#yukaoiwa
Spring comes
as grasses leap forth
and emerald hues are added to the landscape,
with wildflowers peeking up from the
dewy roadside.
The world smells
fresh like worms and earth,
while birds drift down to finish last year’s
seeds.
Yellow rain boots hop
out of shelves and into the puddles,
while mud gathers and plays in the road,
gurgling with mirth at passers by.
The badminton net is resurrected,
regally looming over the lawn,
as the swings squeak joyfully in the breeze.
The fireplace gives a sooty yawn
and falls to sleep.
And in the kitchen, fiddleheads unfurl upon
a hot pan
as the old and sour scent of the earth
settles upon our plates,
spring steps lightly
onto the world.
~Yuka Oiwa
May 6, 2008
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
An author must understand the craft
of picking such
fruit.
The patience to resolve and then
pluck
the ending, ripe on the branch.
But any reader can taste the sweetness,
Satisfying, although it leaves such a
Singular lingering taste
An urge to bite
and bite
and bite
until only the seeds are left,
embedded in the folds of you brain,
watered by your memory, to grow.
Though we say that reading is our escape
All readers want reality in the end
An overripe “deus ex machina”
can never satisfy
the craving for
a good ending.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
There are forces that pull us straight up to face a situation. We feel the seconds lock into place, the grating of cardboard fate against our flimsy edges, our almost mindless reaction to rise up and change the story’s end.
Are we destined to be acted upon, with all the paper parts fitted from the beginning by a Great Book Binder? Disaster with its tearing claws, fear that dissolves our intentions, selfishness with it’s cloying glue keeping us rooted betwixt the pages. Or do we surprise ourselves and those divine hands full of paper cuts when we come forth, backed with our own resolve, and raise each corresponding cut out above those terrors so…
Beautifully.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
There she bends her fluid form, milky skin dazzled with sweat,
to pluck the golden fruit from the marble earth.
It eludes her grasp, un-bruised from its fall till
she turns her back to the finish line, to her maidenhood, to her victories
and faces all her determination to catch beautiful and artificial
apple. Midas’ own greed pulls her into succumbing to the last of Milanion’s offerings and Aphrodite’s snare.
There in her crooked form, her robes still billowing from the momentum, sandals come undone so close to the finish line
Atalanta clutches, desperately, to win her freedom and the gleaming prize.
Yet the Gods know that only one can be won.
Aphrodite’s dove proceeds the victor as he barrels to the finish,
his wedding in sight.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
The house so full of symmetry
light in every window in every
angle, 360º view around the bend
walls beginning to break from loneliness
the light awash in so many colors
on the canvas of the walls
the hill behind still wet with the sun's light
freshly painted themselves
Purples, Oranges, Blues
empty and yet so settled into the land
the house on the hill
An eternal, infernally short second as the car ride
shakes my hand and my impressions blur.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 9:34 AM UTC
I lay the paper on my tongue
and let the ink sink
into taste buds
so that I can recall
the poems when the need is dear
and the light is gone.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
We've carved a whole in this Earth
and lined it with lead,
put up our walls of wires and thoughts
till we trick ourselves into thinking that this cold depression
is the world all around.
We see the life beyond
yet our gaze is distant
our blood kin forgotten
in new ties forged from iron and gold.
We've carved a whole in this Earth
and now it's filled,
the billions huddled in the orb of metal.
Can we find balance or will we just roll away?
Fall down the hill of reality
and circle lost in infinity?
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 9:54 AM UTC