What is so important to address
something to react to the illumine
fruity to their balance sips like
a goldmine
He sways passed you and trips
Rose Poumedeur right near your* lips

Both stumbling and boasting over her
imported wine dress

The swinging parasol his cork topped
delights
Those imported by his number nights
Cabernet Sauvignon
Hooked to there eyes
Million stars to lift
Her petite waistline
Like heartline of Valentine
wine felt dresses

Outnumbered you by four words
The strenuous tiresome love-wine
Be mine the stargaze* dazing inside the sunsets
So bottled inside her mission
His love how it aged in her
in  a good retrospect like
Deep cherry confessions

The import from a trade surplus
She got overlooked got flown in place
like a sticker
The smart star- reservation 
 high-demand book
To seek her

What a chemistry  love- hands creation
She's the many vintage dresses A plus
The pouring of wine of many fusions
The cloudy dress is a minus illusion

She learned her entire lesson
How many times she was moved
around like musical  I tunes of wine
CD collection of Rennaisance
Battling like the fort chair
But someone was moved by her Jazz
type of hair
My lesson my wish was on hold
the mission cruise of the impossible dress
Getting weaved inside someone's
powerful suite but the best suite
and stay
The Fort William Henry until this day
The Fort William Henry Hotel like no
other sorts and what sports

Japan imports 77.8 billion exports
more than imports
Lackadaisical called the
breath of sunshine
The daisy sundress sitting on the
veranda with Fort Williams and the
Henry the eight I am children

I've been sunbathing looking at the boat
The Minne Haha thinking of MaMa
Someone was singing like Lady GAGA

The matter of great expression of words
Hummingbirds at Lake George
Picking the best birth of seeds
Imported wine what our heart needs
Rising demands of the meat
like the paradise of lovebirds
Her dress was to heal the world
Those wildflowers were the
sort of thing silence is the  best thing
Somehow not the hype of the bling
or diamond ring
Sometimes the Goddess
sun shines more

Making her feel loved to sing
Her dress had the gimmick to move
What a rural fun tree orange grove
Like the referee wine shopping spree
Everyday people were moved by her
gift of imported wines
Her gravity of smiles he's mine
Her face steams like the highest
light beam very well bred and fine
The long winding trail her
corset gown
Started to make head waves to the
higher forces
So enlightening the lakes
such cascades
Those wine deep waves romantic
To prelude to a kiss the Cosmic
The Islander-border lace her face
To love and honor her more

Not necessarily less that
divine moment
We should never miss
Lake George rippling waves
On her outskirts

Princess Kelly cheese Italian wine
Naples deserts
The evergreen  long dress
Shined your Highness the
Roman pillars
How he grabbed her waist dancing
like the Gatsby
Gave her such splendor everlasting sip
But the imported wine was deeper

To Set up the date
To Make- the wine up
In the cellar aged hours to perfect
What a stir over her dress-up deep ruby
wine start to pour end
of a new beginning
subject
To book the trip Lake George New York
All you had to do

Go to the Fort William Henry
Hotel like a home with family
So many friendly faces with smiles
All you have to do is show up

.and what if the referendum was secured, by the single vote, if it was predicated on: only and only if, there's a 60% consensus... the current debate is taken place, because the consensus is, extremely marginal... we're talking about fringe politics, outlier political opinions... the the remain vote is argued with the same verocity as the leave vote... for the benefit of outlier opinions... if only there was a predicate: it will be passed... as long as there's a 10% difference between the votes... 51.9% for leave to 48.1% for remain, of the country having voted... if only the whole point of voting, was akin to the "ancient" enforced tactic of drafting men to serve in the army... 67.7% voting areas voting to leave... 32.3% voting to remain... yeah... the "obscure" parts of england... with scotland, clearly being an anomaly with regards to "obscure" rural regions... should the argument come: concentration of power, in urban babylons.

someone should, really, really try to remaster
that vague piece of work

                       that pristine rhythm
    section: notably on the song bite now bite
from the album
          eat your heart out -
                              by... a belgian band:
of all bands... it had to be, belgian...
  ******* choccies (KLINIK) -
   oh look, an intra-racial slur...
                                                     chocolatiers...
because what would be fun:
  if language was plain, safe,
                                                      in vitro:
and not the islam to the individual -
   whenever: i, am to submit,
                     to the language of the other?
well obviously malice is reserved
for something else, but not for breathing,
thinking or feeling,
   or for that matter:
     the "problem" of idle hands...
itchy hands...
               i guess some of the throng,
of the volk: chatter chatter chatter...
    bite... chew... but then forget to
swallow... (sow s-, s-, swo-, swo-...
'the **** an A charge in, eh?
                                     i guess, that's how).

but no one
likes to see
narrow
verse
likening it
to the Milan
fashion
show
catwalk

                               and all those poems
that look like this:

|begins here


               (no
      move-
                                 -ment
                 in
               between)


|ends here:

|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|­zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|can anyone please tell me...
   why zee / zed:
              is a conotation
                        depicting the process of sleep?

and all this nonsense:
                   england is spelled with
a capital: who says it's anywhere but london?
E this, E that,
    E sat on a wall
       and...
                    didn't fall accidently...
i know a rat when i see one...
   Nigel, Nigel (see... capital N,
implies emphasis, like italics or a colon
does)
       Nigel... can you please bring back
your fwend, Dawid?
                     just a few questions...
2 and a half 'ears lay'ter...
   and... no end in sight...
to those loitering... shuffling their feet...
how many votes do you actually need...
when there was only one
                     for die volk
- and i have to admit...
       it was close...
                roughly                      51 to 49...
i know why they voted leave...
           because of the people who poured
in, most, probably momentarily
back in 2004...
                              the people who were
taught two, of 20th century's prime lessons,
by foreign entities...
               arbeit macht frei
               und?
                        communism.

         so no laid-back work ethic coming
with the windrush, was there?
                    conflict of interests...
**** it, if i were strapped to a caribbean
island, i'd have a laid back work ethic:
                             ka-reeb-ib-ean.

yet still this whole blah blah debate...
          like... let's forget the good friday
agreement...
   but finally...
            we can have the old terrorists back...
so...
            maybe the IRA will
                  out-compete the jihadis?
or at least scare them?
  or... dunno...
                                            ol' Jack...
ol' Jackie boy'o will: simply...        unravel?
am i rooting for it to happen?
no...
                            but it would suggest
that i'm rooting for being part of
                a historical event,
                            like the treaty of versailles...
or the weimar rep.,
                            and i was the voice
on the bottom,
               sifting through
                     eclectic ambitions to find:
culture that will never become
mainstream...
                                           almost
forever destined for the: archaic archive,
now forever the footstuff
                            of the gargantuan a.i.:
alternatively known as a.i.p.:
                   artificial intelligence purgatory.

- hey, i can't compete,
    i'm just a kid that forgot to bring
his crayons, and instead brought
   some matchsticks and toothpicks.

if only: 2 years prior to the referendum
they had a plan...
   but they thought they could do
a joker trick,
         so there you have it: agent of chaos...
agent of chaos says:
  people, 1 vote, politicians?
         an infinite number of votes by
the looks of it...
                  voting is not reserved
for the people, de facto,
                       given:
we now have a strange despot on our
hands... der volk...
                    what a strange monster...
was i leave or remain?
   neither, considering that i ended up
drinking to stay somewhat sane
for the past... oh... 10 years...
    on debit...
                well... why would i even
consider drinking into the excesses of
phantasmagoria              on credit?
that would be stupid, as stupid didn't.

in summary: to minor points...
    i can understand why people don't like
poetry...
                                                 porcelain...
or the fact that their everyday language
is already peppered with poetic techniques...
figuratively speaking...
                   akin to:
   where does the technique of poetry
end, and the comedy begin?
                     yeah, that: "not literally" part?

who would mind:
   it's not an elitist "thing" to like or dislike
a medium...
                 i like the "breathing" space in
the optics... of... the never to be seen
                              literary paragraph...
i like cascades...
                         paragraphs are sometimes
a strain on the eyes...
like watching really fast cars
zoom past you on a very small race-track...
**** just gets dizzy...

.......................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­.......... (click) etc.

hence?
           well on the up-side...
once you've read some magnum opus...
say... the cantos...
    for some strange reason...
you can sit back, listen to some choccie
music from the underground...
open the book...
   and just stare at the poetry...
    without having to reread anything...
a bit like...
                  a painting...

                                    sure as **** you
can't do that with a novel,
      with its rigid, cluster-**** of a descriptive
paragraph: she said, he said,
then another descriptive paragraph:
he said, she said...

               as much as i love novels...
  give me a poetics of a framework of freedom,
or a philosophical monologue
    by some helmut
    (german) - oh look...
     another intra-racial slur...
    helmuty: germans...
                  derived from?
              helmut kohl -
                    german chancellor 1982 - 1998;

ah... what an enriching experience.

Not for every one heavy religious thoughts expressed

This is my declaration of war know it or not we are in a battle life is a battle and when you are the one
Getting stomped on you are in distress and hard pressed to make clear decisions by divine entreaty
We are called onto love one another and that means coming along side and bearing your burden and
Fighting with and for you your life is of many different situations I see mine as a battle field medic and
One who reports on the fighting I am like my friend in the service who came back from Nam before he
Was a medic but the Cong fixed that now he fought fires along side with the the rest of us but we were in the
Bathroom cleaning up after a fire he had his shirt off and when you were in his prescence his nature
Was more than just fragile he was damaged in a life altering sense now I understood as I looked at
Several bullet holes wounds on his chest and back that had to be fixed by skin grafts it mapped his love
Of country and when boys his age lie wounded and dying they holler medic and then before dying they
Gently weep calling on their precious mother far away that always is mending their hurts but this time
Jesus and His angels rush in to stand by and guard with their love and by lifting up this tired and finished
Warrior wrapped in old glories beautiful red white and blue taking him where a flag that stands in the
Center of glory land it emblem is a lamb slain on a cross blooded and wounded from his love of his lost
Children tears from here to heaven float in the great blackness of our universe perpetually it goes along
With this Quote from Keats they never end either his lines says “A thing of beauty is a joy forever its
Loveliness increases it will never pass into nothingness” another is two hearts beat as one if you think
I’m insincere my tears just fell writing these lines causing hurt again for my wife that must listen but I
Rush to your bleeding wounded hearts on a spiritual battle field my bandages are tear soaked to wrap
Your wounds as you have cried help medic I cry Jesus in this scene depicts from Daniel Gabriel had come
To Daniel’s battle field after Daniel had prayed and fasted twenty one days this is a familiar your story to
Most but his is what I want to share it says I heard a man’s voice from the Ulai river calling Gabriel tell
This man the meaning of the vision and it goes on to say this was an angel of higher rank come to assist
This is another item in my medical bag to help the unknown comes into view in the army there is a chain
Of command it is true of the army of God as well you lay wounded God flashes your call of need through
The spirit world in your case who is reading this you see me only but as the prophet of old faced an army
Of men he feared nothing as he looked on the mighty host of heaven arrayed and fully armed for battle
He was the only one that stood between the deaths of these enemies who as you and I only see the
Immediate through writing beautiful words and revealing unseen powers I’m going to give you the
Power to not be afraid not just words but heavenly beings as your vanguard from your knees alone the
Enemy will be put to flight this still comes from looking down a familiar street and in my mind’s eye
Seeing your pain and suffering at that moment I was alone in the dark car but worse I felt helpless
And alone the thing I did right through great tears and pain I cried and asked God to help me to help
Others this is a first in a series to do that very thing one last thing I offer another angel encounter
This my own at home in California I lost my Job for some reason I had to go to the bank what fun
Money becomes scarce as meat on a skeleton and I go where it is stacked sky high well as I walked
Outside and set on the bench away from everyone and everything a man walked up he looked familiar
In this since his clothes looked the way I felt they had seen better days and the special thing he was
Caring a book just a paperback but it looked like the one I carried I never go out without a book and
Lot of times I carry a bag full of them he was friendly easy to listen to he told me that he lived in
The hills our towns entry sign and letter head from the city depicts hills the highest Mission Peak
As he talked my pressure and wild thoughts settled though we were setting in the sun I felt a comfort
You find setting under a great oak I’m not flipping and I’m not advocating hugging trees but I feel
The angel was said to speak from the river not a stretch everything in this world is controlled by God
First his word alone holds it altogether but beyond that with the extensive reading I have done it
Clearly shows angels are first in charge of your lives and your safety but all living things are under their
Charge and in a minute I’m going to include two pieces that speak of hill and a great Oak well as all
Things do our visit ended and then I knew the person who I had been talking wasn’t a man after all
When he said he stayed in the hills meant a lot more I come to this conclusion because this man
Interested me in my turmoil he pops up and leaves me with a feeling of well being and then the facts
Bare it out we were sitting by this building that sets by itself at a good distance you have small trees that
A rabbit couldn’t hide behind and every direction is open country well I fiddled with my book
For the briniest moment I guess I was thinking about his I look up and he is gone someone comes into
Your life and touches you well one last look would be nice I didn’t run but I briskly walked to the end
Of the building I was already at this end he was nowhere to be found shortly after this I wrote this
Piece about our church and the church yard just up the street the hills flank the length of the city
See if you think his presence lingers and flows on to the page on last thing because of an affliction
I am only allowed twenty minutes at a time on the computer legs and feet problem I spent five hours
The other day no sleep that night so elated all day and my wife made care giver gives me a taste of
Ireland as she screams for me to get off I ran over an hour and a little try to write with the scream of
A banshee behind you this was supposed to be a small piece I never write twelve hundred words I said
That to say can’t check for errors you can have fun finding my mistakes will fix on my next allotted time
You can’t take this to the bank to the bank but I think I suffer from another common malady it’s called
Being hen pecked but it the good kind of hurt here is the church piece then the Oak

Shadow of Eden
In this savage land we call home
There is a pastoral valley that has the richest texture of heaven
This treasured sheep gate beckons tenderly says welcome
These hills and slopes the repository of our hopes
The savior poised in their gentle steeps, for the city weeps
Sweet spirit that fills this natural expanse soft as the breeze
Each tired weary soul you refresh with a quiet hush
We are shown the wisdom of not being in a rush
Unseen pillars tower revealing your mighty power
Written on the pillars at the world side is come unto me
On the church side seek the lost at any cost
The Devil expresses defiance the church makes Heaven her alliance
Wayward souls tormented seeking an oasis dying of thirst
Today we fill these pots of clay and determine to go out of our way
Seeking those that hunger and thirst by this Christ we manifest
To the world the church is ghostly not completely visible
It shimmers as though it isn’t real blindly they feel about
In your life they find solid ground clear of the mist
They finish a terrible journey now they feed from all their needs freed
No longer exhausted from continually milling about
The Sheppard stands holy watch and cast a confidant shadow
In this respite feeding and richly nourished they grow strong
Gladness quietly cascades from spiritual hills of splendor
By angles man sees more than just the coarse and obvious he sees the heart of all living things
That reveals the heart and Genius of the one that made it all a great package that each newborn
Finds he tears a way layer upon layer of wrappings love joy hope possibility of dreams that await
And so much more your I just added this you’re never too old to go back to that place where
Wonder still remembers you its polite to revisit in fact it is required for good health and a
Positive mind where is it now where else would human birth occur except at angel central

Lost Friend
This is just a few lines written to celebrate the generations of one Paso Robles family, and their parallel existence with one of nature’s monarchs that was destroyed in recent storm.
You will always remain in my mind.
I can’t remember when you weren’t watching.
Tall strong, graceful shade the bewitching kind.
Long ago a fellow relative started your stately reign.
This our home place he surveyed.
His eye, the land did fill with awe.
From this bond through a lowly seed he prayed
Bless this spot; many a day has he spoken from the oak.
Grandeur over stretched grandmother’s dwelling.
We could only marvel at thy great strength.
From your great silence serenity you were telling.
Shot and blasted against the sky, fireworks of wood.
Clothed in rough hardened bark
what comfort and wisdom you inspired.
Who understands the wonder, my soul you did mark
your size triggered the greatest gift, curiosity.
Branches the wind passing through what mournful cry
Nature’s tune sublime given to delight as only a sad ballad can evoke
Nothing else should try
To match violins in the sky.
My eyes see it in a grand sweep
The ground brought forth a stately wooden crown
Of blackest oak to stand tall and steep
A gentle giant to greet the wayward wind.
Two divergent seeds the ground did divide.
One of wooden grain the other flesh and blood
their branches throughout the community do abide
as charming as church bells ringing, touching all.
And just one more in case you need it friend if you don’t get it
I have lived through some hell in my live now I think it’s time to return
The favor I’m going to give hell all the heat I can that is white heat of love to the suffering
And oh so awful to him but his fire is going to gage on these pages like the fires I used to
Fight in the service as a servant to my country now I’m your servant and I’m fired up I fought
Bullies all through school now I plan to fight the biggest one for you

Sorry I think you could use some granite in your fight

Vaulted sky
Shaded canyon breathtaking heights does the angry wind speak if so in a whisper the granite peaks austere and bleak seem to frown on the trees and lowly grass lands with their fertility and ease of growth. While he the monarch bristling with his cold barren armor of granite invites the stares the awe inspired gratitude of nature and mortal man he knows there dreams and thoughts how many have stood at the edge of wonder on his brow with fainted hearts. Their thoughts drift out and away ever upward reaching the clouds filled and clothed with mountain air brightly they are displayed in these untamable rays. Voices of the ancient ones still echo their wisdom still resounds in the summer thunder they visited and released many a tortured soul. Before Blind they stood before the closed door of their minds knowing there is a path but where can it be found. Riches unbound await the searcher who will go to any and all lengths to conquer unbelief freedom his guiding star he walks in great shadows. Mountainous men Jefferson Lincoln his stalwart companions stand with grandest stature takes from the mountain those teachings not found in musty universities. Thoughts born on creations morn formed and laid on this rocky foundation now for centuries they have bore the weight this colossus purified they are words more noble than gold. Share them invest them in the borderless world of human kind that circle the globe. Moses was familiar and consorted with mountains the angel made one his sepulcher. Waste not the golden hours they are the thread that sows life’s most exquisite moments together making a life. Turn aside seek the heights they will give you respect and honor words will flow that are uncommon they will fit any and all circumstances filling the empty void where hearts bleed without ceasing. Your voice will be like the cool mountain breeze soothing filled with substance and comfort.

Well three hours must I tell you in the dog house and no feathers left it was worth it for me
I hope for you too

Where God passes
The edge of forever where raw power is displayed
Walk the seascapes enter the story told in timelessness except for outer space it is the only place where man finds his mind freed so steep is the unending awe that without question he finally is able to present his self as the tiny speck lost is all ego all self importance he is open to the quest for ultimate truth. You perfect you’re thinking at the sea shore it is a storehouse that lends itself to grand thoughts no limitations hamper your endeavors aliveness engulfs you totally. Subdued moods excavate every shallow you start a down ward decent the deep cries out to your soul the part that never can be accessed on shore. The ground a foundation for raising up temporal structures your needs are served in waters that open as a mysterious gate the deeper the fathoms the more understanding is released. To abide in calm surface features of the sea what a waste take off the restraints become a voyager drift with churning twisting pressures they will give great reward for accosting your accustomed staid and uneventful living. Go deeper the mundane the so called important will be forced through your very pores as you continue calling the unknown manifest itself with great scrolls hidden beyond reach to those that plod along the sunny quiet banks. Life test all men you can face them unafraid armed with years not minutes of preparedness found alone in the struggle only found at sea. Pondered Plumbed in inexorable conditions that stretches changes a person’s character his stature tempered fired as steel in the caldron. We need leaders vibrant thinkers people who can and will accost hell in the very near future and come away victorious. They will have found their way through the untold deadly entanglements figuratively and real their not accustomed to ease and know perils at close quarters they learned them in great waters not in pools that have not the ability to stir you to your core you’re going to pour out your life in one form or another do it with sand and grit leave a scarred an effectual trail for others to follow not the light untraceable light footsteps of one who has never lived.

Afternoon light cascades onto ocean skin ,
momentarily turning the water a fine gold shimmer -
light dances merrily , shifting as the plane turns southwards - Equator barrier broken

Welcome to the Southern Hemisphere !

Cloud islands mirror
ground islands .

Puff ***** create architectural feats not known to humanity.  
Flowing with the wind , creating substance out of thin air
the ultimate magicians trick ,
Above , thin wisps of stratus clouds brushstrokes seamless onto sky glaringly iridescent and soft all at once.....hey look! ..... way out in the distance , towering cumulus on their way to becoming cumulonimbus thunderstorms , steady growth of stacks even out when a cold air bank has been reached....the sky writes love letters to the earth

in his cloud postcard snapshots , yet - it is a serenade from them both

Earth offers the waters , the dust needed for the molecules to bind together -  sky transmutes them in his belly - with shifting winds and earth curvature the color palate spectrum .

the offspring , playing in between two worlds
belonging to no one arriving and departing , shape shifters

whole landscapes whirling in amongst themselves , remain unseen,  save for the few souls in tin machines hurtling along in the presence of natures finest high sky views.

Azure crisscrossed with opaque whites and rapidly turning dusk eggplant purples , wild and free form mingle with voluptuous orange streams of liquid light , hiding in the shadows the ‘day’ comes to an end ...

Does natures delicate hands sculpt the static water molecules knowing that there is beauty there ,


i have yet to fathom how such a gracious glory goes un noticed by many ,

luckily , for us , as we destroy every other aspect of earths eco system - the bold sky still remains ,

In the city doldrums and slums high rises
or slums on ground
or mansion view

the sky still bears dow the art works of sunset and rise ,
of cloud shifters and shapers , movers and shakers
still offers a connection to natures heart to remind us , of the magnificence that is our world. That is our home,

although - i have been told - under the surface or in this case , above the surface , here too has been attacked , pumping deadly toxic fumes into water ways
and lung ways

knowing all the whilst that this will do more harm than good

and here is where i , still struggle - i’m writing this on the plane -

a carbon dioxide emitting , fossil fuel guzzling , corporate ******* of a business .

but i need to get places , and go long distances in the shortest amount of time possible ..

exude the moment;
you are a transformative fulcrum

of intersubject's rent and awe:
anthropomythic ecolaw

the dream cascades into words,
birds fly little crisps of meaning
into morning light. last night's
snow leaves a crystalline spark
of you subdued, become a finer point
of tantric sight, gazing rose-blue pulsar
lashing through a cosmic garden,
delicious fruit of spacious letting be.
i'm grasping for that pleasure,
vermillion moan of lifestring vibrance,
but the wind carries on outside,
swirling pieces of the mind in
flux of upturned joy~
our heartbreeze summoned,
now whispersssoulsounds to come
and earthly darkness grips the future frost,
thaw, break and steam as it wills;
the churning ground sings to us
of bear-sleep and jackal-howl,
of seasons transpiring,
one lost sled of memories
leaves us empty, pressing crystal sky:
my aching ideality trounced in bliss-meanders
!stunning revelation! you! You! yOu!
bringing all to be a second time,
as it was.. in me.. now new,
sweet novelty of union,
this gathering of nervure self,
gliding insights, sudden soundsss.

like a node of forest-echo swirls
it dazzles: unseen colors for my inner eye;
ancient tones of fog ripple
off something you are,
creaking center easing of my sidling,
spirit drop and wavelet growth:
as if you were a branching greenery
of my own once lost other-self,
last gasping there as what i pictured 'you'~
swayingss.. sun-spikes speaking,
sky-gaze and soaking barky iris sssuck,
moulding into me the wisdom of our past leavings,
those raspy kites of sap-filled yearnings
shadow sunshower evening.
i would be a tree with you and
let you pierce our foundations
with roots of gaiasight slipping though
our primal urgings, concrete deference
under sun arch, spin of moon. let
ignorant insistence on fetishized divides~
slipping past my grounded darkness
still unknown, remain
my underself unleashed
my silent trunk-swilling soothed,
stable chaos-other, self regiven,
life renewed in leaf,
the touch of you imbued.

the whole vision lost
but for that glimmer~
it finds me writhing unknown spirals:
ringing wonderment in a seed,
or dormant sporocarpic lineage of life,
the vast hyphae-humming cups of death-born
nethergenesis of cycled hyle me.
a womb that never knew of pain
or being evertorn in dessicated spectre-sea.

the burning desert-storms helixify our rain,
a heaving hiss-like suncry
from that dark, sandy baobabic throat.
the earth consumes in shifts,
and blossoms toward the alterbliss of you, too,
an expanse of solar flare
its beautific reach engulfing terribly,
nepho-logos spanning all the air.

ssssunlit boughs of winds' remembrance
grow soft across this window,
then shift with forest breath,
their snowlace puffed before
an azure true expanse,
the burdened greens stirring a needlish depth
of metawinter, all-too-human
starfields constellate in hiding
far behind my starshine there a curtain blue,
whose prismatic humor lights more
than scenic treescape, frigid dust.
hair, nose, glass enframed by sapless wood
of window cut to square my void revision of the world.

the colors whirl into mindflow,
inter-material upsurge-undulate,
abyssal cauldron seething passions stilled by
comic symbols of a secular mystic;
dancing eddies convey my sense of sight
just thought, then lost into a wider dance
of tensions eased and drawn,
of geometric visions seemly here and gone,
inner, outer: conveyed by stroke of
spinal eidos, its rhythm set
before my time, its tone the vital,
draping earthverse
recited in my veins, the sinews of my
life in other lives,
the song of us expressive in my gaze~
one blink()a single point of beauty
fades into another haze,
lighted icedrift iridescing evanesce.

On my journey to my grandmother’s, the landscape holds my attention with subtleties.
Muted hues of soft lavender, pale brown, and ashy green painted outside the dashboard. Everything peeking out from a gentle coat of dust.
Yellow weeds and thistles dot the golden hills.

This corner of the country feels like a cherished family heirloom. The color palette resonates with my only sense of familiarity. Maybe it is my fixation on the colors themselves that buffer any sense of grief I carry towards instability.  None of us in my family have claimed permanency in structure. Yet, my grandmother’s home is a sanctuary.

I'm built of water splashing over edges
As I fall and break upon rocks

With mud in my bones and creaky joints
and sand makes my eyes lashes

I'm built of dust, blowing away
Carried by the wind wherever it goes

I don't care anymore for it doesn't matter
I'm just built of words with no meaning

And of empty light burning in darkness
And hollow waves crashing against storms

I fall beneath and beneath
And hit the darkness rusting underneath

Where no one shows when I scream
Where no light dares to touch my eyes

And my bones all shatter,
until they're just powdered calcium

And blood freeze in my bones,
forming stalactites, piercing through my veins

And my skin cracks and breaths escape
And the shadows sink inside my shell

And fissures seep through my irises
And oceans dissolve my dust eyelashes

And memories burn my eyes
and flow past the brims

It's only raw, absolute, sheer pain
As I tear slowly without screaming

Only tears, howls and lost love
And your betrayal and false friends

I've lived for so long but haven't found peace
Now I'm just begging your memories to leave me be

For there's nothing now I could lose
Nothing left of me or my dreams anymore

Nothing of wounded hope
And my canvas of love

I've seen the streets for a thousand years
always wandering never finding my own home

I'm afraid if I let my eyes closet they'll dream again
For I'm torn, vein by vein and cell by cell

I'm nothing but a shadow of who I was
Nothing but reflection of my past

Just an echo of a scream I used to be
Just an illusion of the life I've lived

Nothing more is left, love
For I've given you all of me

How can you tear me, love?
I'm already lying in red ribbons

I'm strips of flesh and blood
And of Silver pain and Black hope

Love, I'm smiling the last time
Please tell me to stay

And hold me for eternity
Because just forever isn't enough for me.

The world revolves and I can't hold it’s pace
neither roll around the unending cycles
may be it is the grey hues polluting my growth
or this age that is fiercely catching up with me

The sun rises and there I lay watching it rays
numbed, unwanted, determined and yet focused
such days I just wish for a lover's touch
I long for that unending lullaby uncorrupt

Sometimes the silence in the pain cascades
It trickles in droplets settling on the morning dew
and I wish to follow its pace, lay in the calm want
be carefree and unrestrained from emotions

I wish I could feel the rhythm of another heart
declare the green sheen of the unfolding leaves
as we lay counting the stars and making starts
laughing aimlessly as the joy surfaces unearthed

But all I see is the hurt of what love bears
the ones who held my soul close are strangers
unable to feel my innate palpable rhythms
fading on and on to a distanced and unmerged shore

The Original Sin: Rhyming Haiku!

Haiku
should never rhyme:
it’s a crime!
―Michael R. Burch

The herons stand,
sentry-like, at attention ...
rigid observers of some unknown command.
―Michael R. Burch

Late
fall;
all
the golden leaves turn black underfoot:
soot
―Michael R. Burch

Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

A snake in the grass
lies, hissing
"Trespass!"
―Michael R. Burch

Honeysuckle
blesses my knuckle
with affectionate dew
―Michael R. Burch

My nose nuzzles
honeysuckle’s
sweet nothings
―Michael R. Burch

The day’s eyes were blue
until you appeared
and they wept at your beauty.
―Michael R. Burch

The moon in decline
like my lover’s heart
lies far beyond mine
―Michael R. Burch

My mother’s eyes
acknowledging my imperfection:
dejection
―Michael R. Burch

The sun sets
the moon fails to rise
we avoid each other’s eyes
―Michael R. Burch

brief leaf flung awry ~
bright butterfly, goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

leaf flutters in flight ~
bright, O and endeavoring butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

The girl with the pallid lips
lipsticks
into something more comfortable
―Michael R. Burch

I am a traveler
going nowhere,
but my how the gawking bystanders stare!
―Michael R. Burch



Here's a poem that's composed of haiku-like stanzas:

Haiku Sequence: The Seasons
by Michael R. Burch

Lift up your head
dandelion,
hear spring roar!

How will you tidy your hair
this near
summer?

Leave to each still night
your lightest affliction,
dandruff.

Soon you will free yourself:
one shake
of your white mane.

Now there are worlds
into which you appear
and disappear

seemingly at will
but invariably blown
wildly, then still.

Gasp at the bright chill
glower
of winter.

Icicles splinter;
sleep still an hour,
till, resurrected in power,

you lift up your head,
dandelion.
Hear spring roar!



Unrhymed Original Haiku and Tanka
by Michael R. Burch

These are original haiku and tanka written by Michael R. Burch, along with haiku-like and tanka-like poems inspired by the forms but not necessarily abiding by all the rules.

Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
―Michael R. Burch

one pillow ...
our dreams
merge
―Michael R. Burch



Iffy Coronavirus Haiku

yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #1
by Michael R. Burch

plagued by the Plague
i plague the goldfish
with my verse

yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #2
by Michael R. Burch

sunflowers
hang their heads
embarrassed by their coronas

I wrote this poem after having a sunflower arrangement delivered to my mother, who is in an assisted living center and can’t have visitors due to the coronavirus pandemic. I have been informed the poem breaks haiku rules about personification, etc.

Homework (yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #3)
by Michael R. Burch

Dim bulb overhead,
my silent companion:
still imitating the noonday sun?

New World Order (last in a series and perhaps a species)
by Michael R. Burch

The days of the dandelions dawn ...
soon man will be gone:
fertilizer.



Variations on Fall

Farewells like
falling
leaves,
so many sad goodbyes.
―Michael R. Burch

Falling leaves
brittle hearts
whisper farewells
―Michael R. Burch

Autumn leaves
soft farewells
falling ...
falling ...
falling ...
―Michael R. Burch

Autumn leaves
Fall’s farewells
Whispered goodbyes
―Michael R. Burch



Variations on the Seasons
by Michael R. Burch

Mother earth
prepares her nurseries:
spring greening

The trees become
modest,
coy behind fans



Wobbly fawns
have become the fleetest athletes:
summer



Dry leaves
scuttle like *****:
autumn

*

The sky
shivers:
snowfall

each
translucent flake
lighter than eiderdown

the entire town entombed
but not in gloom,
bedazzled.



Variations on Night

Night,
ice and darkness
conspire against human warmth
―Michael R. Burch

Night and the Stars
conspire against me:
Immensity
―Michael R. Burch

in the ice-cold cathedral
prayer candles ablaze
flicker warmthlessly
―Michael R. Burch



Variations on the Arts
by Michael R. Burch

Paint peeling:
the novel's
novelty wears off ...

The autumn marigold's
former glory:
allegory.

Human arias?
The nightingale frowns, perplexed.
Tone deaf!

Where do cynics
finally retire?
Satire.

All the world’s
a stage
unless it’s a cage.

To write an epigram,
cram.
If you lack wit, scram.

Haiku
should never rhyme:
it’s a crime!

Video
dumped the **** tube
for YouTube.

Anyone
can rap:
just write rhythmic crap!

Variations on Lingerie
by Michael R. Burch

Were you just a delusion?
The black negligee you left
now merest illusion.

The clothesline
quivers,
ripe with unmentionables.

The clothesline quivers:
wind,
or ghosts?



Variations on Love and Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch

Wise old owls
stare myopically at the moon,
hooting as the hart escapes.

Myopic moon-hooting owls
hoot as the hart escapes

The myopic owl,
moon-intent, scowls;
my rabbit heart thunders ...
Peace, wise fowl!



Original Tanka

All the wild energies
of electric youth
captured in the monochromes
of an ancient photobooth
like zigzagging lightning.
―Michael R. Burch

The plums were sweet,
icy and delicious.
To eat them all
was perhaps malicious.
But I vastly prefer your kisses!
―Michael R. Burch

A child waving ...
The train groans slowly away ...
Loneliness ...
Somewhere in the distance gusts
scatter the stray unharvested hay ...
―Michael R. Burch

How vaguely I knew you
however I held you close ...
your heart’s muffled thunder,
your breath the wind―
rising and dying.
―Michael R. Burch



Miscellanea

Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.

sheer green stockings
queer green beer
St. Patrick's Day!
―Michael R. Burch

cicadas chirping everywhere
singing to beat the band―
surround sound
―Michael R. Burch

Regal, upright,
clad in royal purple:
Zinnia
―Michael R. Burch

Love is a surreal sweetness
in a world where trampled grapes
become wine.
―Michael R. Burch

although meant for market
a pail full of strawberries
invites indulgence
―Michael R. Burch

late November;
skeptics scoff
but the geese no longer migrate
―Michael R. Burch

as the butterfly hunts nectar
the generous iris
continues to bloom
―Michael R. Burch



Haiku Translations of the Oriental Masters

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Come, investigate loneliness!
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning
shatters the darkness―
the night heron's shriek
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

One apple, alone
in the abandoned orchard
reddens for winter
― Patrick Blanche, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is by a French poet; it illustrates how the poetry of Oriental masters like Basho has influenced poets around the world.



I remove my beautiful kimono:
its varied braids
surround and entwine my body
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This day of chrysanthemums
I shake and comb my wet hair,
as their petals shed rain
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This sheer kimono—
how the moon peers through
to my naked skin!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

These festive flowery robes—
though quickly undressed,
how their colored cords still continue to cling!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Chrysanthemum petals
reveal their pale curves
shyly to the moon.
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Loneliness —
reading the Bible
as the rain deflowers cherry blossoms.
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

How deep this valley,
how elevated the butterfly's flight!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

How lowly this valley,
how lofty the butterfly's flight!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Echoes from the hills—
the mountain cuckoo sings as it will,
trill upon trill
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



This darkening autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he continue?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pausing between clouds
the moon rests
in the eyes of its beholders
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first chill rain:
poor monkey, you too could use
a woven cape of straw
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Like a heavy fragrance
snow-flakes settle:
lilies on the rocks
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill,
solemn evangelist
of loneliness
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkening,
the voices of the wild ducks:
my mysterious companions!
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Will we meet again?
Here at your flowering grave:
two white butterflies
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Fever-felled mid-path
my dreams resurrect, to trek
into a hollow land
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Too ill to travel,
now only my autumn dreams
survey these withering fields
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch; this has been called Basho's death poem

These brown summer grasses?
The only remains
of "invincible" warriors...
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Graven images of long-departed gods,
dry spiritless leaves:
companions of the temple porch
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

See: whose surviving sons
visit the ancestral graves
white-bearded, with trembling canes?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An empty road
lonelier than abandonment:
this autumn evening
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring has come:
the nameless hill
lies shrouded in mist
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This world?
Moonlit dew
flicked from a crane's bill.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen (1200-1253) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seventy-one?
How long
can a dewdrop last?
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading grass-blades
die before dawn;
may an untimely wind not hasten their departure!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading blades of grass
have so little time to shine before dawn;
let the autumn wind not rush too quickly through the field!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outside my window the plums, blossoming,
within their curled buds, contain the spring;
the moon is reflected in the cup-like whorls
of the lovely flowers I gather and twirl.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



The Oldest Haiku

These are my translations of some of the oldest Japanese waka, which evolved into poetic forms such as tanka, renga and haiku over time. My translations are excerpts from the Kojiki (the "Record of Ancient Matters"), a book composed around 711-712 A.D. by the historian and poet Ō no Yasumaro. The Kojiki relates Japan’s mythological beginnings and the history of its imperial line. Like Virgil's Aeneid, the Kojiki seeks to legitimize rulers by recounting their roots. These are lines from one of the oldest Japanese poems, found in the oldest Japanese book:

While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here's another excerpt, with a humorous twist, from the Kojiki:

Hush, cawing crows; what rackets you make!
Heaven's indignant messengers,
you remind me of wordsmiths!
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here's another, this one a poem of love and longing:

Onyx, this gem-black night.
Downcast, I await your return
like the rising sun, unrivaled in splendor.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



More Haiku by Various Poets

Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Our world of dew
is a world of dew indeed;
and yet, and yet...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, brilliant moon
can it be true that even you
must rush off, like us, tardy?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Standing unsteadily,
I am the scarecrow’s
skinny surrogate
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn wind ...
She always wanted to pluck
the reddest roses
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Issa wrote the haiku above after the death of his daughter Sato with the note: “Sato, girl, 35th day, at the grave.”



The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clinging
to the plum tree:
one blossom's worth of warmth
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One leaf falls, enlightenment!
Another leaf falls,
swept away by the wind ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This has been called Ransetsu’s “death poem.” In The Classic Tradition of Haiku, Faubion Bowers says in a footnote to this haiku: “Just as ‘blossom’, when not modified, means ‘cherry flower’ in haiku, ‘one leaf’ is code for ‘kiri’. Kiri ... is the Pawlonia ... The leaves drop throughout the year. They shrivel, turn yellow, and yield to gravity. Their falling symbolizes loneliness and connotes the past. The large purple flowers ... are deeply associated with haiku because the three prongs hold 5, 7 and 5 buds ... ‘Totsu’ is an exclamation supposedly uttered when a Zen student achieves enlightenment. The sound also imitates the dry crackle the pawlonia leaf makes as it scratches the ground upon falling.”



Disdaining grass,
the firefly nibbles nettles—
this is who I am.
—Takarai Kikaku (1661-1707), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A simple man,
content to breakfast with the morning glories—
this is who I am.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is Basho’s response to the Takarai Kikaku haiku above

The morning glories, alas,
also turned out
not to embrace me
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories bloom,
mending chinks
in the old fence
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories,
however poorly painted,
still engage us
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I too
have been accused
of morning glory gazing ...
—original haiku by by Michael R. Burch

Taming the rage
of an unrelenting sun—
autumn breeze.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sun sets,
relentlessly red,
yet autumn’s in the wind.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn draws near,
so too our hearts
in this small tea room.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing happened!
Yesterday simply vanished
like the blowfish soup.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The surging sea crests around Sado ...
and above her?
An ocean of stars.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Revered figure!
I bow low
to the rabbit-eared Iris.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, butterfly,
it’s late
and we’ve a long way to go!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing in the cry
of the cicadas
suggests they know they soon must die.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dabbed with morning dew
and splashed with mud,
the melon looks wonderfully cool.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cold white azalea—
a lone nun
in her thatched straw hut.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glimpsed on this high mountain trail,
delighting my heart—
wild violets
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bee emerging
from deep within the peony’s hairy recesses
flies off heavily, sated
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A crow has settled
on a naked branch—
autumn nightfall
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Except for a woodpecker
tapping at a post,
the house is silent.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That dying cricket,
how he goes on about his life!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Like a glorious shrine—
on these green, budding leaves,
the sun’s intense radiance.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Yosa Buson haiku translations

A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated...
― Yosa Buson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

On the temple’s great bronze gong
a butterfly
snoozes.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hard to describe:
this light sensation of being pinched
by a butterfly!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not to worry spiders,
I clean house ... sparingly.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Among the fallen leaves,
an elderly frog.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In an ancient well
fish leap for mosquitoes,
a dark sound.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flowers with thorns
remind me of my hometown ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reaching the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Picking autumn plums
my wrinkled hands
once again grow fragrant
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A silk robe, casually discarded,
exudes fragrance
into the darkening evening
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Whose delicate clothes
still decorate the clothesline?
Late autumn wind.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An evening breeze:
water lapping the heron’s legs.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

gills puffing,
a hooked fish:
the patient
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The stirred morning air
ruffles the hair
of a caterpillar.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Intruder!
This white plum tree
was once outside our fence!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tender grass
forgetful of its roots
the willow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I believe the poem above can be taken as commentary on ungrateful children. It reminds me of Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays."―MRB

Since I'm left here alone,
I'll make friends with the moon.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hood-wearer
in his self-created darkness
misses the harvest moon
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

White blossoms of the pear tree―
a young woman reading his moonlit letter
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The pear tree flowers whitely:
a young woman reading his letter
by moonlight
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On adjacent branches
the plum tree blossoms
bloom petal by petal―love!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A misty spring moon ...
I entice a woman
to pay it our respects
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Courtesans
purchasing kimonos:
plum trees blossoming
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring sea
rocks all day long:
rising and falling, ebbing and flowing ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the whale
  dives
its tail gets taller!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

While tilling the field
the motionless cloud
vanished.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even lonelier than last year:
this autumn evening.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My thoughts return to my Mother and Father:
late autumn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Late autumn:
my thoughts return to my Mother and Father
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This roaring winter wind:
the cataract grates on its rocks.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

While snow lingers
in creases and recesses:
flowers of the plum
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plowing,
not a single bird sings
in the mountain's shadow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the lingering heat
of an abandoned cowbarn
only the sound of the mosquitoes is dark.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The red plum's fallen petals
seem to ignite horse dung.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dawn!
The brilliant sun illuminates
sardine heads.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The abandoned willow shines
between bright rains
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dew-damp grass:
the setting sun’s tears
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dew-damp grass
weeps silently
in the setting sun
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

White plum blossoms―
though the hour grows late,
a glimpse of dawn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is believed to be Buson's jisei (death poem) and he is said to have died before dawn.

Lately the nights
dawn
plum-blossom white.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is a second interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem).

In the deepening night
I saw by the light
of the white plum blossoms
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is a third interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem).

Our life here on earth:
to what shall we compare it?
Perhaps to a rowboat
departing at daybreak,
leaving no trace of us in its wake?
—Takaha Shugyo or Yosa Buson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



I thought I felt a dewdrop
plop
on me as I lay in bed!
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

We cannot see the moon
and yet the waves still rise
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first morning of autumn:
the mirror I investigate
reflects my father’s face
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Wild geese pass
leaving the emptiness of heaven
revealed
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Inside the cracked shell
of a walnut:
one empty room.
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Bring me an icicle
sparkling with the stars
of the deep north
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Seen from the skyscraper
the trees' fresh greenery:
parsley sprigs
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Are the geese flying south?
The candle continues to flicker ...
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Still clad in its clown's costume—
the dead ladybird.
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A single tree,
a heart carved into its trunk,
blossoms prematurely
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Silently observing
the bottomless mountain lake:
water lilies
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes
flapping ceaselessly
test the sky's upper limits
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Falling snowflakes'
glitter
tinsels the sea
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Blizzards here on earth,
blizzards of stars
in the sky
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Completely encircled
in emerald:
the glittering swamp!
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The new calendar!:
as if tomorrow
is assured...
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because morning glories
hold my well-bucket hostage
I go begging for water
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Spring
stirs the clouds
in the sky's teabowl
― Kikusha-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight I saw
how the peony crumples
in the fire's embers
― Katoh Shuhson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

It fills me with anger,
this moon; it fills me
and makes me whole
― Takeshita Shizunojo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

War
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
― Watanabe Hakusen, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because he is slow to wrath,
I tackle him, then wring his neck
in the long grass
― Shimazu Ryoh, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pale mountain sky:
cherry petals play
as they tumble earthward
― Kusama Tokihiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The frozen moon,
the frozen lake:
two oval mirrors reflecting each other.
― Hashimoto Takako, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The bitter winter wind
ends here
with the frozen sea
― Ikenishi Gonsui, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, bitter winter wind,
why bellow so
when there's no leaves to fell?
― Natsume Sôseki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter waves
roil
their own shadows
― Tominaga Fûsei, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

No sky,
no land:
just snow eternally falling...
― Kajiwara Hashin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Along with spring leaves
my child's teeth
take root, blossom
― Nakamura Kusatao, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Stillness:
a single chestnut leaf glides
on brilliant water
― Ryuin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As thunder recedes
a lone tree stands illuminated in sunlight:
applauded by cicadas
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The snake slipped away
but his eyes, having held mine,
still stare in the grass
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Girls gather sprouts of rice:
reflections of the water flicker
on the backs of their hats
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Murmurs follow the hay cart
this blossoming summer day
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The wet nurse
paused to consider a bucket of sea urchins
then walked away
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

May I be with my mother
wearing her summer kimono
by the morning window
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The hands of a woman exist
to remove the insides of the spring cuttlefish
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The moon
hovering above the snow-capped mountains
rained down hailstones
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly:
a puff of white snow
cresting mountains
― Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring snow
cascades over fences
in white waves
― Suju Takano, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Tanka and Waka translations:

If fields of autumn flowers
can shed their blossoms, shameless,
why can’t I also frolic here —
as fearless, and as blameless?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Submit to you —
is that what you advise?
The way the ripples do
whenever ill winds arise?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Watching wan moonlight
illuminate trees,
my heart also brims,
overflowing with autumn.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I had thought to pluck
the flower of forgetfulness
only to find it
already blossoming in his heart.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

That which men call "love" —
is it not merely the chain
preventing our escape
from this world of pain?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Once-colorful flowers faded,
while in my drab cell
life’s impulse also abated
as the long rains fell.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I set off at the shore
of the seaside of Tago,
where I saw the high, illuminated peak
of Fuji―white, aglow―
through flakes of drifting downy snow.
― Akahito Yamabe, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


Haiku Translations

As the monks sip their morning tea,
chrysanthemums quietly blossom.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fragrance of plum blossoms
on a foggy path:
the sun rising.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkens ...
yet still faintly white
the wild duck protests.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pear tree blossoms
whitened by moonlight:
a young woman reading a letter.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outlined in the moonlight ...
who is that standing
among the pear trees?
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your coolness:
the sound of the bell
departing the bell.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the moon flies west
the flowers' shadows
creep eastward.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By such pale moonlight
even the wisteria's fragrance
seems distant.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Leaves
like crows’ shadows
flirt with a lonely moon.
Kaga no Chiyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let me die
covered with flowers
and never again wake to this earthly dream!
—Ochi Etsujin, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To reveal how your heart flowers,
sway like the summer grove.
—Tagami Kikusha-Ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the thicket's shade
a solitary woman sings the rice-planting song.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware of these degenerate times,
cherry blossoms abound!
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These silent summer nights
even the stars
seem to whisper.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The enormous firefly
weaves its way, this way and that,
as it passes by.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Composed like the Thinker, he sits
contemplating the mountains:
the sagacious frog!
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A fallen blossom
returning to its bough?
No, a butterfly!
Arakida Moritake, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminated by the harvest moon
smoke is caught creeping
across the water ...
Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fanning its tail flamboyantly
with every excuse of a breeze,
the peacock!
Masaoki Shiki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Waves row through the mists
of the endless sea.
Masaoki Shiki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I hurl a firefly into the darkness
and sense the enormity of night.
—Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As girls gather rice sprouts
reflections of the rain ripple
on the backs of their hats.
—Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: haiku, tanka, oriental, masters, translation, Japanese, nature, seasons, Basho, Buson, Issa, waka, tanka, mrbhaiku

"Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry!
                 It is, — it is my husband's voice!
             Oh hasten, to his succour fly,
                 No more hast thou, dear friend, a choice.
             He calls on thee, perhaps his foes
                 Environ him on all sides round,
            That wail, — it means death's final throes!
                 Why standest thou, as magic-bound?


             "Is this a time for thought, — oh gird
               Thy bright sword on, and take thy bow!
           He heeds not, hears not any word,
               Evil hangs over us, I know!
           Swift in decision, prompt in deed,
               Brave unto rashness, can this be,
           The man to whom all looked at need?
               Is it my brother that I see!


           "Oh no, and I must run alone,
               For further here I cannot stay;
           Art thou transformed to blind dumb stone!
               Wherefore this impious, strange delay!
           That cry, — that cry, — it seems to ring
               Still in my ears, — I cannot bear
           Suspense; if help we fail to bring
               His death at least we both can share"


          "Oh calm thyself, Videhan Queen,
               No cause is there for any fear,
           Hast thou his prowess never seen?
               Wipe off for shame that dastard tear!
           What being of demonian birth
               Could ever brave his mighty arm?
           Is there a creature on earth
               That dares to work our hero harm?


           "The lion and the grisly bear
               Cower when they see his royal look,
           Sun-staring eagles of the air
               His glance of anger cannot brook,
           Pythons and cobras at his tread
               To their most secret coverts glide,
           Bowed to the dust each serpent head
               ***** before in hooded pride.


           "Rakshasas, Danavs, demons, ghosts,
               Acknowledge in their hearts his might,
           And slink to their remotest coasts,
               In terror at his very sight.
           Evil to him! Oh fear it not,
               Whatever foes against him rise!
           Banish for aye the foolish thought,
               And be thyself, — bold, great, and wise.


           "He call for help! Canst thou believe
               He like a child would shriek for aid
           Or pray for respite or reprieve —
               Not of such metal is he made!
           Delusive was that piercing cry, —
               Some trick of magic by the foe;
           He has a work, — he cannot die,
               Beseech me not from hence to go.


           For here beside thee, as a guard
               'Twas he commanded me to stay,
           And dangers with my life to ward
               If they should come across thy way.
           Send me not hence, for in this wood
               Bands scattered of the giants lurk,
           Who on their wrongs and vengeance brood,
               And wait the hour their will to work."


           "Oh shame! and canst thou make my weal
               A plea for lingering! Now I know
           What thou art, Lakshman! And I feel
               Far better were an open foe.
           Art thou a coward? I have seen
               Thy bearing in the battle-fray
           Where flew the death-fraught arrows keen,
               Else had I judged thee so today.


           "But then thy leader stood beside!
               Dazzles the cloud when shines the sun,
           Reft of his radiance, see it glide
               A shapeless mass of vapours dun;
           So of thy courage, — or if not,
               The matter is far darker dyed,
           What makes thee loth to leave this spot?
               Is there a motive thou wouldst hide?


           "He perishes — well, let him die!
               His wife henceforth shall be mine own!
           Can that thought deep imbedded lie
               Within thy heart's most secret zone!
           Search well and see! one brother takes
               His kingdom, — one would take his wife!
           A fair partition! — But it makes
               Me shudder, and abhor my life.


           "Art thou in secret league with those
               Who from his hope the kingdom rent?
           A spy from his ignoble foes
               To track him in his banishment?
           And wouldst thou at his death rejoice?
               I know thou wouldst, or sure ere now
           When first thou heardst that well known voice
               Thou shouldst have run to aid, I trow.


           "Learn this, — whatever comes may come,
               But I shall not survive my Love,
           Of all my thoughts here is the sum!
            Witness it gods in heaven above.
         If fire can burn, or water drown,
             I follow him: — choose what thou wilt
         Truth with its everlasting crown,
             Or falsehood, treachery, and guilt.


         "Remain here with a vain pretence
             Of shielding me from wrong and shame,
         Or go and die in his defence
             And leave behind a noble name.
         Choose what thou wilt, — I urge no more,
             My pathway lies before me clear,
         I did not know thy mind before,
             I know thee now, — and have no fear."


         She said and proudly from him turned, —
             Was this the gentle Sita? No.
         Flames from her eyes shot forth and burned,
             The tears therein had ceased to flow.
         "Hear me, O Queen, ere I depart,
             No longer can I bear thy words,
         They lacerate my inmost heart
             And torture me, like poisoned swords.


         "Have I deserved this at thine hand?
             Of lifelong loyalty and truth
         Is this the meed? I understand
             Thy feelings, Sita, and in sooth
         I blame thee not, — but thou mightst be
             Less rash in judgement, Look! I go,
         Little I care what comes to me
             Wert thou but safe, — God keep thee so!


         "In going hence I disregard
             The plainest orders of my chief,
         A deed for me, — a soldier, — hard
             And deeply painful, but thy grief
         And language, wild and wrong, allow
             No other course. Mine be the crime,
         And mine alone. — but oh, do thou
             Think better of me from this time.


         "Here with an arrow, lo, I trace
             A magic circle ere I leave,
         No evil thing within this space
             May come to harm thee or to grieve.
         Step not, for aught, across the line,
             Whatever thou mayst see or hear,
         So shalt thou balk the bad design
             Of every enemy I fear.


         "And now farewell! What thou hast said,
             Though it has broken quite my heart,
         So that I wish I were dead —
             I would before, O Queen, we part,
         Freely forgive, for well I know
             That grief and fear have made thee wild,
         We part as friends, — is it not so?"
             And speaking thus he sadly smiled.


         "And oh ye sylvan gods that dwell
             Among these dim and sombre shades,
         Whose voices in the breezes swell
             And blend with noises of cascades,
         Watch over Sita, whom alone
             I leave, and keep her safe fr

The dead brown of winter gives rise to yellow cups in lacey dress,
lifting their bowed heads to take in the golden days of spring.
Mornings heralded by melodic songs calling out for spring partners
in trees filled with cascades of color and buds waiting to open.

The snow and blackness has lifted and life has begun once more.
Forgiveness has found a foothold in this crushed heart.
Like a doctor sewing wounds and stopping the drain of lifeblood,
I have found a way to heal and make it back to life once again.

She’s underhand throwing words with her mouth
The boy leans in past natural borders, to study the agenda in her eyes
He is built like a bent paperclip,
with bottlebrush forelocks, a barracuda jaw.

Between her bare legs, she gently squeezes
a cup of iced hibiscus tea.
She reaches down and lifting it to her lips,
I feel mine part, in thirsting sympathy…

Her upper thighs blush wet with condensation as
The boys eager fingers click on her knee,
like ice cubes in her sweating berry hibiscus,
floral melt cascades down her throat.

Fairy breath lands on my shoulders - my silk overcoat
It makes me dissolve with memory
of my beloved tea picker,
a cocoa skinned Sudanese girl
traveling the road to market in Al-Junaynah,
swaying in the truck bed under a warm sun,
dreaming of red karkadeh flowers
and a paper clip boy.

On a new conquest, I embark
Travel light
I found the temple in the dark
Wet, yet warm
Beautiful stems
Curl around my arm
Deeper I go
The water does flow
I feel it in the walls
I hear all of your calls
Carrying on, through the dark damp walls
I found the spot, The spot that has eluded all
A trophy in the form of a waterfall
Cascades over me.

It's a waterfall.
You know, the kind that cascades hard like
the white water rafting trips' featured waves
and just when you think they've calmed,
they're back even stronger.

They said they had their suspicions.
You've been more flamboyant.
You don't want to dress like your gender.
Stereotype, stereotype, stereotype.

But to be accused,
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US
To be yelled at,
YOU THOUGHT WE WERE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU THEN?
To wish you were anywhere else but here...
Somewhere over the rainbow...

But I'll never be over the rainbow.
Contrary to her belief,
it's not a phase or something I'll grow out of.
It's genetic.
Contrary to his thinking,
it's not helping
when all my communication with
others is severed.

I'm gay.
There, I admit it.

It's not like I'm gonna scream it from the rooftops, and no,
it's not the reason that I really like bowties and short hair.

Can't you just
accept me?

The final blow
is when your family
decides you're too good
for that type of lifestyle.

WHAT MORE CAN I DO TO IMPRESS YOU?
I've tried my whole life to make you proud.

I guess this just goes to show
that being myself
will never be enough.

So leave me to my cascades and wet cheeks in bed-why do you care-
because we all know you're wishing I'm something I'm not.
Someone I'm not.

Disowning me
would have been the
far superior alternative
to the disappointment.

"Our youngest daughter is just like her father, but looks like her mother. And our oldest daughter? She looks like her father, but acts like her mother. Well...she did."

The cascades of rain fall silently outside my window.
The lights are off, music is playing, and it is peaceful.
I think back to the time I felt true peace.
When my mind was silent and my heart was full.

I believe I was a small child, around 5.
My grandmother was sewing in the little room at the back of the house.
I was coloring and writing stories of the future I wished to behold.
I had no further inclinations that she might fall into a deep sleep and never wake up.

I believed she was immortal because she never changed.
Though she wasn't societies idea of pretty, I found her captivatingly beautiful.
Her light blonde hair which I too possessed, was a gift only we shared.
Her luminescent blue eyes were the same for me as well.

We watched tales of princesses and their matching princes.
We performed plays that I wrote.
We sang along to Elvis and Sinatra.
We shared tales of school and her early life.

I wanted to live like that forever.
Always together and smiling.
Laughing and playing.
Loving each day as it was given to us.

I will never forget those days blanketed in warm sunshine, especially in the cascades of rain.

.h'america.... the last theological playground of... whatever the mind left behind in the decrepit bulwark that's europe... oh... and those mid-western died-hard hitchcock platinum-blondes in a-waiting... my typo pristine dutch-girls-go-to-church mantra... otherwise? no b'ooh'y'ah! chugger-chugger-chugger-chuck-cherry-choppy-chops-you-*******-cuc­­k-chuckie! quasi-whitman wannabe... billy was a butcher... a thematic long lost gun... billy was a butcher... and all the ripe choppers of pork... gave us a belief in snow; and what some heaved with a falling-of-a-star of dis-.belief: i too was bound to glorification of: what was expected to be known! and the subsequent: wow! i have met only the most limited of men... i have therefore met all men... the "all" men of this rubric of a year, a decade... all that's bygone of a yawn; swear it sn't so! a so! that's not be be sown! i am here too: upon the whim of expectation... merely... waiting... a man comes to be born come his 30s... his 40s? his nostalgia "moment"... former known name of: Jack Lil Lick 'Em Boots... and the crescendo of pauper's black lining of the Wall St. "better oiled"... scalp the ******! and send him unto the rabbi's true blessing... in the cusp of the scalp of the kippah!  and now... you take... your anglo-spreschen-tangle... into the salt-wounds of your h'america! first born: young... i don't like your revision... looking toward Europe with a hope for a sensibility... this pseudo deutsche: pseudo dutch, anglo-; this is no loss of the French or the Slav! this is our celebration! does one have an irish phrasing in uns to be at in it or one? beyond this grip boyo bound glue? this clerical spare of the otherwise leftover skivvy? we have made barons of these minutes.... as if we were to be kings of the coming years... and how we didn't become gods of the atoms... and the men of the suns and planets... that is our... most worthwhile conundrum in a da pacem domine bound; you're going to Beirut on me... or something?!

in my haitus away from this canvas:
naive me thought: perhaps a surge...
again proven wrong -
albeit not disappointed -
so i had to look elsewhere -

i had to look for a clarity of diction...
i had to move away from
the western lands and their:
death of god and their death by metaphysics...

even in this barren english...
i could not figure out:
why are these people,
apologetics from the central leftists...
these liberals...
ditto: i will butcher this name...
i will butcher the pronunciation
of this word...

if there are "questions" regarding
what's being phonetically encoded...
so much for me "learning to code"...
i too once wrote a html encoding...
with all the < and < and > toys...
spacing... {[( gradations... etc.,

i had to look east, after a while writing
schlechtdeutschegrammatik...
bad german grammar...
again: it's posthumous "Latin"...
it might be...
bad grammar german...
or german bad grammar...
deutscheschlechtgrammatik...

spelling is the mathematical equivalent
of... arithmetic...
but grammar? you need a ping-pong
table...
you need something cymru-esque...
a scandinavian-esque bilingual cushioning...

english alone will not solve the matter...
it's not french, it's not german,
it's certainly not spanish...
spanish and how post-colonialism was
settled with a post-racial attitudes of
Brazil...
england has taken too much time
looking up and out of the h'american
*******...
no grand satan 'ere...
no silk road bazar of fruits exotica from...
Teheran...
something more... subtle...

i had to go back to the "tsar"...
and the цэркйэв: 'cerkiew'...
and there i was amused how...
well apparently...
there are a lot of words
that do use the sz'cz...
enough... to deviate from
the Latin bollocking represented via
шч = щ....

that's perfectly logical...
i'm done with "perfectly logical"
if it exists outside of the realm of
orthography...

szczypta soli - pinch of salt...
in russian...
щ... that's a bit of a "question"...
yes, yes it is complicated...

szczery / szczera (he's honest /
she's honest)...
szczerość (honesty)...

no it's not... you german fickle-wit!
you forget the ы!

ah! well then... щыптa....
**** me... disorientating...
they could do all that with greek and glagolitic...
but they still had to keep...
latin: roman: holy roman empire: GERMAN...
lowercase lettering...
akin to a... e... c doesn't count...
since that's a greek cedilla "missing"...
ç... or... sigma... ς -
otherwise known in english as that S
after the apostrophe...
when something is called being:
the possessive article...
a (indefinite) the (definite) - some -ism to mind?!
no... but 's is... a bit like the SS...
in greek...
all in lower case: stephen's and...
στεφηνς...
σtephenς: that very much desired: ha!
ridiculous gag... the "much desired"
alternative to an apostrophe S ('s)...

it's Stephen's! it's Stephen's!
it's Sylvester's!
three articles in english:
the indefinite article (a)...
the definite article (the)...
and the possessive article ('s) - apostrophe S...
eS eS!

russian accents...
ъ, ы, ь...

but i only know of one "hard sign" example...
and that disqualifies the J ever needing a lower-case
"dot"... ȷ... namely... зъ: ż... alternatively
also: rz... and ж...
żuk! beetle! somehow the caron makes it...

szczyt! zenith!
щыт!

- and since i'm no longer writing:
i'd be writing if i were monolingual...
or... if i was animated by
the sort of Knausgardian bilingualism
of chop of swede: marker norgie...
but... i'm painting...

i forgot how to write when i could
see "synonyms" of sounds...
entombed in two different phonetic
encodings, namely elevated latin
and "pan-greek": cyrillic...

the variations between:

й and ы...
i.e. via е - "ye"
ё - "yo" (there's an umlaut in russian?!)
"у" - yew and you...
the gamma subscript...
ю - "yu"...
and... я - "ya"...

with regards to this rubric...
i am in the middle...
i can see a distinction between
a "y" (whine why and no I)...
hardly a jotted anecdote...
and yes... the closest the russians
ever come to Cracow is with ы
to a western slavic y...
ask me: toй - ask me: toȷ...
who needs a dot above the J
in the lower-case... if...
if... there's no absolute need for it to
be there: unlike some greenwich mean time
focus?
it ȷust so happens that...
the better clasp of the equator is
married to Greenwich: London...

dr. who time lords:
bellybuttons of the world: the english are...
again: i have to remind myself...
ı am not wrıtıng... ı am... paıntıng...

1(one), l(el)... I and ı(ıota)...
i guess an apostrophe would suffice...
ıf it's not an "ı"...
ı'ota... ı: oath...
sure as fıgurative "****" it's not...

ı must wrıte some more examples
in russıan...
to get me off me mark into
some "wax lyrıcal"...
ıslander mentalıty of the hen'glısch...

see how "the dot" can appear...
and disappear, as one see fıt?
and ıt makes: no little bıt of...
"dıfference"?!

i need to sleep on thıs "exercise"...
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold
dot-pop-up...
dot-fold...

w­­ıll eyes gets it?
hardly...

the rest of these cosmopolitan *******
focused on gwaffiti awt...
which is welsh for: GRA GRA...
when was the last time you heard
an englishman trill an R?
ı can't remember...
give me a night to soak up the pickling
juıces... i can't remember the last time
i heard an homest trIll eıther!
pauper me...

it's probably because of the welsh:
GWA GWA! gwadleıth cowonew...
or coroner row row row a rombat into a rue:
or a woo...
rhyme: contorts...
shapes and disappearing: oopses...
a whole multıtude of 'em...
come like the tıde...
leave... lıke a tilde... quası N:
it's a... H is a zeus...
and J is a Ha Ha Ha wrap-up rap of
laughter: in spanısh: of course...

i don't wrıte... ı paint...

impromptu interludes, quickened:
i'm a marriage of two continents...
and one island...
east of moscow...
asia... west of warsaw and...
these gloomy island pits of
idiosyncracy... never quiet the icelandic
answer to norway...
or greenland's answer to denmark...
but an island... nonetheless...

- to hell witth cascading linear cascades
of narrative: i'm blind to the optics
of "the narrative" in the paragraph
format...

i will look back east...
i will look at the russian script...
i will look at it as a time in ******
history equivalent to:
why didn't you just think of it as Greek?
but "my people" didn't...
and i'm not exactly a "why / didn't"...
i'm part of the excavation machinery...
i come with what was served...
i will leave without
leverage...

and here is the russian icon translated
from the Babel...
the following are orthodox letters
shared by one and all
to the western lands...

а б в г д e з и й
к л м н o п р c т
у ф

a b v g d e z i j
k l m n o p r s t u
f

now we leave: łen łill that be?
we should all somehow know...
to łork out a When a Where
(notably with the "h" being but a surd)...

mother how should i further this?
herbata
hasło (ha-s-woe)
hołd (**-**-w'd)

to no other: otherwise only in scotland:
the loch of tipsy work...
albeit: orthographic distinction...
хęć - a whim a desire...
a loch is no: cheat of a lake...
latching onto the otherwise boredom caron
exposed...

дух (ghost) with a душa (soul)...

else there's c dissociated from the s...
and more so with a kappa kaput...
the drumstick slick on a wet snare of: tss...
ц - almost...
then morphing into a ць -
yet in my version: no so silent...
ćma: moth...
цmokaць / cmokać: to click with the tongue...
to kiss smackingly -
to ingest food via a smoczek...
a smoчek - a smoček... the baby soother...

this is my third day having to return to
this canvas...

first thing's first:
palatization (palatißation)
is not... a name of german crusader song:
palästinalied...

this is one of the main reasons why
i can't imagine myself as being able:
to write a novel -
i can't bear this birth of words into
this pseudo-Kandinsky -
it would be much easier with painting
something for a year -
than writing for a year -
the same thing, over and over again...

if i write a "poem" or, rather, a poo'em...
i expect the concept of
ensō: a circle has to be drawn with
a single uninhibited stroke...
when the body is set free and the body
merely complies...

comparison... if one were to draw
a most pristine ensō...
one would never achieve an ouroboros
depiction... it's quiet impossible
to use one volume of ink
attached to a stroke to complete
a circle... let alone a depiction
of an ouroboros...
what starts off as concrete soon...
fades away... thins out...
until there is so little ink left
on the brush that individual hairs
of the brush start appearing...

a pristine depiction of life...
but never the hardline ouroboros
depiction: this cerberus of reincarnation:
i never would have believed in it -
given that: there would have to be
a limited number of souls...
the thought that i might be introspective
enough as to be one of these: "elites"...
and the rest... were "n.p.c." drones...
zombie-esque drifters...
that had no psychological infrastructure
to have memory and rubric of learning
bound to them to be: invested in?

i am still going to write this Kandinsky...
one way or another...
but i can say only that:
i can imagine myself returning
to a painting - and painting it for a year...
but a book?
if a poem can't be written in one sitting...
it's not a poem...
this is not a poem: this is a novel
equivalent...
the best to my ability: which is none...

all i will ever manage with this
is a pedantic scrutiny of russian orthography,
how i don't follow metaphysical arguments
of the germans, the english or the french,
because i don't dream that often,
and when i do dream?
i dream up nonsense...
last time i dreamed that a hiena was
biting at my arm like a corn-cob...
but it wasn't biting to draw blood...
it was biting and cackling in order
to tattoo me... it bit into my arm and detailed
indentations akin to braille...
a pianola roll...

and that's the only details of the dream
i can remember...
perhaps i strained memory...
perhaps people who dream...
are fond of forgetting...
perhaps i don't dream because i can
remember being 4...
a shadow (my maternal great-grandfather)...
a large piano, a small piano...
he worked a retirement as a security guard
in a kindergarten...
i once spent an afternoon with him...
i have seen pictures of him...
but i don't remember the face in the photographs...
he sat me before a bonsai piano
while he sat at the large piano...
and i guess: we were going to be the new
Chopins or something...
he's still a shadow... a grey form...
perhaps a extract of memory that reaches
back 29 years is the reason why i don't
dream... then again...

what if i were to have recurrent dreams?
i've heard people have recurrent dreams...
i just have details of dreams...
i'm not complaining but...
it has become exhausting to simply sleep sometimes...
to replay that lullaby of the void...
yes: yes... i will return to russian orthography:
give me a moment!

well, on my "haitus" i had to look beyond
"conventionality"...
there was a period where i found
the glagolitic script - i said to myself:
there must be an equivalent alphabet to match
the runes...

there must have been a way to encode
without the romans and greeks...
after all... there is the St. Cyrill alphabet
and that of Methodus...
how many ethnic groups are there
on this old, yawning continent -
minor point: old age is not plagued by
yawning - only youth yawns...
old age is cured of yawning -
hanging over them the yawning death...
when father - when father - will this old
ponce come into my *****?

glagolitic and cyrillic?
well Ⰱ Б...
Ⱂ and P... which is not exactly lent-greek...
i guess it's only "wise"
to go back into the modern scribbles...

there are so many branches
to be plucked off a pine
to reserve yourself with ending up
to owning a pike...
so what would it help me:
if i had to reverse and ezra pound
my way forward...
bubble bulging roma notations?
i see: when that chisel in marble
V is not supposed to be a U...

EVROPA... etc.

i need to bring to the fore my own
distinctions...
spread: universally within the confines
of the people that speak it:
i even had to made balkan additions...
like the caron S and caron C...
to hide the english gimmick
of SHarp and CHeat...
evidently we use the Z to replace
the H when stressing our "demands"...
Šarp and Čeat...

so back into russian?
i almost forgot that i said...
their orthography is not worth the dog's
bollocking of a lick...

i was wrong, obviously...
but even the russians are supposed
to be allowed their idiosyncracy -
their orthographic pedantry...
russian orthographic pedantry?
ah...

when е met э...
was also the time when э didn't meet з...
this is pedantic...
another russian pedantic "detail"...
how many Y's or J's do you need...
to detail: the elongated-iota?
before... "****" becomes confusing...
within the confines of gamma...

i'm pretty sure the russians have
fixated their attention on the Y/J "debate"
working from their central premise of
the english AYE... I... the pronoun bunker...
der deutsche affirmative: ja!
yah in the hebrew respective for: wisdom...

let's see... i'm pretty sure the russians
have all the vowels bow to this mecca
of Moscow, cite me: and please reiterate...
that i use J and Y interchangeably...
i don't imply: to jot - to "dz"ot...
or Joseph in Ypres...

otherwise: a yeti climbing a yew shouting: yes!
it's not exactly jargon -
but... a prefix y- in english...
is not a suffix -y in english...
which just... "out of the blue"...
demands to be associated with the iota
of: ply... and yet: it's no i.e. e'et...
it's neither ate or the fwench and (et)...
it's a yeti... but not a jetty!

never mind... back into the fussy russian...
i'm pretty sure you will find all
of the pentagram (vowels) bowing before
the altar of pseudo-gamma:

                                     ю (yu)
                                    /
(details in) й ------ я (ya) -- ы (oh look, solo!)
   the above"rant")  |
                                  у (which is a u)
                                /   \
                     e (ye)       ё (yo)

almost... but i'm far from learning russian...
i find these orthographic details...
coexisting...

зъ = ж = ż = rz = ř / ž...

eastern, mother slavic...
beginning with a western slavic translation
"innovation"...
central / western slavic...
balkan slavic...
oh we are such famous clarinet players!
because what happens
when the caron is sliced into two...
and an acute ****** pops out?!

hence the зъ beginning...
yes... it's not "silent"... it's simply not
palatalißed... the tongue doesn't tip-off
the palette... the sound escapes via
the gritting of teeth...
with it: the tongue can rattle and a trill
R is heard...

зъ (ż) contra зь (ź) -
życzenia - well wishes| źródło - source...
now to only write these words
in russia - without knowing the russian
noun-denotations...
for orthographic purposes...

жыченя... or is it... жычениa?
зьруд... problem... can't find the english
W in russian... or the ****** Ł...
there's the english V... the ****** W...
but russian doesn't translate (Вв)
so vell into wery: not so weary but
nonetheless very not so, so...

my problem is not about that though...
this poem this poo'em this:
a pigeon drops a zeppelin-****
on your top-hat implies good luck...
no 13's or black cats crossing your path either...
i could most honestly spend
100 years of each of the 100 individuals
bound to the salt mines in the vicinity
of Beijing... and i would still find myself...
without tears...
because this is the most inexhaustible
crux: it's really bugging me foundation stone...

i won't even mind the modern greeks
at this point... they do use diacritical markers
too... but over-do it... as if compensating
or trying to compete on level par
with their metaphysical dittos...

чaхa: czacha... almost slang term for:
czaszka... чaкшa...
and this is by no means "smart"...
i can't solve crosswords puzzles...
well i can: but i need to find myself
in the company of my grandmother...
in the morning...
i would have had to drooled over some novel
from 7am until she gets out of bed
come 9am... we'd drink coffee and i'd
smoke cigarettes...
and it would be a month prior to christmas
or easter, or the interlude...
and... i'd be freed from writing or
reading anything in english...
either me looking at diacritical distinctions
in the realm of orthography between:
russian, ******, balkan...
or... me never learning french,
or attempting to: ever, again!

******* suffix-eaters...
dyslexics in reverse...
say one thing: write another thing...
this is probably born from my frustration
at being unable to learn french...
perhaps after having acquired english
i was given german to learn...
but no... first hurdle... french...
flop!
now it's a diet of no crosswords...
some sudoku from time to time...
and my new hobby after having found
"too many" googlewhacks...

so there's nothing smart about this:
this is in no way useful to anyone -
being the sort of person
to "mind" whenever one's being asked
to spell their surname...
it's hardly that difficult but...

would i go for the echo sierra charlie
hotel lima echo romeo tango...
or go out full greek with it?
perhaps the greek...
since that would solve the problem
i've had for a while,
concerning the eta / epsilon "debate"...

how does a greek laugh -
what is the crux letter via which
a greek laughs?
you see a H shape on the horizon...
but you... hear the noun: eta...
you later see the name eta...
but that's eta: without an apostrophe...
the apostrophe 'eta being the "surd" H...

in greek then...
epsilon sigma... **** it... there's no "sch"
of a german worth in greek...
let's cut it out:
epsilon lambda epsilon rho tau...

otherwise in russian...
once more:

ś(lub) - wedding - сь(люб)
"soft" sign - ' - apostrophe -
or ACUTE elsewhere...
why not сьлуб?
i don't know... it's not like сь is even
minded in russian...

ah! my favorite!
goń! gonitwa: a race -
the verb impetus: race! chase after!
гoнь!

since ы is the "odd" one out between
the application of "ь" and
and "ъ"...
come to think of it...
ы gave birth to: ю (yu), я (ya),
у (u), й ("y"), и ("e")...
i... i.e. and... in ******...
akin to those languages that use e...
to also imply and...
ё (yo)... how did i miss the umlaut
infiltrating the russian 'bet...
i blame catherine the great!
and... е (ye)...
is that the pentragram?
u, a, e, i, o... yes! we have it!

i truly had better days when sudoku was
the better puzzle to fill a day with...
not this... from glagolitic, to greek,
to roman, to post-roman to russian
and back into...

if we are all "supposedly" literate...
begs the question why: why oh why the emoji...
the *******-wanking hieroglyphics...
the :) and what not...
i guess to better escape this sort of
headaches... minor chances of everyone
becoming a bilingual:
but what's there to brag about
being bilingual!
i guess the polyglots do not have such
headaches of detail...
they just... bypass these rules and regulations...

to better guide me:
if i managed to sift through james joyce's
finnegans wake... and didn't find any
diacritical markers in it?
can't i compensate?
i'm compensating right now!
if the 2010s as a decade was a decade
filled with... sisyphus titans akin
to kant, hiedegger, kierkegaard,
knausga(a)rd, joyce...
beckett - yes...
again that hollowed "y" distinction!
it's not a sisi: yes yes problem...
hardly me being ***** either...
e'ver... i'ver...
ain't that a *****...

clarity of diction... the best motto there is...
crab-bucket-intellectualism:
alternatively the focus away from
any ontological stressors of "example" -
ontological and its variant of
a priori:
perhaps, given that the ontological
is an a priori argument...
here's my crossword puzzle -
ref. thesaurus rex...

and by no means... at all...
etymology is the better variant of any known
history...
when this bundle of words:
that an ontological dialectic can be achieved:
that ontology can be given within
as much as an a priori: bigot! focus...
with as much as an a posteriori:
wizened unicorn quid pro quo tanz!

hamsterwheel loopholes or:
crab-bucket intellectualism...

now: i really could have put these words
to better use... to make them linear...
less cryptic... but how can i?
i'm solving a crossword puzzle in reverse!
i don't expect the easily scared moths
to entertain this fire...

i expect midgets to be dancing...
before my eyes...
whenever i listen to
faun's tanz mit mir
or in extremo's rotes haar...
when the bagpipes and the flutes
kick in...

- since if i were to write a coherent sentence:
succumb to a linear narrative...
i'd people reading this to be also found:
easily talking about it...
perhaps i don't enjoy freedom of speech
as much as i enjoy the freedom to think...
perhaps i haven't written anything
worth speaking about, regurgitating,
making vogue, working for some intellectual
period-piece of "vogue"...
perhaps this is a shared problem,
hidden in a cipher...
of: how i can't heave this tool...
this tapeworm of existence,
this medium of god...
to later trash it, to have nothing better
to do with it other than play-games...
worded games... crossword puzzles...
perhaps i need a crossword puzzle to imply:
neighbour's share some words...
together... but then write them differently...
perhaps i require a crossword puzzle...
to read into some russian...
on the praxis base of english...
flying past Warsaw toward the itch
of the edge of Asia...
breathe the air - the heart of the continent...

perhaps i would have never managed
to escape this world if i ingested
mind-benders of the h'american 1960s
revolutionary schematics of the:
new-humanists... crash course in literature:
only one magic mushroom trip away!

фoрк ин дэ рoaд (fork in the road)

ИN...

some shared words, of etymological
curiosity...

(fork) вилка - wilka -
polish? wilka? that which belongs to
a wolf... widelec...
видэлэц...

(knife) нож - nóż -
well... orthography comes into play...
while people can have their...
ahem... in-the-meantime metaphysical
playground...
the ground, the word,
the geology is already here...
written alternatively?
нузъ...

i take a different stance to the common day
****** back east...
when russia starts slagging you off...
you put on a Boris Yeltsin mask on
and dance the drunk panda dance...

(spoon) ложка - łyżka -
in polish? ah those russians... ло ло...
лож: lorz...
lo lo and behold the translated
quasi-russian into the borders of europe...
ł.w.(ызъка)...

black and white (черный и белый):

czarny i biały: rho-si-ye!
char-nee-ye! bel'ye)...

perhaps the timing is a bit off:
the proper wording would be:

czarno na białym -
not: in black and white...
чaрнo на биa-wh-ым...

knocked-out to be honest...
the russians use ый like that?
YJ? oh right! i use it too!
in the prompt:

tyj! tyj ty grubasie!
hmm... -asie...
it would do me a lot of good...
if that iota didn't have a decapitated
head of a halo hovering above it...
why? so i could introduce the acute
slant over the S and surd it...
i.e. -aśιe...

тый! ты груб... exactly...
grub-               -aсьие
тый! ты грубaсьие!
to grow fat: тый!
              "problem": -aśιe vs. -aсьие...
well... it's there: сь...
but it also isn't there: и...

but it isn't: but it also isn't...
i just managed to find out that...
in warsaw (if i lived in warsaw)...
we have that conjunction: -ый-
however rare it is: it is there...

any more delegations from Moscow?
tyj! tyj ty grubasie!  
and i will write these last few words
and know why i don't really feel like
solving crosswords puzzles...
or doing those i.q. schematic tests...

**** it... the welsh should know and help me
out... concerning?
how it's YN and not IN...
how it's Y and not I when referring to THE gwyll:
dusk...
y gwyll o hywels: the dusk of powells...
only the welsh would know my "pain"...
yn y gwyll o y hywels:
in the dusk of the powells...

taking a step back - a step back...
yes yes, apologies... if my punctuation...
is too much of a ******* arithmetic!
too bad!

p.s. and yes... don't leave anything lying
around in the drafts or as private...
chances are... with a 2 day delay...
this will never be fed into the LATEST feed.

Water gushes, Mother Nature at her worst
Causing crevices to split and the banks to burst.
Sand bags pile high forming temporary barricades.
Putting pressure on them as the water cascades.
A sparkling foam pushes to the liquid surface
Rendering absolutely no breathing space.
Fish confused, dazed and bemused
Battered and slightly bruised.
Swim furiously against the strength of the swell
Questioning their one and only brain cell.
But answers don’t come that easily somehow
A split second decision should be on the cards now.
Mother Nature has pulled out the joker card
And is pitching for the mighty ace of spades.
Cruel and twisted as ever as the water cascades.

horns squawk
   rainforest avenues
  
  exoskeleton
of cars
   arteries clogged
with unlovely   taxi cabs

fat  green  fruit
for sale
     five languages
merge into a knot
hisses    kiss    vowels
   kiwis apples pears

   black guys   basketball
debt rises like      blood pressure
stocks tumble
    but we walk
brogues clop on concrete

count  brick after  brick
sun cascades
   over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs

   (you say
Monroe      stood here)

   heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits    for the office
   a funeral

designer sneakers
   daddy paid for
pigtails   cheap thrills
  violet octagons
  on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)

today
I drink purple water
     aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb

   list the names
Houston   Charlton
Leroy   Sullivan
Perry   Cornelia
Dominick and Jane

(ladders lead
                away from me
                close to
you)

and back again

This is Mrs Unknown.
She likes to roam
the rainbow
at night
or in her dreams
And fly with her razor fingers
splayed like the falling stars 
whos dust cascades
from the Heavens
into her fried egg eyes.
She likes to ballet
dance across the unwinding
circled junctions, like the moon, and
Sing song while her trainers jog
in rhythm to the bells and belts of starlight.

The sun rises tentatively through the forest heights behind the palace. In the pre-dawn light Jia Li has secured water and fuel for her visitors and despite the attentions of the pack horse men, who have returned from an evening at her village the worse for drink, she settles to feed her infant child. Meng Ning enters to seek her counsel. She already guesses his intentions and answers his brief questions with confidence. She knows the route to the Red Slate Path, perhaps four li distant. The path is clear, though little used. It is not a place those of her village visit, though she has learnt that the path itself defies nature’s attempts to cover its existence.
    Zuo Fen is standing on the terrace as Meng Ning returns to the Emperor’s Hall. She has slept deeply, is refreshed after a period of meditation and, despite the cold, has been washed and massaged by her maid. She appears dressed for walking, her boots, fur cloak and hat in purposeful combination. As she surveys the lake flocks of wild geese and duck chatter and squabble as they float on the surface. There are some experimental flights, pairs of duck taking off to fly in wide arcs only to return to the same stretch of water from where they rose in tandem. Soon the geese will leave to fly across the forests and moorland for distant harvested fields where they will spend the day foraging. Meng Ning points to a distant peninsula jutting out from the northern shore of the lake. Behind it, he says, lies the cove of the Red Slate Path. Perhaps there they will be able to understand more keenly the why of this mystery.

‘At such a distance,’ says Zuo Fen, ‘the detail of a boat would be quite lost. I imagine the peninsula acting like a pointing finger to its floating form. There is already fashioning within me a possible story that might explain this mystery.’

She smiles warmly at Meng Ning who bows his head rather than stare into her jade green eyes. She moves closer to his standing posture, taking his left hand secure but tense against the balustrade of the veranda. Lowering one leg before the other she slowly kneels, removing her hat, loosening her fur cloak that now spreads itself of its own accord beside and behind her. With both hands behind her neck she lifts her long hair found to parted and tied in simple peasant fashion. Raising her hands to full-stretch her sleeping hair warm from the bare skin of her back slowly cascades forward and across each of her ******* to curl like two cats in the bowl of her robe.

‘Mei Lim is with Jia Li’, Zuo Fen says curiously and with a voice Meng Ning has not encountered before. ‘I fell to sleep dreaming of your kind presence and the joy of being touched and kissed.’ He cannot see her face as she speaks, only the quivering fall of her hair across her kneeling body. ‘I awoke feeling your breath on my cheek and so brought your limbs to entwine with my own.’ He now senses the delicate unguents of her body; they compass him about, his hand falls from the balustrade to touch her hair.

Finding her right ear his fingers describe its shape, its sculptured relief of folded forms and crevices. He is becoming faint with something outside passion that requires him to go beyond her ear and flow of hair about his fingers. He unties his cloak, letting it drop behind him. He removes his boots and outer garments. She follows his example. He moves to her side, adopts the position of the swallow resting on the wind. They face one another.  To the accompaniment of their breathing, her hands begin a dance in the space between their lower limbs as though they are birds turning and falling in flight. Unlike the courtesans he sees at court her nails are short, her fingers long. Then, it is as though her hand holds a brush forming characters and she begins to write on his body with short deft movements this way that way describing her flight of passion. Some intuition tells him to allow this, and not to seek repricocity, as it seems from her breathing that these very actions give her the greatest delight, bring her to the edge of the first coitus. Eyes closed, he moves his nose into a glancing embrace with her own, feeling there a semblance of perspiration, that tell-tale sign of a woman’s readiness for the deeper embrace. She responds to this with sighs and swift movements of rapture that envelope him, and now, as she quickly brings her limbs into a right conjunction, he places one hand beneath her, the other to recline her body gently to the floor, her cloak becoming a pillow for her head.
    He now looks directly at her, her face expressionless as though all thought and feeling has entered her body in preparation to receive his own. She does not blink. There is a moment of great stillness, a great wave of calm breaks, moves forward and pulls back – and again, again. In an instant he will enter her Jade Gate to caress and kiss and move where only his Lord has visited. He knows that once there he will seal his own fate . . .
     It is the talk of poets that women are often at their most sensitive to love’s attention in the morning hours, and that this was, for so many reasons, the most impractical of times for men. Zuo Fen herself had written fu poems that took the reader to the most intimate moments of a concubine’s experience in the morning hours, those times when alone the body gathers to itself its essential nature, and is often caressed with the woman’s own hand and thoughts. To understand such circumstance, to hold its sweetness as an abiding taste during the formalities of the day, only to release its flavour in the pleasure hours of the night, was a manly attribute, said to be treasured, indeed honoured by women.
      When Meng Ning withdrew Zuo Fen lay for some while letting the unaccustomed circumstance and its location only gradually allow a return to conscious and present thoughts. She pictured now her journey to the Red Slate Path, Jia Li, her baby on her back, striding beside Meng Ning, then herself and finally Mei Lim - who would have entreated her mistress to be allowed to accompany her. There was the glade, a small bowl in the hillside where it was just possible to see a small cave from which, glistening, the broken patterns of the slate path fell after half a li into the lake. She would investigate the cave. She would walk to the water’s edge, where the trees stepped into and reached over the lake to lay a carpet of fallen leaves. Then to see the path gradually, gradually disappear into the depths.
    Whilst Zuo Fen, with her eyes closed, projected her thoughts forward in time, with accustomed tact Mei Lim left those accouterments a woman needs after the attentions of a lover. She feared for the young man, though she knew her Lord prized too much his Lady of The Purple Chamber to effect jealousy or display anger.
    As the sun cleared away the thin cloud and approached its zenith the company broached the crest of the hill above the glade. It was, Zuo Fen had to admit, just as she had imagined lying prone and in disarray in the Emperor’s hall. In silence, and in the company of her imagination, she now paced from cave to path to water, and standing at the very edge of the lake’s bank focused her mind to envisage the events of twenty years past.
     It was as though a rhapsody was already formed. She found herself recounting the tale in her world of characters where there is only present time. She felt her hand describe them with the flow of her brush, heard the sound of its movement across the thick parchment. She was slow to notice that Meng Ning had disrobed and was entering the water. Without a word she watched him move through the carpet of floating leaves, some sticking to his nakedness, and onwards, slowly, following the submerged path until his torso then only his shoulders were visible. She then knew what he hoped to find, even after the passage of so many years.

She saw it all, suddenly. The sorcerer Yang Mo and the Emperor’s second wife descending the Red Slate Path as a cavalcade of fire and smoke, loud flashes of light, noises of brass and clashing metal enveloped the glade and the boat itself. The watching company witnessed for a moment the couple disappear under the waters only for their collective sight to be shrouded in a climaxed confusion of the sorcerer’s devices and effects.

When, finally the smoke cleared, the boat and the lovers had vanished.

Zuo Fen watched Meng Ning disappear from view. She imagined him, as the pearl fishers she had heard tell of, diving down to the depths, holding his breath to seek what might remain of the illusory boat. But time passed beyond the possibility of what she knew could be endured by human-kind. The surface of the water remained unbroken. The division of open water made by Meng Ning in breaking apart the carpet of floating leaves was already reforming itself.
   Removing her cloak and her boots, and unpinning her hair, Zuo Fen stepped into the water. A memory floated towards her of bathing in the lake near to her summer retreat. Water held no fear for her, only now the cold consumed her. Her loosed hair, and her elaborate untied robe settled on the water’s surface: to surround her like a lily pad, she the budding flower at its centre. She felt her feet still firmly on the Red Slate Path, her chin now resting on the water’s surface. Whatever had happened to Meng Ning she knew her action to be compliant. She had immersed herself with the very element that had brought him either death or, as she knew in her heart, a most honorable escape.

I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense
as an explosion.  Then it dropped
to insistent, cautious creeping
in the region of the heart,
prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head.  A slight young ****
had pushed up through the heart and its
green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.)
It grew an inch like a blade of grass;
next, one leaf shot out of its side
a twisting, waving flag, and then
two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick. The nervous roots
reached to each side; the graceful head
changed its position mysteriously,
since there was neither sun nor moon
to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change
(not beat) and then it split apart
and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides,
one to the right, one to the left,
two rushing, half-clear streams,
(the ribs made of them two cascades)
which assuredly, smooth as glass,
went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The **** was almost swept away;
it struggled with its leaves,
lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face
and in my eyes, so I could see
(or, in that black place, thought I saw)
that each drop contained a light,
a small, illuminated scene;
the ****-deflected stream was made
itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all
the scenes that it had once reflected
shut in its waters, and not floating
on momentary surfaces.)
The **** stood in the severed heart.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet
(with my own thoughts?)
and answered then: "I grow," it said,
"but to divide your heart again."

The mountains raise their heads
To look up to the sky
Looking to kiss the eternity
Searching for the soft caress of clouds
And soothe the upheaval it went through
First drop of rains anoint the rugged surface
The sequestered waterfall cascades down
And adorns the mountainous terrains
Covering it with the soft velvety green
Enthusing life into the once lifeless rocks
Once among the rubble
The mountains have found their place of glory

Spring blossoms gentle acceptance
Of vagaries of desperation
Like variegated autumnal leaves
From the core of the stone of floods
Undeclared truths
Affirmative requests

There is chaos as a whole
In the expanse of the unending.
Fear fades mystically.
Death and boredom leave your lungs ...
There. Exists
Justice and pleasure... .
.... thoughts of living, laugh in the face of Death.

all the thoughts of failures
Conglomerate and are cast away
Into a deep trench
the soothing currents lull
Sinking green verdure.
Embraced by the biosphere
And forming a reef,
Thereby even your failures succeed.

Even now your image is being painted on the dull white canvas of my love.

Violent storms may rend the world
scattering lesser unions,
There is endurance in our madness...

Laughter, the golden bird, with bejewelled feathers,
Leads to the oasis of truth, in this desert of deceit
Reciprocation of sensation
Every intention to remain

And the rapidly ascending choir of broken angels sing the song which massacres despair.

And the body I wish to settle
Caressed by the deepest dark of night
Birth of the morning
The genesis of pleasant daydreams
Calm, hope ...
..... And a sense of success
Blue morning justice cascades
With dispelled illusions, and realized wishes.
Everyday upon wakening
I discard hate
As love, is mildly colored supple flesh
Withdrawn and plunged, into the crack of a stoney heart

Space infinitum opens before us,
On the petals of the lotus
Space through which two beings connect
No matter the distance.

We know that beneath this dull white nightmare
Dwells a vibrant black dream,
That is neither evil or good,
But just is.

On the workbench of despair,
Disassembled hearts are heaped.
In this pile I dwelled for an age of pain,
Until you plucked me from the pile
And made me whole again.

Cascades of red in Hedgehog Houle
The beginning of Autumn falls over
And breaks the greenest in morning
We pass the church arched doorway
And the hawthorn berries brightest.

Walking the steady step in this day
Finding the bend the windy winds
Show me little Alfie in his nestling
For love carries everything trusting
This pathway of flowing memories.

Love Mary **

I walk along a path
I do not know
But falter left nor right,
And, welcoming the light
Of birches, still and white
As sleeping snow,

A raven, coat that shimmers
Soft as coal,
Beside me flutters square
And, drawn like to a snare,
Alights upon the air
As on a knoll.

A ripened chestnut, trapped
Within his maw
And hard as ancient ice,
Is tightened by the vise
And shatters at the slicing
Of his jaw

To crumble into dust,
Which quick cascades
And settles, as it slows,
To carefully compose
The shape of raven toes
Where he parades.

The raven flies ahead
And, with a stamp,
His talons take a grip
Atop a wooden tip
Of birches, dead and stripped
To form a ramp.

I stumble after, fixed
Through field of black
As in a telescope,
And, clawing at the *****,
I climb it with a hope
To touch his back

And ****** a hand ahead
Just as he slumps,
Both limp but stiff, to lie
Upon his side and die.
I meet his cloudy eye
Upon the stump,

Then lift my head to find
A willow sprig,
A tendril hanging free
For me to grip. Indeed,
I climb the strip of tree,
The little twig,

And swivel in the air,
As if by choice.
I hear a humming, low,
Resounding from below—
The raven’s eyes, aglow
With Odin’s voice.

Like lightbulbs flicker, dim
with yellow light,
They sharpen with the tones
That bellow from his bones—
This god and poet moans
His heavy spite:

He damns me to the lifetime
of a bird.
My sin, I do not know
But bear the bitter woe
And close my eyes to focus
On this word:

Saṃsāra. So I feel my
Senses spill
Upon the ground
And flood out all around
And swallow every sound
Till all is still.

Cascades were dripping outside of this moving vehicle
White noise, patternless and arrhythmic
like magnified sounds of nails on a concrete wall,
made by souls desperate to cleave their way to dryness

This public utility vehicle holds spirits successful in finding this temporary heaven
Weathered, soaked and almost drowned
like panting dogs that managed to swim ashore from a shipwreck
caused by the iceberg that is the eye of the storm

This safe haven holds champions in a world of misshapen men

A woman clutches tightly on a bag of lime and her ever waning youth
Tired, but not eager to face Death
still closing her windows to his cat burglars
that come faster than the downpour of Typhon's tears

A homeless child comfortably sleeps on the far end of this ride
His innocence tested by fate
Too experienced for someone his age
instead of just playing in the streets he calls home

The jeepney driver has eyes on the road painted by Van Gogh
Unabashed, industrious and assiduous
determined to serve,
provide for a family whose stomachs hunger not but they hunger for his return

This other dimension nurtures alien thoughts and parallel thinking among beat down men

I do not know them but I can hear the cries of their emotions,
their longing to be felt and empathized with
Their voiceless cries are guns with a silenced nozzle
shooting at anyone ignorant who curiously stare at this minefield of a passenger jeep

Every day I reveal
I give a little more
something special, so real to life
a different side of life
those pieces of me no one can steal
every night I'm where it takes me
to where I find that part of me
that needs no excuses
nothing to change
nothing to add to
But what if it isn't the truth? What if I am a product of fear? When I look at my keyboard, I remember things I cannot say aloud. That is the darkness.
nothing to subtract
the fairy of all things sharp and dangerous.
a day in the sun a light
That casts no shadow,
Pushing through all darkness
To reveal the only truth
a smackeral here,
a smidgen there
i stitch into the weave
as my truth
as i can bare,
leaving me naked
and bereft
but as a milliner of words
so fine
I stitch together a tapestry
of twine
upon a silken bed of shadow
the words, they matter
on the morrow
Twisted threads of golden thought
weaves crimson tears
that taught
the one that orates
as they weave
leaves a pattern
that can't deceive
cleft, my palette
of words, sacred,
alone but not forsaken-
created, awakened and tasted
and i stop for a while
to taste the silence between words
the echoes of my steps
roaming inside a dream
Chinese boxes with corners that
domino like the seals
of envelopes, they
stick to sticky
seals of words,
telling of straw earth.
sinkhole, the word frightened me as a child
even now I tread lightly
allaying the inevitable
i tread lightly, lightly... allaying
the inevitable
babble of...
"lustful gushing
of wordlove
that cascades
from my brain
enervated, regenerated
obligated
to explain
the gears
and cogs
of this
clockwork world
write....again
and again
the never ending
refrain
oh listen to the silence
listen
between the words
from
the death of one breath;
to
the birth of the next

Bruised and bandaged blisters
On hands ravaged by wars
Against one's own life through years
Paired with cascades of burning tears
And left dangling o'er wooden floors.

Though you may run from your fate,
You'll never escape its iron grasp.
Reality will grab you and hold you down,
Pulling you under a diminished frown
Until you end the pain at last.

Your soul is a choice, bucolic scene
With charming travellers in a masquerade
Playing the lute and dancing, yet seem
Sad beneath their fanciful charade.

All carouse in a minor key
Of victorious love and opportunity,
They seem not to believe in their delight
And their song mingles with the moonlight,

In the still moonlight, beautiful and blue,
Birds in the trees dream and sigh by
Elegant fountains among marble statues,
And the cascades in their ecstasy cry.