten lines,
We find the truth that eternally shines.

In the morning light
we gather at the square
voices mingling
plans unfolding
     .　.　.　 a tapestry of lives
undulating in the sun's rays

A "dying" family car can drive a child to grow up or become sad.

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.

though stairs above, unlit
well at each landing glows
where spiralled shadows fly
its bridge curtails its distance

through yearning measured steps
their creaking shrugs off decay

somewhere overhead
the smaller bear sits
my constant companion

whose trajectory lights up
carries forward my story arc
brings us our own constellation

revolving as sundial shadows
in the darkened doorways
will always ever be in transit

resuscitate
an ailing soul
bereft of starlight's

superb glimmer
and woollen warmth.  
Mayhap, stellate glow

in the stillness
of tranquil flight,
their counsel, console.

Humbly, we plea--
hymn of the night,
come and tarry awhile.*




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just like open sunlit skies above
which kept our days ever bright
whose bare-all gaze shoved us
to sanctuary from blistering glare

we always kept our shadows in sight

tents and those world tree ash boughs
carried us to roman candles of night
matsuri: our own non-roman holiday --
summer may be gone but these remain

sunrise unveiled a promise of treasure
demure as petals enjoining midday
grey clouds thin in billowy summer breeze
freeze a moment before this day consumes


sunset reveals firefly melodies
meandering starlit rivers flow,
flowered evening fragrances wafting;
welcomes a momentous nocturne

all the voices  
gathered in my digital scream  
somewhere on a site  
devoted to stream ,live  
i wield words aflame  
i share and laugh with joy  
alone but never lonely  
look at what the web has  
given me  
a liberated mind  
touched by global threads  
something that shines  
brighter than any daytime opery

Picking up the internal slack
and bring about an inward tension
that emboldens for one to face the day
and the prospects of oncoming ones.
Where wet cheeks, are visible cues
of flipping calendars, leaf upon leaf:
existing surrenders
and like a sparkled after-rain,
brings a moist crystality
that fills in the cracks
and mends the broken places.

does anyone drink tea anymore?
or pick up what fell on the floor?
three-second rule no longer?
selfied self-image now stronger?
being left to our smart devices
such coloured, fruitbowl choices, or
wardrobe change for inner voices?

think of me, of us, some time
bandying of thoughts will do
let them sidle up close to you
just as we did not so long ago

then come and gaze again at

the light residing in my eyes
then tell me if your reflection
shines with crystalline truth
some time, think of us, of me

give up shallying; on finding and sharing
what could be thought of as inner beauty
when these hirsute thoughts bristle again
berating what little of self regard remains
it’s but an exaggeration to point out hate
when clearly it wasn’t my poem but myself
that lay on literature’s butcher-block altar

for whom threadbare scraps
are treasures under your table
deserts, ever undulated dunes

in picture-book perfect gales

stripping away like sandpaper
perhaps the sting of salt rain
shall sterilize this wanting within

.


sunrise unveiled a promise of treasure
demure as petals enjoining midday
grey clouds thin in billowy summer breeze
freeze a moment before this day consumes


sunset reveals firefly melodies
meandering starlit rivers flow,
flowered evening fragrances wafting;
welcomes a momentous nocturne


.

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 we
have and hold dear, today
saving each precious moment
if bookmarked sentiments
are promises all will be well
we’ll boldly breathe again

enough of you
and all of me

before letting go
this consider--
once posted, one
may thus wonder
is there a reader at the other end of this poem?
oh, sure there is

but the privilege
of knowing their thought process and journey
is theirs to keep
or to you share
at their behest
so now let’s see

enough from me
and now to you

Were 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.

Discarded thoughts collide,
cast aside once too many times;
now stride across crumpled sheets,
from where quenching springs rise
fuel that pen and paper set alight-

A battered note, a torn-out page,
explode in fervent rage…each
critic's stab, each cut so deep
pick axes unearthing jewels
rough but worth their keep.

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
(re)fresh from 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
strip away a mournful state of heart ?

An unlit candle,
a matchstick, waiting in vain—
neither will ignite,
unless one strikes the other,
shadows linger, dim and cold.

.


revolutions of the second hand
innumerable to the watchful eye
has not comforted this bruising
nor can this heart run far enough


away from the pulsing gangrene
when off the darkest mile it tread
in the cooling of a fading day that
gentle crushing fixed completely


drowning in despondent smiles
wafting wavelets forlorn, wailing,
whispering affections now silent
wanting a happier, more innocent time


.

Once prismatic brilliance;
brilliant only through borrowed light;

alone again in darkness, glum;
gleams, instant companion of night --

blind to grief and deaf to joy,
save by pristine thought, on lonely height:

a lone, canine howl reports and echoes,
as nocturnal critters hide, out of sight.*



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