"miso" poems
I sat outside today eating
Sushi and miso soup in the sun
Some squirrels came by
And stared at me hopefully
I put a bit of miso soup in the lid
And set it out for them
But they weren't interested
Then a gust of cold wind blew the lid over
And the soup was spilled
One of the squirrels went for the crumbs
In an old potato chip bag instead
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
**I had dinner again at our favorite Japanese ramen restaurant
I sat next to your fading presence and the lucky cat statue
Had the usual ramen noodles, pork broth, spicy miso, and your favorite side dish
Then got drunk off a pitcher, hot sake, and your absence
A crowded room leafed over until
I was the last one to leave
I sat in my car out in the parking lot listening to your favorite acoustic song "I don't mind"
Then clarity opened the passenger door sit and sat next to me
I realized that night, during that moment
That being alone wasn't too bad but I was still completely lost without you**
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
I think in Japanese,
write down my thoughts in English,
then twist it all back into sushi:
a tasty bite to eat.
My mind is like origami
folding thoughts into meditation;
meditation unfolds
into a crisp sheet of city lights.
I love you big much,
love you big time;
I love the way you giggle nervously.
Titter-titter,
"Tee-hee-hee!"
It must be amazing to find everything so funny.
Big city, sake sunset;
a karaoke moon rises
over a robotic, neon inception.
(transmutation)
Transformers, Transformers:
autobotic-neurotic Bumblebee
comes to the aid of Samurai Prime.
"Autobots, transform!!"
Bored of the bright lights?
Weary of the snappy-happy gaijin
doing photo-photo
while they look for a sweet sakura-panpan?
Then take a leisurely stroll up to Hokkaido,
where there's less sucky-sucky,
and more bow-down-low-austerity
alongside the 108 gongs a-bonging.
Chant a few prayers,
speak with the sacred cedars,
take a dip in the hot springs
with some smiling monkeys,
and watch snow fall, together.
Nippon, you offer everything.
I can eat 20 times a day
without gaining a pound.
There's always more room
for miso, chanko nabe, shabu-shabu,
gyozo, okonomiyaki—
I am going to stop writing this list
so that I don't drown in my saliva.
I refuse to look back,
refuse to go back to the boredom
of white picket fences and hamburger dreams;
I want to stay here forever.
I love you big much,
love you big time;
totemo ureshii da.
March 1st, 2012
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
I remember that Day when we sat
(side by side)
On those Stairs
(Waiting for our Train)
And you bought us Miso Soup
(It tasted like Tears)
The Sun hit my legs
(With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia)
Covering them, bathing them. glorifying.
The traffic was the push and pull
(To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising)
Of waves.
Harsh, solid, mechanical waves
(Full of the force of Human Atrocity)
Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet
(With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation)
I thought I was eating the sea.
(I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire)
The Snow-flakes
(Fish-flakes)
Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup
(A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure)
And they swam around and around, Hiding
(Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?)
If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself
(Floating, Filleted)
Amongst those Ribbons of Sea ****
With each Salty slurp
(That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat)
I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth
(Drowning me in Poison; Poisson)
I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea
(In a Polystyrene Cup)
The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air
(Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru")
Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate
(In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive)
We didn't finish the Miso Soup;
It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
I am surrounded by empty booths
& four sides clothed in beige,
highlighted by hanging globe- lanterns casting a serene aura.
The swing of the kitchen door
greets me, the lone patron
who has placed his order
for miso soup &
white sticky rice.
My placemat educates
me about the zodiac &
I can almost hear the
creaking of the bamboo
painted on the walls,
it leaves me
feeling nice
inside.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
Traditional warmth
Mix of seaweed and tofu
Appetite whetted
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
You leave the apostrophes to someone else, I can't even make it in to 'im', instead I'm writing papers about the Oneida and Jonestown murders.
The television is on, the air purifier
is dying. I can hear the ***** fan belt of my laptop on the fritz or the fizzy bubbles of
The Cranberry Redbull that I'm trying.
I could be a great sport. Ya know, anything you want.
Jump to.
Make the Miso soup, clear off the kitchen table, buy brand new markers with no recent pictures drawn into their nibs.
Throw in comfy pants. I don't know what else I have to offer, a clean bath? Some books? A magazine?
The weather is exciting, we could call get Pneumonia or at least share a drink and catch Hep-C,
Put our children together to catch the gift of Shingles. A motorcycle toy for my Uritis it is better. The roses from the sweater paired with leather, leggings, and a kick *** song. Inside we can talk about his hair cut and going to California. I'm intimidated by you moreover when you tell me you can eat airplanes with only your bare hands. And even if I'm a bore, I still have Streptococcus. So seal and deliver. My cerulean goddess, with the best, thank thank you for the nightmare fever you stole from the words I wrote. And at the end of your book you don't have to cop out and fall along a crippled sky. With crippled words, verbs, and losers. Score cards of different colors. Tunics proud as the walk to the river we voted from Baptism to demon-voter. Stand and deliver, flora and fauna that threatens to eat our home.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
I smell the miso soup and curry
though its bowl's contents
have been long licked away
I see you when I look at her
Her eyes that wander and eyes that sigh
longing for you as I do.
Maybe even more.
She waits and speaks and fights.
I wonder if she wants to be with you yet
I hope not, because I need her still but
I need you, too.
It's selfish, but I am speaking my mind.
The pain I felt
three weeks ago when I remembered you was physical
My breath came in short puffs
and the tears pricked and the leaves swayed
as I looked out the ***** window.
Maybe I was expecting you to swoop down, hug me,
and tell me you were sorry
for leaving so soon.
So, so soon.
It's time to go, so I touch the small of her back lightly
and help her into the car
something you used to do.
I am not angry.
But it hurts.
Knowing that you never saw me dance
or play the piano
or walk up the stage to receive my diploma
Knowing that I'll never be Princess Aurora
and you'll never be Prince Philip or the dragon again
Knowing that as long as the sun rises and the moon smiles
I'll still be here
without you
I love her.
Know that.
So for you, Lolo*, I'll take care of her as well as I can
because I know it will make you smile
and that will make me smile too but I still miss you
and it still hurts sometimes.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
I went to Misato Japan, .
Small people and the gentlest of faces
small roads and rice patties.
Miso Soup and a kiwi farm.
Photo booths and game centers.
I didn’t take enough pictures
Sendai before it was destroyed.
Matsushima and the buddhist temple.
The flocks of seagulls near our boat.
The islands so distinct.
Wind so powerful.
We were treated like royalty,
looked at like celebrities.
I was dressed in a Kimono
and treated to a feast.
People so gentle,
bows full of honor
gratitude in their eyes
immense kindness I was shown.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
I can hear the song that I was to write, but words don't describe music well.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
Traditional warmth
Mix of seaweed and tofu
Appetite whetted
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
Floating seaweeds
in a miso soup
my heart grows
and I find patience
near the bottom
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
i find myself following our old footsteps
almost subconsciously
letting memories make decisions
leading the way through lingering thoughts of you
while they may be seemingly mundane
they are increasingly significant
for it is not just a choice to order miso soup
or to venture down the scenic route
to our old curry house
where the spice would bring tears to my eyes
a prelude to the damp ducts that were soon to follow
now that the streams have dried up off my face
i take joy in the journeys in which i place my stride beside your fading footsteps
painting our memories in the vivid colours of yesteryear
as opposed to tainting them with the disjoint of yesterday
i will continue to do all the things that we did, albeit alone
for it is now as much part of me
as the bones that support me
and the heart that pumps my blood
slightly aching when a thought of you lingers slightly
but an ache diminishing with each passing day
you changed me,
you probably didn't even realise it
as you were papering the cracks in the fibre of my being
allowing me to grow as a person, a partner, a lover
so i will ride my bike down the mountains from which our love fell
down the steep cliff faces from which it never recovered
and i will mimic the thoughts in my head
through words on the cloud, as you did
sharing
caring
remembering
not least you
and the way we were
in one of the best times of my life
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
i , yes, i , no not I but i in my life so young , have found
God. No , not God, life. No , not life, light. No , not light , darkness.
Oh, i , yes , i , oh.... i , saw , i...
through the rapidly clearing miso soup of my perspective
it is as if each whirlpool of salty broth , clears to reveal a single piece of seaweed
that splatters on the floor as i drop the bowl
oops
paradigm shift.
And just like that , the afternoon light which was just environmental delight becomes a so , essential detailed
prop to the existential conversations baseline drop
later , after i have pondered what this new fangled spyglass lends to my current present
i pick up a magazine by the name of 'Ok!' ... i read only the images and few words in english
i put it down
i have a headache.
i get up , i feel sick
i read the front 'Super Dad'
so harsh , so much pressure to fit into the narrow channeled idea
somethings got to give , this ain't living it's a waiting room for the already dead
Horoscope tells 'KNOW YOUR FUTURE NOW'
at least that's accurate...
( pun)
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
Like Jesuits before
High-rise semblance
latex sunrise
The man removes his skin.
bunny-eared fantasies
ivory, piss-stained car seats
ignition.
Green poison darts. Drifting upwards
he drives aimlessly
Alone
pluming this commune
everyone is a girl
Selfish cognition.
Stabbed in the head with keys
between knuckles
like an unfurled hazard
rubbing faces in glass. putting pressure
On my teeth with my tongue.
it builds
Blind sea-life - crustaceans strewn
smashed & ******
on the cubicle floor. Knee deep
smudged and blurry.
He slowly
Disappears. I feel drained
Dipped in salutation
dripping kingdom
- Crust, licked off mouth corners
Bruised (angular cheilitis)
watery evening/moot
Picked up, and poured down the drain.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
There was an older woman today at work,
She smelled like blood.
Heavy & metallic & pungent,
Mixed with sweat
It made me sick
And it went everywhere,
The entire place smelled of
death
& there was a bruise wrapped around her arm like a badge, purple,
yellow, brown, pink faded
& sick-looking
Her smell with the miso, lingering, deafening
I'm making a doctor's appointment today for my lymph nodes
(again)
& I'm scared
I'm scared I'm smelling my death on her
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
Nun songo nu grand'ommo
nun songo nu scienziato.
'A scola nun sò gghiuto
nisciuno m'ha mannato.
S' i' songo intelliggente?
e m' 'o spiate a mme?
I' songo nato a Napule,
che ne pozzo sapè?!
Appartengo alla *****
a chella folla 'e ggente
ca nun capisce proprio 'o riesto 'e niente.
Però ve pozzo dicere na cosa:
campanno notte e ghiuomo a stu paese
pur i' me sò 'mparato quacche cosa,
quaccosa ca se chiamma umanità.
Senza sapè nè leggere e nè scrivere,
da onesto cittadino anarfabbeta,
ve pozzo parlà 'ncopp' a n' argomento
ca certamente ve pò interessà: chi è ll'ommo.
Ll'ommo è nu pupazzo 'e carne
cu sango e cu cervello
ca primma 'e venì al mondo
(cioè 'ncopp' a sta terra)
madre natura, ca è sempre priviggente,
l'ha miso 'nfunno 'a ll'anema,
cusuto dint'o core, na vurzella
cu dinto tante e tante pupazzielle
che saccio: 'o mariuncello,
na strega 'e Beneviento,
nu scienziatiello atomico
cu a faccia indisponente,
nu bello Capo 'e Stato
vestuto 'a Pulcinella;
curtielle, accette, strummolo
e quacche sciabbulella.
Penzanno ca 'o pupazzo
nu juomo se fa ommo,
si se vò divertì,
chesto 'o ppò fà. E comme?
Sceglienno 'a dint' 'o mazzo
ca tene dint' 'a vurzella,
chello ca cchiù lle piace
fra tutte 'e pazzielle.
Si po' sentite 'e dicere:
"'O tale hanno arrestato!
Era uno senza scrupolo:
pazziava al peculato.
E trene nun camminano?
'A posta s'he fermata?".
Chi tene 'mmano 'o strummolo,
pazzianno s'he spassato.
'O scienziatiello atomico
ch' 'a bomba 'a tena stretta
"Madonna! - tremma 'o popolo-
E si mo chisto 'a jetta?".
Guardate che disgrazia
si 'a sciabbulella afferra
nu capo ca è lunatico:
te fa scuppià na guerra.
Senza penzà ca 'o popolo:
mamme, mugliere e figlie,
chiagneno a tante 'e lacreme.
Distrutte sò 'e famiglie!
A sti pupazze 'e carne affocaggente
l'avessame educà cu 'o manganiello,
oppure, la natura priviggente,
avess' 'a fa turnà nu Masaniello.
Ma 'e ccose no... nun cagnano
e v' 'o dich'i' 'o pecché:
nuie simme tanta pecure...
facimmo sempe "mbee".
729
Stanotte 'a dint' 'o lietto cu 'nu strillo
aggio miso arrevuoto tutt' 'a casa,
mme sò mmiso a zumpà comme a n'arillo...
E nun mme faccio ancora persuaso.
Ma comme, dico io po', cù tanta suonne
ì mme sò ghiuto a ffa, 'o cchiù malamente;
sti suonne songo suonne ca te pònno
fà rummanè stecchito comme a niente.
Ì steve allerta 'ncoppa a 'na muntagna
Tutt'a 'nu tratto sento 'nu lamiento,
'O pizzo addò stev'ì era sulagno...
Dicette ncapo a me: E chisto è 'o viento!
Piglio e mme mengo pè 'nu canalone
e veco sott'a n'albero piangente
'nu fuosso chino 'e prete a cuppulone...
e sotto a tutto steva 'nu serpente.
"Aiuto! Aiuto!" 'O povero anìmale
se mettette alluccà cu tutt' 'o sciato!
Appena mme vedette: "Menu male!...
Salvatemi! Ì mo moro asfessiato!"
"E chi t'ha cumbinato 'e sta manera?"
ll'addimannaje mentr' 'o libberavo.
"E stato 'nu signore aieressera"
mme rispunnette, e ggià se repigliava.
"Si nun era pè vvuje ì ccà murevo.
Faciteve abbraccià, mio salvatore!"
Mme s'arravoglia attuorno e s'astrigneva
ca n'atu ppoco mme schiattava 'o core.
"Lassame!" lle dicette " 'O vvì ca ì moro? "
E chianu chiano mme mancava 'a forza,
'o core mme sbatteva... ll'uocchie 'a fore,
mentre 'o serpente cchìù strigneva 'a morza!
"Chisto è 'o ringraziamento ca mme faje?
Chesta è 'a ricunuscenza ca tu puorte?
A chi t'ha fatto bbene chesto faje?
Ca sì cuntento quanno 'o vide muorto!"
"Amico mio, serpente ì songo nato!...
... Chi nasce serpe è 'nfamo e senza core!...
... Perciò t'aqgia mangià! Ma t'hê scurdato
... ca Il'ommo, spisso, fa cchiù peggio ancora?!".
688
Hi you say
I wish I were
The stuff of dreams or so it seems is a world of wonder if it's time to seek
What a glorious day for happy toes at play on Pismo Beach
It's a bright morning
Of another shining day
A blessing it is that Life holds sway
With a brilliant glow and van-tastic sight
All made possible by those billowing winds, huffing and puffing last night
A nice position that ensures no concern with people who flop
Is experiencing the casual ebb and flow of ultra green tree tops
Hank and Frankie had their usual convention and loud beak fights
And then dived off the balcony railing versus soaring in flight
In addition to tossing my mollusk shells for no valid reason
So I threatened them both with a flame thrower later this season
The ***** are polished with a Biore Charcoal Scrub sheen
Which helps me enjoy the neater environment that someone else just cleaned
Yet,
One never knows how that day or this will be framed
Yesterday, making miso soup, my right front stove burner burst into flames
In the ensuing panic with many motions that were manic
It was way too scary with fire alarm screaming something about a wire
Luckily, I remembered my fire safety training re how to put out a grease fire
I was cooking miso soup
How did that cause a combustible grease loop ?
All made stranger by the proverbial question of why
It's been weeks since I used the stove to fry
It just goes to show
Between the bed and the door
Near the thin edge of a sheet of paper things can turn to crapping
On any given day - at any given time - anything can happen
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 3:57 PM UTC
He said I always make things worse.
I traced our last conversation
inside my lip with my tongue,
until it burned like citrus.
My teeth still taste like that night—
miso soup, metallic coffee, a dare—
and the word “almost” said until it split.
I don’t start the fires—
I just know how to fan them
so the smoke spells mine,
so the ashes spell proof.
“You’re welcome for the mirror,” I said,
then, “You flinched first,”
like scripture I was tired of reciting.
He called me a problem
and then prayed for something exciting.
Well, God listens.
And she’s been on my side lately.
(And sometimes inside me.
And sometimes wearing red.)
You say I write like it’s a weapon.
But you brought a sword to my poem.
You heard me speak—and called it war.
I’m not the plot twist.
I’m the motif.
I’m the whisper that keeps showing up
even when you don’t name it.
Especially when you don’t name it.
You wanted a girl who could break
without getting any on your shoes.
Who called it miscommunication
when it was a massacre.
I called it Thursday.
I made you feel.
You made it a crime scene.
Now every sentence tastes like sirens.
But sure—blame me
for the blood in your mouth
when you kissed me wrong.
So yeah—
maybe I do make things worse.
But worse is where the story gets good.
Where you start reading slower.
Where your hands start shaking.
It’s not that I ruin things.
I just ask questions
that don’t look good in daylight.
It’s not that I mean to wreck things.
I just don’t know how to leave a room
without checking every exit
twice.
And labeling each one ‘almost.’
You ever love someone
so hard you forget to be charming?
Me neither.
He thought he was the mystery.
I’m the red string
and the corkboard
and the girl in the basement
with the map of everything that never happened.
You didn’t fall for me.
You fell through me.
That’s not my fault.
It’s gravity.
Or girlhood.
Or God, laughing behind her hand.
Say it again. Slower. This time, with your hands in your pockets.
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 6:05 AM UTC
Sipping miso soup
In lieu of a hug
Warm convalescence
Ephemeral reprieve
For a perpetual hunger
That ceases to leave
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 7:32 PM UTC