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irinia Jul 2015
Again the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my garden.
They, at least, unchanged.

How have I hurt you?
You look at me with pale eyes,
But these are my tears.

Morning and evening--
Yet for us once long ago
Was no division.

I hear many words.
Set an hour when I may come
Or remain silent.

In the ghostly dawn
I write new words for your ears--
Even now you sleep.

This then is morning.
Have you no comfort for me
Cold-colored flowers?

My eyes are weary
Following you everywhere.
Short, oh short, the days!

When the flower falls
The leaf is no more cherished.
Every day I fear.

Even when you smile
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, therefore.

Laugh--it is nothing.
To others you may seem gay,
I watch with grieved eyes.

Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers are safe.

As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,
So am I to you.

Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals--
How am I worthy?

Down a red river
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you then so brave?

Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I alone.

Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue jays.

Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its colored leaves--
But before they turn?

Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this not enough?

Love is a game--yes?
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows and stars.

When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!

Turning from the page,
Blind with a night of labor,
I hear morning crows.

A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.
Who could see clearly?

Sweet smell of wet flowers
Over an evening garden.
Your portrait, perhaps?

Staying in my room,
I thought of the new Spring leaves.
That day was happy.
DJ Thomas Apr 2010
A differing beat
quickly fading doubled steps
pulling separate

copyright© 2010
(Handbook for Quarreling Lovers)I THOUGHT of offering you apothegms.
I might have said, "Dogs bark and the wind carries it away."
I might have said, "He who would make a door of gold must knock a nail in every day."
So easy, so easy it would have been to inaugurate a high impetuous moment for you to look on before the final farewells were spoken.
You who assumed the farewells in the manner of people buying newspapers and reading the headlines-and all peddlers of gossip who buttonhole each other and wag their heads saying, "Yes, I heard all about it last Wednesday."
I considered several apothegms.
"There is no love but service," of course, would only initiate a quarrel over who has served and how and when.
"Love stands against fire and flood and much bitterness," would only initiate a second misunderstanding, and bickerings with lapses of silence.
What is there in the Bible to cover our case, or Shakespere? What poetry can help? Is there any left but Epictetus?
Since you have already chosen to interpret silence for language and silence for despair and silence for contempt and silence for all things but love,
Since you have already chosen to read ashes where God knows there was something else than ashes,
Since silence and ashes are two identical findings for your eyes and there are no apothegms worth handing out like a hung jury's verdict for a record in our own hearts as well as the community at large,
I can only remember a Russian peasant who told me his grandfather warned him: If you ride too good a horse you will not take the straight road to town.
It will always come back to me in the blur of that hokku: The heart of a woman of thirty is like the red ball of the sun seen through a mist.
Or I will remember the witchery in the eyes of a girl at a barn dance one winter night in Illinois saying: Put off the wedding five times and nobody comes to it.
wordvango  Mar 2018
wordvango Mar 2018
Bruised sky God swore loud
Resolute as tears tulips
Out of fury grew
Aztec Warrior  Nov 2015
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
Walking With Basho**

Note: These haiku (hokku) were written after
reading a book of Basho’s ‘travel logs’. It contained
many of his best and well known poems and prose.

under the old oak
I watch squirrels
chasing their tails.
the oak ignores them.

A breeze ruffles green leaves
as Wrens sing a symphony-
perfect harmony.

I travel in the
company of red guard youth-
we want the whole world.(1)

rushing rivers and
deep gorges block our advance-
great challenges ahead.

Spring blossoms beckon
we smell their sweet aroma-
birds chirp approval.

traveling this road
strewn with shadow and hard ship,
we dare scale great heights.
rain and wind harass
the rabbits fur and spirit-
he sits stoically.

scared of its shadow,
a frog leaps from its lily-
silence is broken.

a burning man looks
at the desert’s dry land scape-
he paints large cacti. (2)

redzone/Aztec Warrior 8.20.12

(1) Red Guard were youth during the Cultural Revolution in China
under the leadership of Mao Tsetung and the genuine revolutionaries
in the Chinese Communist Party. They made revolution within the revolution
inspiring millions world-wide and preventing capitalist-roaders from
seizing power for 10 years. When Mao died, these reactionaries seized power and today we can see the ugly horrific exploitation and oppression the masses of Chinese face again today.

(2) Burning Man is an art festival in the desert of Nevada that began as an expression of creativity and defiance of the prevailing American culture.
But like everything in this society, it has been corrupted into a festival
where buying and selling once again contaminates. There are though still some aspects of the open art and creativity that remains.
Love this notebook....

— The End —