I wish you knew of the joy it is
that you now exist in my life.
The smile opening up inside of me,
just like a tornado approaching,
like a flower blooming,
like new seeds sprouting on a wet summer night.

I'd like to see it grow,
although it scares me to watch my predictable and safe garden change,
so wildly,
without my permission,
challenging my old and known beliefs...

So, chamomiles, come on in
and bring peace to a troubled mind.
So, prayers, send out your healing calls of compassion.

For now I can only but learn of Love's ways of traveling through me,
All-encompassing,
never judging,
never demanding,
always kind.

Serene is the rain cleaning the wounds deeply carved on my skin
washing away my own judgments,
assumptions,
putting down walls of protection
little by little built around me.

Serene is the rain bringing about change,
revealing naked new born grains,
opening up the pine flowers of self-forgiveness,
allowing me to see you more clearly now.

I wish you knew,
in times when I'm not blind,
I can only but be thankful
For rains, and flowers and the new born grains
are composing something beautiful...
I'll lay myself down and listen.

reading a rupi kaur poem is
probably the most heart-breaking
"thing" in the morning -
on the play store bestseller list:
because afterwards
a sylvia plath poem:
somehow isn't -

                       somehow she managed
to pluck at a geisha garden
and has become all porcelain all
             crystalline ivory & frailty...
but that's not about my reading
habits in the morning...            
   it's more... more about...
how "we" could get away with
writing all our onomatopoeias in
katakana:

                        unless of course
there's the "problem" of C, L, U, Q / CK...
that's hooves on cobweb streets
trotting...                                        
     ­                  nonetheless:
                        i give you
          マンナ              ダンナ
    (manna                    ­      danna)
            i guess: imitation
                          games of a madonna
in a brothel -
which is not a brothel...
and everyone's favourite
             Berlusconi's take on
                         castanets & maracas i.e.
                  ぼんご                 ボンゴ

otherwise a narrative in three parts:
a. my grandfather died
b. i stopped drinking
c1. and i started walking marathons
   c2. from 118kg
                down to 106.5kg
                  circa 2 months...

otherwise a further narrative of:
not because i'll gladly go into
the necropolis with a bouquet
of fake carnations / chamomiles...
  although "in manus tuas" i could
sit crow esque pensive,
hunched: a shadow for a globe of
atlas (etc.)
            and **** that fickle
creature that's memory in vain...
thereby making love
sound like a breaking
                           of an accordion...

or i could like i already have
"play a game" of       ここ / そこ
                                               ソコ / ココオ
no necropolis...
    just the remains of a forest...
bedfords park...
            a healthy stick for the purpose
of knocking on trees...
an dry-white skull-yellow-morbid
obelisk - i.e. a dead tree...
homage - three times:
           thunck-plonk-pluckpug
no echo...
      thung-plong-plugpuck...
a minute of silence...
                evidently...
                      in searching of meaning:
beyond in havering county park
horses grazing -
        "once upon a time"
they'd be work horses on the till
  of the land...
            now sometimes saddled...
not even bothered to gallop...
          while we're still...
                   under the tyranny of
the thumb...
                 or thereby some "relief"...

perhaps just walking through
east london toward st. paul's
seeing so many pilgrims (i.e.
that's what i'd call lunatics)
                        talking to pigeons
                                      at stratford in
                    the morning...
one might do what i do
teasing augury -
       notably because of the crows,
notably because of swallows;
at least for the former -
when hades stirs -
                 and a yawn breaks
rank from the pits of crunch &
                        harrowing tooth domino...
there's me procrastinating
before the altar of a name, date(s)
but no epitaph...
    or there's me making said
pilgrimage to a dead tree obelisk
  with a healthy stick in hand...
knocking three times...
            perhaps to let the forest know
i'm there, i.e. "here"...
alas... exasperation is not:
a need for "haiku"... it's also not
some snobbery when...
you're actually not given much to
"work" with e.g. -cemetery

       better a fascination with
                                  japanese text...
e.g. 緑 (green)
                         ミドリ
      / hiragana is probably a misnomer
                 みどり
  / why wouldn't green be in kanji?
               but how midori:
                       either squiggly or squint-
                                       -ting          
                                         squin'
                                                          ­T'ing
is not in either katana / hiragana
set up the following primer, braille:

                                    ⠛⠗⠑⠑⠝
       ⠍⠊
       ⠙⠕
       ⠗⠊   (hangeul esque)
                          
is probably the only latin equivalent
i'd ever make a comparison with;

   p.s. ⠝ braille's N
          ל - a hebrew L"ament"...

at least it's more than a bothersome
post-colonial rhyming ****** & scheme
or a wannabe haiku /
                        writing toward hiatus;
or a ******* ron padgett prose poem
                     about drinking coffee...
for that matter: any poem about
drinking coffee;
                                          sober *****
morning gits,
            insufferable loved up 'toons.

Under the purple tint of sky
Wild Tulip and Cinquefoil sways,
As pleasant breeze moves over petals
Finding it's way through the maze.

The floating clouds are allured
When out of ground comes a seed,
And swarms of flies stops to gaze
Blue jewels festooned on Billygoat ****.

Windswept earth draped in rosy hue
Crimson-red like a bleeding sea,
Tweaked by Kea, fondled by Spiders —
Flowers of mighty Bombax Tree.

The beauty cannot be discerned
Of Buttercups swanking their golden gleam,
When meadows are lit with Yellow Sages
Desirous Crowfoots gape across the rim of stream.

All along the drooped grass
Lies the scented Chamomiles,
Wrapped in silence, in it's dwelling —
Burrowing Owl secretly smiles.

Past the village, up on a hillock
A bed of Musk Roses thrives,
Unfurling the air with it's sweet scent
Forces Bees to come out of their hives.

The most stunning flower in the ranch
Under the sparkling midnight-blue sky,
Dangling in dust — the Orange Cosmos
Beloved of Emperor Dragonfly.

known to be a tangerine
in a garden of bristly weeds
she wears a sour overcoat
seeds of doubt housed in it’s core
when buried under dirt of past
sprout more of her kind at last
bloom along with chamomiles
under the evening sunlight
glistening after a rainy siesta
swaying to the tune of life’s fiesta

Clearing the harshly calm, gray, shallow, stitched shadows of winter
on the pillow. Shining its light through the window  
spring is almost here to nest love  
not even slightly grasping the end     
or hearing the lonely, silent, detached murmurs of a mourned love

Springing from the pure and transcendent serendipity of love 
I have embroidered fancy, needlepoint stitches of you
on the clear canvas, twining the shadows of you with the most beautiful colored yarns
to nest my love under spring waters and bird nests

Shadowing my way towards you 
death is stitched to my soul with a hundred nettle rash like needle stings
to nest my sorrow under my heavy heart aching despite the spring
clearly singing a love sonata about a flaming red, bleeding heart flower sewed on a weary, withering woman’s chest 

On the chamomiles, poppies, and beautiful roses embellished quilt  
here you and I nest
and finally, rest  
when we have a bitter, sharp stitch in our hearts
having seen the dreadful, deadly, and dark shadow selves
repressed fears, tears, and spears ****** our souls
through cluttered sorrows under the semi-stitched garments 
Even the clear spring nor any other magic can possibly unclog