Mystery are the prongs of jealousy
When struck rings and sings like a song.
Mystery still is why such innate sea of emotions
Overcomes me in such a fashion.
What does this say about me?

The prongs rings out -
I doubt -
I've ever felt this wrong before.
The prongs rings out -
I know -
Singing of everything I want
But will never had

I cannot change the song
Or tune these prongs
To another key
As the ringing is too strong

And it's been too long
Since I've heard sweet silence
All I have is neat violence
In the form of a forlorn song.

The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,

Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,

The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words

Goth Child nursed his mother's tattooed *****

Snapped **** with teeth

Then grizzled grin at me and spit up

I poked at my chile relleno

Twisting hot cheesy sludge off prongs

Tour jete with fork finishes in arabesque

Between my own fangs

I spit back scalding ****

Goth Child points, says, "Pawpee, that man is scarewee"

Pawpee turns his tattoo tears to see

Flashes his gleaming grill

I sink in my seat behind sightline of salsa squeeze bottle

Chattering ivories

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

lover old voice
bed bug boy
timbre distinction of
man vs. boy vs. baby
raspberry at the lips and
bubble beaten air
boy in bed clothes
locked
rolling
sad sad boy down
the steps in a
laundry basket
weathered hands and makeup
prongs boy
you’re cute
let me buy you
a drink

Blackberries, fat with summer rays,
Burst sure and true, like ocean waves
Against my tongue they carry too
The scent, the touch, the taste of you.

Each bramble stripped with greedy hands
Felt no qualm from scarlet brands
Those such marks would wash away but
Stains of you will still remain.

The scratches heal, I’ll brush away
Those nettle prongs that stick and stay
I’ll brush the bracken, soothe the sting
But thoughts of you will always cling.

Those onyx beads, their shiny spheres
Imbued with Sunshine, wet with tears;
The taste is fading from my mouth
Their waves of sweetness drawing out.

Susie polishes the silver.
She hates polishing the
forks, the bits in between,
the stink of the cleanser.

She’d rather be in bed
with Polly in the attic.
Holding her close, feeling
her body next to hers.

The cold weather offers
a good excuse. Polly’d
say, get off me you queer
***, otherwise. She rubs

the cloth over the prongs,
the stink making her feel
nauseous. Dudman, the
butler will be along soon.

He’ll snoop up close to her,
look over her shoulder;
press his body next to hers.
Maids are as nothing, he

often said, pressing his
finger into her back, or
pinching her ****. She holds
her breath as long as she

can; the stink is getting to her.
She thinks back to the night
before, Polly’s nightgown
against her flesh, her smell

invading her nose, spooning
close. She recalls the moon
in the skylight, captured like
a painting, the stars spread

like ***** on a dark cloth.
Mrs Gripe the cook called her
a lazy cow over breakfast,
the fat ***** staring at her

with her cow like eyes. She
rubs between prongs, eases
along the handle. She’d love to
shove the fork into Dudman’s

****; push it in with all her
might.  Soon the bell would
ring, someone would want
morning tea upstairs. She

breathes out, puts down
the fork, picks out a spoon
and begins the cleaning again,
thinking of Polly, her fingers

caressing the spoon’s end,
imagining ******* along
Polly’s waist, moving her
thumb into the indentation,

sensing her body move, that
weird overriding sensation.

As I lay on my back, I think of myself as dirt—
Not in a bad way, but like how some soil is soft, like cake.
I am soft and loose. My bones are gone; I am only flesh,
My skeleton stops protecting my heart and mind.
All this anxiety, all this stress, leaves my head
And my heart is just buried loosely under my chest.

If I don’t have any bones for a ribcage, do I have a chest?
I only know that I have my heart and mind buried in myself, my dirt.
“Do geese see God?” not a scenario, but a palindrome, a light thought, in my head.
Scenarios are the foundation of my agitation. Who cares, I guess? Let me eat cake.
(I make due with my mental health, in my mind.)
Anyways, I’m going to continue being with myself, my thoughts, my flesh.

I’m okay that my bones have disintegrated into my flesh.
I’m okay that my ribs no longer enclose my heart in my chest.
Later I will be aware that this is a meditation; it’s all in my mind
But right now, my reality is that I am dirt.
I am a soft, crumbly cake.
And this is all at once going through my head.

Another element arouses in my head:
Nails poke through the ceiling, aiming towards my flesh—
Or sharp prongs fixed on this beautiful mess of crumbly cake.
I am still, motionless, an open target, my broad chest.
I have no problem with this, because right now I am dirt.
(Death never crossed my mind.)

The sharp nails in the ceiling are now loosening, in my mind.
Now the nails fall, and drop into my chest and head
They pin me down to the ground, to the earth, to the dirt
With ease through the soft, rich, flesh
Of mine. It softly punctures my chest
I am being devoured, my body of cake.

Since my skeleton is gone, and my body is soft as cake,
I embrace the nails—a therapeutic acupuncture, I think in my mind.
My heart is heavy but happy in my chest.
And these nails keep sinking deeper in my head.
I am content being alone, by myself, a pile of flesh
I am one with the earth, with the dirt.

Nails in my chest, or prongs in the cake
I am dirt, I like to think in my mind
I am my heart, my head, my flesh.

As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. ******* limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, "***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.

Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, "****, guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild ****, as tool is to you as to yo *****." Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ******?" Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a ****. "What you want, *****? You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.

Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ******, flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.

Intriguing the conscience, burning the desires inside the heart.

the reason behind the lie and the sorrow behind the words,

the warmth behind the blush and the summoning call„

the curls in the vines and the dark shadows,

the secrets and the treasure,

hell and fire,

or heaven and love,

the magic and the lullabies of night,

The righteous and the right.

Caught in the prongs of Thy,

Intrigued by the essence,

caring not to hide.

times like this, the plenary moon
  tonight wearing many faces,

the white-washed truant at bay
    white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
   of say, prongs of fire on the kiln

the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
  what the heat of placeness mints underneath
  our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
  remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.

we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of  light’s bendable
   rondure harnessing a truth we let in.

I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
  by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
  past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
  like a well-oiled machine.  what do you hear?

  we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
  or the wild sibilance of breath trying  to  utter something,
  going back home with a song in between teeth,
    without words.

A bond broken
Is forever torn.
Words left unspoken
Are perceived with scorn.

Why do you still get under my skin?
Writhing, twistingー
Tendrils of tenure,
Of an angel's allure.

With malignant certainty,
You hurt me
And lure me into the dark
Unknowings

Of a man's lie
Against time ill-vied.

mischief and such wit
  moony, wormtail, padfoot, prongs
  they're the marauders
and when the job's done
  wave your wand and just say this
  'mischief managed!' done
cleverness present
  but wasted on breaking rules
  yet used for the fun

It’s all come down to this:

prongs and damp curves
and lots of serration.
My bite and your bite
and we all
bite down.

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



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.”



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



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

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

A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated ...
―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

This is an example of a translation in which I interpreted the poem before translating it. In the original poem the clothes were thin (suggesting suggestive garments). In Japanese poetry an autumn wind can represent loneliness. So I interpreted the poem to be about an aging woman who still wears enticing clothes but is increasingly lonely. Since in the West we don't normally drape clothes on screens, I moved the clothes to a clothesline, which works well with the wind. For me it's a sad poem about something that happens all too often to people as they age.

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 ****.
―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



New Haiku Translations, added 6/27/2022

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 (1703-1775), 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 (1753-1826), 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 (1473-1549), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminated by the harvest moon
smoke is caught creeping
across the water ...
Hattori Ransetsu (1654-1707), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fanning its tail flamboyantly
with every excuse of a breeze,
the peacock!
Masaoki Shiki (1867-1902), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Waves row through the mists
of the endless sea.
Masaoki Shiki (1867-1902), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I hurl a firefly into the darkness
and sense the enormity of night.
—Kyoshi Takahama (1874-1959), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As girls gather rice sprouts
reflections of the rain ripple
on the backs of their hats.
—Kyoshi Takahama (1874-1959), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

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

I’ve been trying to fit in my whole life
Self-imposed my own strife
wishing to overwrite my life with something nice
but I just keep running on the wheel of life with a bunch of mice

I’ve been trying to fit in, find the light
Honestly, This is all a joke, I'm done faking polite
doing what's right, fighting  the fight to end all plight
Fighting the fight only plightens the plight
hardens the strife
Deepens the knife and turns it to the right
all because we think we know whats right
we act like we know what's best for them
but do we know what's right for us?
No, we lost sight

I’ve been trying to fit in for so long
Forcing myself to do what feels wrong
Listening to the thong song, hit the long ****
Play along and act strong
Just to prolong the life long theme song of
“I don’t belong, but let me see your thong thong thong thong ”
I’ll just stop singing along with the throng  of prongs
There is nothing wrong with thinking with your ****
But do you want long term fulfillment or
Yesssssssss…now what? Cigarette? Emptiness?

That’s why I was depressed because I was trying to fit in with a world full of regret
Humanity feeling like they are always in debt, but have you ever checked
Why you do what you do and what gets you through
And how whatever you believe comes true for you
Not enough? Everyone ****? Life is tough?
Here you go, would you like fries with that too
It's no surprise that it's true
the one creating the blame is you
the shame's from you
The creator of the game is you
The only one you can change is you
You change you and the world around you changes too
Try to change the world around you first then it gives you a clue
That there is room for growth within you
I began to change from within
when I asked one question
Why am I trying to fit in?
Only because I never became my own friend
Only to hide that I wanted life to end
Only, so now I can show you what life is like when you never have to pretend

As my illogic breaks, I'll robot make
to be this soul's chamber,
robbing a piecemeal joy from misfit toys
tossed out for fine tuning

by toddlers cheery mad to gorge on fads.
I'll take their T-Rex head,
with droopy lids that wink as if to drink
the world's wide-shallow stares,

plug its plastic prongs in torso of tin
while twin squeeze-box arms splay
to tie magnetic bows round pads below
gold, plush lion cub's legs.

This moppet of mixed breeds I'll learned feed
with animate cunning
to be ruled by charmed laws that give it pause
when whole-sum circumstance

tangles fuzzy circuits. Then a circus-
wire's unbalancing act
I'll paste from templed flesh to doll enmeshed
by transfuse rigging,

and as coil comes to slough, just as I'm off,
I'll flip that gilded switch,
implanting my spirit into a bit
of copper-hued country.

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.

“How could this happen? You'll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You ****** your thumb. That's why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!

“Don't worry. We'll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy.

But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.

Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”

All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”

And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.

This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.

About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.

“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.”

There's a really heavy typewriter on the shelf above me.
It's old. It's broken. It's beautiful.
"I wish I could use it." is always my first thought when I stare up into its under-carriage of prongs and teeth.
It doesn't fit on the shelf, and it surely doesn't belong there.
My first thought should be "That may fall and **** me at any moment", but I think I avoid that thought because I kind of hope it does. What a way to go out. Not intentional. I didn't put it up there with the intention of it becoming some sort of Medieval time-bomb, but the symbology behind that accidental death would be enough for me to be satisfied with the ending of my life.
If you manage to banish the senseless fascination with your imagination's speculation of what people will think of you if you do THIS...or when THAT happens...then what's there to fear about failure? Failure just becomes progress at that point.
There's a really heavy typewriter on the shelf above me, and a part of me hopes that it falls and bashes my skull in.

A lifetime of wrongs
Wrought by insensitive hands.
Grasping like prongs
And, well, as it stands,
I'm ******* ******.
There's nothing left but this.
All the chances, you missed.
So give my fist a kiss.
You're gonna bleed, you're gonna die
I'll burn your past, I'll skin you live,
Before you open that mouth and ask "why",
I don't care, take a ******* dive.
I can't stand you breathing
You made me mad, and don't you see?
It all ends, in a ****** wreathing.
And you bet your *** you'd better be scared of me.

Sun Tzu realized that razing an enemy to the ground can lead to long-term negative results for Empire, especially depending on that which fills the vacuum left behind. That can be observed in contemporary times with ISIS having filled the vacuum left behind in Iraq and Syria.

When showing too much presence in outlying territory that had been left alone as a neutral buffer between two opposing Dynasties, that can prompt the other to become nervous enough to attempt to mitigate an issue that it regards as a possible growing threat.

Also, regardless of location, imposing too much open hostility upon an enemy can eventually lead to the enemy becoming emboldened enough to rebel against the openly oppressive Empire. When imposing overt tyranny upon an outlying territory in what might appear as an immediately successful operation, that can lead to using too many resources to maintain that position in that way. The potential of troops can be lost when stationed as a permanent standing army in an area located far away from applicable future need; that holds true regardless of available technological advancements in transportation—from defended shipping canals and heavy calvary, to cargo planes and aircraft carriers.

Those are a few examples of possible problematic logistics when attempting to assimilate an enemy.

Within his diabolical brilliance, Sun Tzu expanded one of the main prongs in the “Three Pronged Approach”, injected the heavy metals of dark arts psychology into something that already had a foundation of psychology: Enforce will upon the enemy without the enemy realizing it, to the point that the enemy will help you to accomplish goals against itself, relishing in the effort with a sense of duty.  Subsequent experimentation led to permanently changing the face of warfare overall. Ever since, successful (subjective, depends on perspective) Empire, empires, nations, governments, and corporations use the tactic.

The Trident-Tongue of Perpetual Psychological Cultural Warfare:

The Target: Village surrounded with forest: society: a clearing in the woods:

Infiltrate the village as a messenger who bears warning of a powerful, dangerous enemy making its way towards the outlying territory where the target village is located. Sow fear. When enough villagers are afraid, offer protection against the “common enemy”. That protection is 1/10 of the resources necessary for an open, direct enforcement of will. Explain that the cure, the guardians, require lodging, food, and other basic needs as small payment for services rendered. Use mindgames on reluctant villagers.

When the village agrees, and your presence becomes common place—"normalized”—begin to plant ideas in the villagers, and that includes sowing doubt on your presence. The villagers begin to divide themselves into opposing groups against each other. One group believes that there isn't an approaching enemy, another group calls that group selfish, as going against the betterment of the whole. Another group suddenly believes that it isn't good to eat something that their ancestors had eaten for centuries. In the ensuing chaos, poison some of the village children. There are many fairy tales that include broken families, lost children, and attempts made to poison and eat children. Poisoning/destroying eggs in nests is a way to cull goose populations.

Once the enemy villagers are too broken to properly run the village, announce that the invading force has been spotted in a nearby valley, and that the villagers need to hide in the forest surrounding the village. There are bamboo enclosures waiting in the forest. Explain that the enclosures will offer defense to the villagers. After the villagers enter the enclosures, lock the villagers in the enclosures, and begin to ridicule the villagers for having fallen for the trap. Mock the villagers, spit on the villagers, laugh at the villagers. Remove pre-selected villagers from the bamboo enclosures, **** and ****** the targets in front of their caged families and friends. Have another group that consists of individuals sporting insignia, weapons, and armour that differ from the first group, pretend to scare off the first group. Release the villagers from their enclosures. Explain to the villagers that their former captors lied over there being an encroaching invading force in order to trick the villagers into the enclosures, and that you are willing to protect them against their former captors. Overjoyed, without being prompted to do so, the villagers offer much more payment than before for services rendered, so much so, that you 'sell' their own products back to them.

The villagers believe that their gods sent Sun Tzu's death knights in shining armour to them in an act of divine deliverance.
The villagers mindlessly follow and parrot every command and slogan issued forth from their supposed protectors.
The villagers don't remember village life prior to having been enslaved by their divine shepherds. The stages of demoralization, dehumanization, destabilization, crisis, crisis mitigation, and normalization have been completed. The villagers have burned the bowls in their skulls, are empty jugheads to fill with idea-petals of poverty, subservience, sickness, and death.

1/10 the amount of usual resources were used to secure the area in a sustainable manner. There weren't valuable troops lost in battle. Weapons and armour didn't need to be mended and retooled. Empire doesn't need to worry over revolt from the villagers, and the village works for Empire. When there is need to retool or replace weapons and armour, the village blacksmith does so in the belief that he is helping to protect the village against a common enemy.

The enemy villagers are injected with a new passion for a while, but break again under the strain of hyper-conflict that perpetual psychological cultural warfare causes in an infected individual. Use the good cop/bad cop psychology (the template and blueprint for contemporary politics and political systems) in various ways until Empire inevitably begins to devour itself. When Empire devours itself, the outlying provinces are the first to go as Empire implodes to protect its core. At that point, Big Brother had been selling the village's goods to caravans to spread the goods throughout neighbouring provinces. The wealthier that Empire becomes, the more that the consistently poorer target villagers offer to Empire: A tell-tale sign of an incoming Great Reset uncoiling from off the horizon, slithering down into valley basins filled with current moments.

Gaslight the villagers, blame and shame them for everything, squeeze them to their last guilt-drop before setting the villagers ablaze.


One of the Great Deceptions within the Grand Illusion is the delusion that there is constant need of the worker. A worker is useful in various ways in different seasons of bloom and wither. Within universal change, there are constants: The peasant doesn't bow to the King without bowing to the Queen before being ground into grain for winter stores, just as the worker honeybee drones are cast from the hive during winter—relish their death with a sense of duty fulfilled on the frost as snowflakes kiss their wings.

The broken villagers are useless to Empire, husks of their former selves. In the scenario of a neighbouring Dynasty approaching to feed in death knell, lock the villagers in their homes, and set them ablaze as decoy-beacons in the valley for the encroaching Dynasty.

The burning village is located in a bowl of ash surrounded in a steep, jagged-toothed mountain range. As the enemy Dynasty descends into the valley, you head westerly towards the third largest bastion in Empire's outer rings of defense.


Sun Tzu didn't come up with the concept on his own:

He retooled a trident that he found leaning against a scorched bamboo enclosure located in a long-forgotten forest.

                                                        ­     11 12 2021

Close my eyes and I can see yours again
Let myself get lost in the distant memory
The song plays through my head
And it's like watching a movie through my own eyes
Because I know it's not real

And I remember how I pressed my head against your chest
How soft your lips felt on my cheek
And how my heart shuddered when you whispered that you loved me
I never wanted it to end

And I'll never forget how soft that dress was
Or the respect I commanded dressed in blood with crown in hand
I wont forget the glittering lights
Or the warm air that night accompanied by the soft breeze

But most of all I wont forget you
Your smile your laugh
Your pocket square with four prongs
I can't forget your dancing
Your sweeping me off my feet

And how could I
You made me feel like a queen for just one night
And as wonderful as it all was
All I really needed that night was you

If we’re not careful we’ll destroy,
and all too soon, the privateness
of the local: what we come to own
when we walk out of the box of home
into the anywhereness of outside.

Let’s not say too much,
but keep what we find
to ourselves. Maybe share it
with the one whose heart
lies close before sleep.
Draw it, certainly:
her hanging dress, the kicked off shoes,
even that hairbrush you bring to your lips
to taste her, your tongue touching
her hair’s fine curl and tangle lying adrift
amongst the noduled prongs.

Let these things speak
of what is not there. Or, rather,
of what is not there in front of us.

Of course I noticed when
he placed his hand next to mine on the counter
(a little closer than accidental).

The hand that once made my soul swirl when it touched me.
The same hand I watched rip my heart from my skin
and crush it between its fingers,
while mine frantically fumbled and fought like fiends
to prevent him from slipping through them like sand.

I knew that hand better than the back of mine.

So I pulled back and pushed away
any of those memories before they gained enough strength
to pick and pry and wrap their prongs around my neck.

But by the time I realized what I could do,
I could already feel them on my throat.

Lovers Cathedral

Sweeping her into his arms, breathing gently they searched into each other’s eyes, locked the light flowed between them, both turning their heads the cathedral opened, the grand forest lay before them

Gazing in silence, willow trees graced the soils as though bowing to king and queen, tall oaks reached up into the stars and unseen truffles perfumed their basis,
Rocks glowed emerald by cascading streams, where fawns of pale red whispered their thirsts, and doe’s liquid brown eyes watched in peaceful sermon

Pathways threaded in pristine white onion and blue bells, and pouring’s of wild milk orchards clustered as golden sun sprang forth, painting endlessly into a picture, their luscious orange centers exploding like solar flares, below green prongs quivered on the light warm breeze as though princesses skirts splaying in curtsy.
Webs hung delicately through the trees and leaves encrusted with tiny suspended emeralds reflected sun rays that cast upon pathways

Around sweet flowers of gold and fuchsia bees played the air with the sound of drums, and fairy folk rowed their soft backs each carrying baskets of shimmering dusts, ants paused in reverence as light clouds of purple cascaded down, then continued on their way.

Ivy touched by sun glow wound lovingly around trunks in lovers endless embrace, and giant silver ferns spread the miles dancing like royal court members, one in front of another lightly touching, young succulent growth centers curled as though bowing listening to celestial music

Fresh sea salt perfumed the air and waves rumbled the forest floor, excited they turned to the distant mountains, pathways fell below scattered with quartz as glittering rainbows of colours awash formed ponds.

And the two lovers whispered in chant;

“We lay behind the star bright sky,
we do not fear pagan of heart are we.
Lore of old we both do share, my love for you,
by day, by night, in thought and in sight,
will my soul lean meaning of this life again,
from our moon lit throats candles high flare,
our dance begins, I meet you there.

Gazing back into each other’s eyes, he stepped forth still embraced their hands fasted, behind the doors closed as they laughed into the cathedral mists

── goodbye they mused

© Arnay Rumens / A Sol Poet  2014

I descended the stairs in dread,
Shading my eyes
From the late August sun
Coming through the window,
Onto the landing.
The rakes leaned against the garage wall
Like prisoners on work detail.
Mammy had plain porridge,
Toast, jam and strong tea prepared
For our last summer breakfast.
No tomatoes.
We'd work on the clumps of dirt,
Breaking, raking, smoothing,
Preparing the ground for next Spring.
The root cellar we dug beneath
The newly poured porch
Was filled with the harvest
Of the auld sod's outlook.
On the sideboard, stacked in four neat piles,
Rose our school supplies for Tuesday.
He stood guard at the bottom of the yard.
I drove the prongs through the clumps,
Waiting for the school bell.

When I was a kid, our local Kroger on Main Street had a movie rental place built into it. It was in the corner where the new pharmacy is, the one they put in within the last five years.

Looking back, it is amazing how much technology has advanced, just in my lifetime. We used to rent VHS's, and we had to actually take the time to rewind them if we wanted to watch them, or return them politely. They also had to be placed in the case to where each "film hole" matched up with the little, circular plastic prongs meant to hold the tape into place. Remember that, when we used to watch "tapes". I am a mere 24 years old, and that alone takes me back to the "90's, the times of Buffy The Vampire Slayer which was one of dad's favorites. We used to rent and watch that "tape" all the time.

I also remember us owing the local Blockbuster tons of late fees over, "Gattaca". Eventually, in an effort to keep up with the then newly-installed and now already vanquished Hollywood Video, they offered late fee forgiveness if we simply bought the VHS for ten or fifteen bucks. We ended up paying like$30 and keeping several different titles.

Thinking about the, "Be Kind, Please Rewind" slogan reminds me to think back to my childhood, to remember those themes which will become the chapters of my young life when I am older. Those little nostalgias will bring warmth in my old age when my parents and pets of my youth have aged and gone, when friends have moved away, their children coming of the age we were when technology advanced to levels that made us feel like children of the Stone Age.

I am youthful yet, but as I see my peers age around me, high school friends and neighbors having children of their own putting into perspective for me that human mortality is awaiting us all, I realize that this is life. What is going on all around me is life. Life isn't a television set or a VHS tape, playing for us the scenes of our lives as hours, days months and years pass and fade away. Life is a verb. As another saying of the 90's pronounced, "Verb... it's what you do!" Life is to be lived, it is what we do. Too often we forget life is not only a noun, but a verb. Its cousin, "live" beckons us to not fear the scattering sands of time, but to go out, letting go of inhibition and let our hearts take us where we want, need and yearn to go.

This youthful inflection is a part of the transition into adult life. It is scary, it makes us feel as though we are letting go of a part of us we wish not yet to let go. But, alas... We must be kind to ourselves, and let the memories serve as a reminder of time served in adolescent purgatory, times of inadequacy, self-discovery. Of first, second and even third loves. Of numbness allowing us to think back on it all, evaluate and distinguish love from lust, "something more's" from "good friendship, nothing more", and even sometimes people whose only purpose in life was to teach us a lesson on how to not be treated, or from whom to stay away. These moments of growth are vital in growth for rendering healthy future relationships.  At this point in life, we can feel lucky to have known one good and true love at all.

It is important to lol back on happy family memories, as in the end family is all we have. We have family who stay family, family who go astray and friends who become family. Remembering the memories is part of looking towards the future.

In this day and age, we no longer have to "rewind", so it is important to take the time to do so. For it is in those moments that life is remembered, relived and future moments of life are born.

Her beat had been so bastardized that a tree had grown to protect it;
To harbor silence in pandemonium.
Isolation was the only remedy to a disease persistent to turn past into present,
So she grew on her own terms, and her heart beat for no one but herself,
Because to let someone in, meant to risk axing away at the barricade she had worked so arduously to withstand.
When she fell into him the first time, the wounds were preemptive.
Her brittle bones cast away at the hopes that he would see her heart before her mind;
From which idiosyncratic branches wrapped around her fingertips,
And the oak shards springing from within, just barely inching away from his own heart.
Strangely enough, he didn’t seem to mind.
When he stripped to bare back the scars were evident,
They cascaded from collarbone to the dip of his hip.
That’s when he brought her closer and whispered marvelously:
“I would bleed again for you.”
At the beginning, the boy hurt,
Yet he still saw the heart it held between the prongs of wooden cage.
So he continued to hurt, for her.
His mission rooted in the purpose of painting her the canvas of what life ought to be.
Penciling in the possibility of a reality where her aching shoulders could be lifted,
And a new smile plastered onto her lifeless frame.
He painted her in the image of who she used to be-
As if he knew her before she grew weary at life’s expense.
In the canvas, the wooden cage had disappeared, and a luminosity introduced itself.
He had uncovered her heart, and no longer was it encompassed by a shell, but freely beating;
Beating for him.
Every morning, day in and day out, meters of her branches gradually retracted,
And the boy’s scars gradually sealed over.
Oddly enough, it seemed as if they had healed each other.
That the quiet embraces they held each night didn’t pierce him,
but rather comforted his mind that this time, it would be different.
Somehow, she would come to love him, and him, her.
She saw in him a soldier; whose battle wounds were ghastly.
He had lived through hell and came back to dispel the stories,
But instead of stories of agony and woe, and anger and spite,
He spoke of the morning dew on dandelions reflecting the sun’s rays and how they most beautifully sprung from nothing.
He spoke of the quiet whispers of the wind bringing music to deaf ears.
He spoke of how if you listen closely, you can almost hear each cricket sing its song
in a field of thousands.  
Each time he kissed her,
he did as if it were the last.
Each time he held her,
he did as if she were asleep.
Each time he healed her wounds,
he did as if they were preemptive.

Hearing music,
And songs.
Centimetres cubic,
And prongs.

Feeling deep bass lines,
Drinking the blues,
Echoing shines
Eloquent muse.

Blabbering brooks,
And useless tongues,
Deceiving looks,
And exploding lungs.

Seeing colours saturated,
With patterns that prickle,
Sensing hues evaporated,
With a silly tickle.

It must be nice not to eat dinner in silence (or alone),

not to see her crying as she adds honey to oats,

waiting for that spoon to be knocked out of her hands

then hear she butters bread on the wrong side.

Have conversation like stringed balloons, waving,

instead of wrists shaking on counter-tops, spite flaming

on black gas hobs, that clutch with their hot prongs.

Not to gargle sympathies while packing, catching the backwash

of that drink- it’s foul- choked, swallowed too quickly.

Ignore her strong, sombre hints of “stay, bear it with me”,

cradling her elbows. Say: not today, places to go.

And shudder on brass hinges. Grasping at the rail

to support my skidding feet at the ice rink one mild day.

But I’ve got my own life coming,

my own sorrows to plunder.

When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother,
“What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be pretty?
What comes next?
Oh right, will I be rich?”
Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop.
And the pretty question infects from conception,
passing blood and breath into cells.
The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts
in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted?
Worthy?
Pretty?”
But puberty left me this fun house mirror dryad:
teeth set at science fiction angles,
crooked nose,
face donkey-long
and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting.
My poor mother.
“How could this happen?
You’ll have porcelain skin
as soon as we can see a dermatologist.
You ****** your thumb.
That’s why your teeth look like that!
You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6.
Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!
“Don’t worry.
We’ll get it fixed!”
She would say, grasping my face,
twisting it this way and that,
as if it were a cabbage she might buy.
But this is not about her.
Not her fault.
She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset
she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade.
By 15, I was pickled with ointments,
medications, peroxides.
Teeth corralled into steel prongs.
My nose was never fixed.
Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia,
and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”
All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”
And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.
This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.
About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.
This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.
“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely ‘pretty’.”

Dawn's golden notes stream
across barn's yellow beams
supporting stables hemming horses
cavorting cows sagging udders
melding with yellow hay
bouncing glistening pitchforks prongs
as the song begins.

Dust, glittering as if a nebula, each speck of it freed of
ground, twittering around like birds wading sound.
Spread out, as if a picture, dots of bright ethereal
in their luminescence lightened blinking out
as if frightened, but then heaving about
in the barn's barren air circulating redoubt,
sparkle yet again,
and again,
until they are drowned dark black out
by the opening of a barn door.

Little of moment's loves
Transform our precious
Frail pleasures
Into eternal loves
Unless there is a decision
to greet the old and mundane as
new,
as if dust were stars.

I stare at the ice. My cheeks are burning, my hands are trembling. She looks at me staring at it. I look away quickly but look back at the ice when I see her head turn. She knows I need it. I see it melting in the cups she is setting out. Water. I need water.

Beside me is the wing, and a propeller is thrumming so loud it's making my head ache. I can imagine it spinning so fast the separate prongs are a blur, but I cannot see them move. There are windows in front of and behind my seat, but just far enough away to where I cannot easily see out of them. Just the red of the wing at a glance. A glimpse of white, and the red.

She steps towards me... but stops at the row in front of me. Water? She taps another woman's knee. Would you like some water? Oh! No. Was her response. What? I think.  But it's free. She's giving it to you for free. I'm next. But then she turns away. Heads back towards the front. Noooo... she will offer me some?

Beside me the engine keeps thrumming and humming and drumming into my ears, into my head. The whole cabin shutters and squeaks and groans. A bolt is spinning loudly somewhere behind me. Maybe turning looser and looser until it falls off completely. This entire tin can is a *******. I am stuck inside the biggest *** toy ever created. We are vibrating up in the clouds, but who are we bringing pleasure? We are just the ones unlucky enough to get stuck inside.

Finally she turns to me. She is holding a tray full of tiny water bottles and small cups of ice. Water? She asks. Ice? Umm... both? I test her. She barely nods and hands me a plastic cup and a bottle. As I take them from her the coolness from the ice cup caresses my hand. Ice. Slowly I pour half of the tiny bottle into the tiny cup, watching the liquid. I take a sip and savor the taste. Water.

After a few sips, I dip my finger into the cup. Just the very tip. I take the droplet and smear it across my cheek. Then the other cheek. Cool, and refreshing on my flushed and burning face. Then it's gone. She comes back later and asks. More water? More ice? Yes. Both. This time I am not as careful; I pour as much of the bottle into the cup as I can. I'm holding the lid with one hand and the bottle with the other. The small plastic cup is clenched between my thighs. I try to set the bottle down after ******* the lid on but it falls the the floor. I lean across to pick it up and feel the cold. My water is spilling into my crotch, soaking my pants. My ****** feels cold and it's nice. Very nice. It is sad that all the water will be evaporated by the time we land.

After so much water I need to ***. I look around then stand slowly. Two steps forward. She steps aside. I grasp the door handle and step in, closing it after me. My hip touches the door and the other side. My elbows hit the walls. I turn around and ***. No sink to wash my hands. The room is stuffy, worse than the cabin. The smell of my own ***** is so strong I stifle a cough. When I flush, blue liquid seeps down from the top to the hole that opened for my waste. That's normal. But it keeps going. And going. Stop! I think. There's been enough water already wasted. As soon as I start to manually stop it, it shuts off. Good. I grab a sanitized napkin, rub it between my hands then go back to my seat.

The funny thing about this all, is that I am sitting in 3A. That is in the second row. This... this is first class.

Ironic. This is. Flying up so high and free... but still needing water. No matter where you go you need it. But even more ironic, is that when I crane my head back to look out the widow, I catch a glimpse of the ocean beneath us. So much water that we can't drink.

If I told him once I told him a million times. I said to him, " Manny, this is not a magical kingdom and your name's not Mickey. So, get out!" You think the message would sink in but noooo. Manny being the stubborn sort just kept ignoring me. Well, a good couple of months have passed and I'm nearly at wits end with him. Rotten little rodent. I tried spring traps only to find the bait cleanly removed and no spring sprung. I put steel wool in every conceivable crevice and notch he could possibly enter. Somehow that mouse would find his way. Now my flat happens to be a three story walk up and it's no easy task for me getting up those stairs, I just can't figure how a short stubby grubby little grifter like Manny might manage it or even bother. There's plenty more morsels to be found down at street level, especially with Sister Dawn's Soul Food next door. Yet Manny seems to always have a hankering for whatever I might be stirring up on my stove top. Can't say I blame him after the two times I've eaten Sister Dawn's greased grime. I guess I really only have myself to blame for the second plunge into that gastronomical wreckage. So, how could I blame poor Manny for wishing to elevate his senses for more refined dining? Not that I see my own sorcery in the kitchen much finer than Sister Dawn's, it's just it is. In any case, I'm pretty sure Manny might have been pushed out of an all too overcrowded family affair next-door anyhow. I certainly wouldn't want him bringing in any others. His gal Ethel Vermen and his cousin Ratzo are no more welcome than Manny Mouse himself. So I remind him daily, this not being a magical kingdom and all business. Got some glue traps and upped the ante with peanut butter for bait. Does he bite? Well, you know Manny, too clever to be caught he is. Until, that infamous night of revelry, when no creature is silent, and the music is maddening, and the drunks are drunker, all awaiting that New Year's babe to be born. And after months of chasing, after months plotting and planning, keeping the cupboards under lock and key, after midnight raucousness chasing a furry grey bitty beast from under the fridge to under the stove then under the sink, turning over tables and chairs, stomping like a madman, finally Manny and I come face to face. There he is run into that glue trap he managed to avoid forever seemingly snickering as he always got away, but now I had him. His head cinches between the double-ended prongs of my Ginsu serrated twelve inch knife. Finally Manny will pay for all his pilfering. There he is looking so woeful as his beady reflective eyes sear a plea of mercy into mine. I draw back the curved ergonomically designed handle of my Ginsu blade and with a fast flit of one prong slit cunningly into his ribcage. The squeak is short. I see his chest swell, a tiny heart pumps its last two beats. It is over. It is a new year for man.

My tongue runs over my swollen gums.
I taste the blood.
I feel the aching zones
Between off-white and red.
It stings.
There's not enough room in my mouth.
My tonuge runs down the row of 16;
There are two prongs sticking up
Where they shouldn't be.
Wisdom teeth.
Four corners, four teeth.
My teeth are textured.
Some feel smooth
Some ripple
Some have edges that grate against my tongue.
One tooth hides behind another
Afraid of the air
And the water.
The tooth that once housed a hole
Is now thicker than the rest.
Thick with plastic
Or whatever it is they use.

It's a cavern of discomfort
Cause by my own doing.
Blood.
Plaque.
Pressure.
I should've been a bird.

Beloved
Hearts Desire
3 prongs Royal,
Without yet a Pair
Empting the Heart.
For You,
I NOW End

A Dogs Bark in the Background
A Tea Rose in the Breeze
Gently Lifted
Reminder
Of the World Outside

Alizarin Crimsom
Shade,
None Duplicate
Whispering Sorocco
Of Desire Within
Your Oceans Breeze
With Loves Scent

You were Pink Once
Vibrating Harmony
Golden String upon the Flesh
Cupids Arrow from a Harp
Of Golden Light

Blues and Greens
Once Welcoming
Waters Edge
How You have Devoured Me
For my Trysts
Of Learning
Love's Desire
Stillness
In Flow

It was You who Called
And I that answered
Never meaning
To Take my eyes off
The fringed Guarder
Of Your Ledges
I fell
Reaching forward
Listening, Listening
Sound
Of Your Heart
So Beautiful
And Filled With Mystery
A Symphony
Of Loves Sharing
Heavenly Blessing
Reaching
Giving
Beauty
It was a Gift
I sought for You
A Pearl
In the Most Beautiful Shell
For your Glory
A Hero
For Your Love

I felt a hand on my back then..
And None was there
To Hide Me
For Your Hope

Pushed
by a Friends Want
I Fell
Wondering.. HOW
My Wings Broke
But My Love
If anything
My Strength
Was made Grown
Stronger

Climbing
Again and Again
All the Ocean
Hoped For Me
Cliffs of
Departure
I released Everything

Until
Finally
There was nothing  left

Your Death
Now Part of Me
As Much as Your Life
No Words
Can I Exclaim