Luna Tickle eats only pickles and ***** up all the brine
When her brother tells their mother she begins to whine:
“Yes I did it! And left no tidbit
Is that such a crime? My brother smells and raises hell
And leaves the loo full of slime.”

Now their mother dear began to fear her children were obstructions
Never listening, since their christening, and wished for their abduction
So she planned a slaughter and called her daughter
Outside to the woodshed, then chopped her neck in two
She put Luna’s head in her brother’s bed and said,
“Now, they’ll be no more Boo-Hoos”

Now you know of Luna and her tragic ending
But there’s more to this rhyme that’s pending
For the Tickle name is quite insane
And was never worth defending
But that’s just what her brother did
When Mrs. Tickle met Judge Knuckle
And almost flipped her lid
Screaming:
“I never liked that kid from the day she began to suckle!
Why she couldn’t be more like me, or her lovely sister Tess”
Twas all Mrs. Tickle could confess that day to Judge and jury
Until brother **** chimed-in and confessed his sin
And did so in such a fury, it was heard throughout and within
The entire state of Missouri:

“I am Richard Tickle and do confess I am not fickle
In fact I am quite pugnacious
If you do not see the circumstances like me
I’ll be forced to be disputatious”

Interjects Judge Knuckle:
“Boy, I’ll have you buckled this instance to electric chair
If you’re not scared I’ll be splitting hairs
In a place where the sun does not shine
So if you care, you’d best beware
Or your Gherkin will be in a brine”

Now Tess screamed out and her mother did shout
In perfect unison:
“**** is my love and none the likes of any other hooligan”

At this there was a scuffle
Each dame was muffed and ruffled
They could not contain
All their angst and their pain
And it led to the ugliest tussle
For each thought ****
Was devoted to she
And apparently, this could not be
As we know of the trouble with Luna
So the jury was not out
Or even in doubt
Of these sinister makings and troubles

It was the sickest of affairs
Mass-producing glaring stares
From everyone within the court
Missouri Gazette’s headlines that day
Told of how they did slay
And burn the Tickle chalet
Leaving it in incestuous rubble
The lesson today to this horrific ballet
Is don’t live your life in a bubble

Sometimes I get stuck in this state of Darkness
where my eyes can see
but it's like my head is just pitch black
and I almost wish I couldn't see anything,
like I wish I could just curl myself into a ball so tightly that I disappear from space for a while

sometimes I get stuck in this space
and I feel like my tears and my thoughts
are climbing up my esophagus and clogging my throat
blocking my airway
suffocating me from the inside

maybe I never told you I was depressed because who wants to relive that moment
that choking hazard moment of cotton ***** in my throat

maybe I never told you I was depressed because there are no words I can use to describe it that don't transform themselves into their meanings
that don't take over my mind
crawl through my head like little worms
eating away at my brain
my thoughts
my skin

have you ever thought of a traumatic experience and then felt those events happening again
felt the dark hole of life-threatening-trauma attack your mind
Shiver through your body
like it was a demon you let in through a memory-
through a word

maybe I didn't tell you I was depressed
because I wasn't strong enough
my depression fills me to the brim
fills my head and my chest
my arms and my fingers
I can feel it moving through my body
I can feel it expanding and engulfing everything inside of me
every last vein, nerve, *****, and tissue
how can you expect me to have the energy to fight
how can you expect me to have the energy to pick up the phone
to open my mouth
how can you expect me to have energy-to have the courage to utter the words of how I feel
I feel so worthless
in those moments I feel like there's this black whole inside me and it's consuming everything
it's taking everything but my skin
and it disgusts me

can you imagine the feeling,
having something so utterly repulsive on your skin you had to scrape it off immediately
It felt like you needed to be cleansed
like you needed a shower
take that feeling
now imagine it being under your skin
imagine, every muscle ***** vein nerve every cell in your body underneath your epidermis disgusts you
imagine all you wanted to do was to
GET
IT
OFF
and you can't
no matter how hard you try
you can't scrape it off
you can't claw It off

imagine you're scared of spiders
now imagine you're covered in spiders
and someone's holding down your arms
so you can't get them off
imagine them walking on your skin
in your mouth
crawling on your open eyes
in your ears
you're cringing at your own skin
You can feel them going down your throat
Their disgusting tickle in the pit of your stomach
in every crevice of your body
their tunneling under your skin
and you can't get them off
what are you supposed to do
but cry

Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Wiles's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,
willow,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.

I heard faint noises downstairs, and I decided to investigate. I pulled on a pair of cut-off jeans and grabbed the old pump shotgun that had served me so well in Viet-Nam from under my bed and crept downstairs to check. My Ranger training came into play, and I moved soundlessly, down the stairs and into the living room. An air of vague shadowy figures were searching through the cabinet that housed my collection of antique silver. I announced my presence in a sudden and intimidating manner: I merely pumped the action of the shotgun, then immediately moved to the right so if anyone shot, he would shoot where I had been, not where I was now. That sound was a language that everyone understood, including the two figures before me. They froze, and were still motionless.

"Mr. Steve?" one of the figures quavered. "Please don't shoot!"

I recognized the voice as belonging to Lisa, the twenty-year-old daughter of my nearest neighbor. I didn't know who the other person was or who else may be in the house, so I kept the shotgun pointed in their direction and hit the light switch with my free hand. Immediately a car cranked up in my driveway, and tires squealing, raced out to the road and away. I looked at my midnight visitors. I recognized Lisa and Julie, who was a close friend of Lisa's and a frequent overnight visitor of hers. They were holding between them a laundry bag containing most of my silver collection. I lowered the muzzle of the cut down shotgun.

"You sure know how to get yourselves killed," I stated. "Mind telling me who was in the car? You don't want to take the rap all by yourselves."

"Please don't shoot! That was Mike, it was all his idea! He made us do it! He said he would put us out and make us walk home if we didn't do it! Are you going to call the Cops?"

Now I could understand why the girls tried to burglarize my home. It was a fifteen-mile walk home in pitch darkness on a moon-less night for the two frightened girls. It was just what a worthless **** like Mike would pull. Knowing what I did about Lisa's boyfriend, I knew what he probably needed the money for. He was nineteen; the only job he had ever had was selling drugs, and I don't mean at the pharmacy. He was a charmer though. Girls fell for his good looks and his charm, and would do anything for him, and he of course chose the best looking one of the bunch, Lisa. She never realized what a slime-ball he really was. The problem was that Lisa didn't have a father to threaten to put a bullet in Mike's behind, and her mother was just as deceived as she was.

"You broke into my house and attempted to steal my belongings. Why shouldn't I?" I said with false sternness. I wouldn't really turn them in, now that I knew the situation. I would give the girls a good scare, then a ride home. Maybe then Lisa would see through Mike's veneer.

"Because we'll do anything you want," Julie offered, speaking for the first time. "Anything at all!"

Julie stepped over and ran her hand up my leg, pausing to tweak the head of my ****, which was hanging out of the leg of my cutoffs. I hadn't bothered to pull on any underwear. Julie was almost as good looking as Lisa was. Both girls had fabulous bodies, large firm ****, and smooth well-rounded *****. Julie had a cute face, whereas Lisa was absolutely beautiful.

"Yes, anything you want to do!" Lisa agreed.

The girls weren't wanton *****, but scared out of their wits and taking the only way out that they could think of. Of course they weren't virgins. It hadn't occurred to me to take advantage of the girls like this, and I would have declined Julie's offer if she hadn't fooled with my **** like that. You see, I was developing an outrageous *******, and with my **** hanging down the leg of some fairly tight shorts, the situation was rapidly becoming painful and serious. I had to get those pants off fast! Also, I hadn't been laid in quite a while. I decided to lay my cards on the line.

"You kids know me. I never had any intention of calling the Cops. I was going to give you a scare to teach you a lesson, then drive you home. Does that mean the offer is withdrawn?"

The girls looked at each other and both breathed a sigh of relief, big smiles on their faces. Lisa winked at Julie. "Nope," Julie said, smiling, "It still stands. Lets go upstairs."

I escorted the girls to my bedroom, pressed the magazine block on the shotgun, pumped out the shell that was still in the chamber, then put it back in the magazine. I tossed it onto the dresser with a loud thump.

I turned around and both girls were stark naked. Lisa came over, dropped to her knees, and planted a wet kiss on the head of my painfully throbbing ****. My ******* became harder still. I had to get out of those cutoffs! Julie solved that problem. She unzipped and unbuttoned them and gently worked them down around my rock-hard ****, allowing it to spring up to freedom.

"Lets get on the bed first," I suggested, "Then we have fun."

"Lay down on your back," Lisa insisted. "Have we got something for you!"

I complied, and Lisa leaned over and put my **** in her hot mouth. Her tongue swirled over the head, ran up and down the shaft, and started over again. I looked over at Julie and she was watching avidly. Not having anything better to do with my hands, I reached between her legs and caressed her ****. Julie gasped with surprise, then spread her legs. Her **** was already hot and wet, so I slid my ******* in all the way, then started finger ******* her and massaging her **** with my thumb. Her **** hardened and grew. Julie had her eyes closed and was erotically tweaking her ***** *******. She was slowly lowering her body, deepening the ******* of my finger, and rocking her hips back and forth, intensifying the stroking of her ****. Julie's hot ***** juices ran down my hand while Lisa's mouth was still working on my throbbing ****.

I began to draw my hand from Julie's sopping wet ****, but she grabbed it and held it tightly to her crotch. I pulled my hand now, and she came with it. I grabbed her thigh and swung her leg over me, so she was now sitting on my chest. I pulled my finger from her hungry ****, grabbed her ***, and pulled her ****** right up to my face. As soon as I flicked her **** with the tip of my tongue, she went wild, ******* my face, filling my nostrils with the sweet aroma of her **** juices. I thought I would give her all the licking she could handle. I rammed my tongue into her ****-hole with all my might, then gently nibbled on her ****. Apparently she had a low threshold, as this was all she could stand.

"Oh God, I'm coming!" she screamed, ground her **** into my face one more time, quivered, then collapsed sideways onto the bed.

One down, one to go. I looked at Lisa, still ******* my **** for all she was worth. I was nearing the end of my endurance, and I still hadn't had my **** in any hot **** yet. I grabbed Lisa's shoulders and pulled her mouth from my ****. I turned her around and held her up, her blonde ***** triangle just inches over my waiting tool.

"Give it to her! Now!" Julie whispered.

Lisa's **** didn't look wet or ready to take anything in it yet, but my **** was ready to take some *****. Julie reached over and spread the lips to Lisa's still dry *****, and began tweaking her ****. Lisa gasped her surprise at her most private place being touched by another chick. Within seconds though, her **** and inner ***** lips began to swell, and her juices started flowing. I slowly lowered Lisa to my rod, admiring her glistening pinkness. Julie guided my throbbing rod into Lisa's wet love hole.

"Please, be careful! Ah-h-h-h! Go slow, I'm so tight!"

I lowered Lisa very carefully, for her hot ****-hole was indeed the tightest ***** I had ever felt. With that in mind, I fought the urge to slam her down on my eager ****. As soon as she was down, I grabbed her *** and began sliding her back and forth. Lisa bit her lip as a tear trickled down from one eye.

"Stop, Mr. Steve! It's hurting her!" Julie commanded. Then to Lisa, "You haven't done it much, have you?"

"Just once, with Mike, and he isn't this big. It hurt then, too!" Lisa sobbed. "I wanted so bad to do it with Mr. Steve because he's been so nice to me, and I was so scared when I saw how big he was. Oh, it hurts!"

"You'd better get up then." I reassured, "I don't want to do anything to you that you don't want me to do."

"I want to go on, really I do! But don't you have anything I could use to make it easier?"

"Yeah, any Vaseline, or KY jelly, or something like that?" Julie asked.

"I have some KY jelly in the bathroom." I answered.

Julie jumped up and padded into the bathroom. I watched her naked *** jiggle as she left.

"You're gonna have to get up." I told Lisa. I gently lifted her ***. She bit her lip again and moaned as my **** slowly withdrew from her tortured hole. With a pop from her *****, a shriek burst from her lips as my **** sprung from her nearly dry ****-hole. She knelt on the bed next to me, softly crying, clutching herself where it hurt. I realized that she had been wrong in pretending to be so eager. A more gentle approach was needed.

I reached over, pulled her to me, and kissed her lips passionately. She ****** once in surprise, then melted into my arms, returning my kiss, forgetting the pain in her ****. I ran my hand around to her firm **** and gently stroked her *******, feeling them harden under my touch. I pulled my mouth from hers and kissed the point of each hard ******. She moaned and gasped with each touch of my lips, but from pleasure this time, not from pain. While I had her aroused, I lightly traced circles on her tummy with my finger, each circle going lower and lower, until I finally reached the blonde **** of her ***** hair. Slowly, I reached down and cupped her ***** with my hand, being careful not to press too hard or insert my finger. I would know when she was ready for *******. She responded with a **** and a gasp. I pressed again, and she gasped again. I kissed each firm ****** one last time, then started kissing down her tummy to her love nest, which was now warming and starting to respond to my touch.

I spread her legs and gently ran the tip of my tongue the full length of her slit. When I reached the vicinity of her ****, she reacted as though she had been shocked. She arched her back, pressing her **** against my face. Maybe she was ready. I probed again with my tongue, harder this time, hard enough to separate her ****-lips and tickle her ****. She went mad again, jerking and twitching in response to the touch of my tongue, moaning and panting. Then I felt her **** harden, her inner lips swell and spread, and her delicious juices start to flow. Now she was definitely ready for more. I probed her ****-hole with my tongue, licked all the way up to her ****, swirled it around, bit it gently, and then probed her hole again. When I started doing all this, she went even wilder. She spread her legs, ****** and reared against my face, and pulled my head tight against her hot cooze.

"Oh-h-h-h-h, **** me," she moaned, "I can't stand it any more! I don't care if it does hurt! Please, please **** me!"

I put her throbbing **** between my lips and gave it one hard ****, drawing it completely into my mouth, and pulled my head back sharply, causing her **** to pop back. She screamed, ****** her hips at me, and grabbed her sweating *******.

When she had subsided, her legs still spread, I mounted her in the traditional position. I started to position my throbbing pole for a gentle entry, but Lisa released her **** and spread her ****-lips with one hand and guided my tool to her sopping wet ****-hole with the other. She was much wetter now than when Julie diddled her ****, wet enough to ****.

"Please do it now!" Lisa pleaded.

I began to insert my **** cautiously, and found that due to her juices, entry was no problem. Lisa groaned like a ****** as I slid into her hot wetness. When she had taken as much of my ten-inch tool as she could, I still wasn't all the way in. But she began pumping her hips, causing the swollen head of my **** to ram against the back of her *****. She was as deliciously tight as before, but she must have been stretching, for with just a few strokes, my ***** were slapping against her ***, and I was in to the hilt. My tenderness and foreplay had paid off.

"Oh-h-h-h, that's good!" she purred when I began pumping to meet her rhythm. She wrapped her legs around my waist, and was pumping as hard as I was. With each stroke, I would completely withdraw from her hot, tight wetness, then shove my eager tool back in to the hilt, never missing her voracious target, always sliding easily in, jamming against the back of her *****.

Her pumping increased in tempo, and I sped up to match. Each pump became harder and more frantic than the one before. Lisa's breathing became harder and faster. She was about to come, and I wanted to come with her. I raised her legs over my shoulders so that I had a better angle at the depths of her tight hole, and started ramming as hard as I could.

"Don't stop! I think I'm gonna come! Oh-h-h, its so good! Come in me! Oh, please, I want to feel your load in me!" Lisa screamed. She bucked and reared and screamed incoherently, then went limp. I continued to pump. In just a few seconds, she began to pump anew. For more times than I could count, she orgasmed.

Once I felt my ****** approaching, I gave her one last hard ram and drove my weapon in as far as I could. I came at this point, spurting her sweet, tender Steve **** full of my hot sticky come, like an erupting volcano. She gasped, trembled, and fell back to the bed. I pulled out my softening ****. Our ****** energies were spent for the moment.

I glanced down at the foot of the bed, and saw Julie, whom I had forgotten. She sat in the chair at the foot of the bed, her legs spread, working a coke bottle in and out of her *****. She had found the KY jelly, then found us ******* away. Feeling left out but excited by the ****** sight of her best friend getting a good *******, she slicked up the coke bottle and began using it as a *****.

I saw that Lisa also was seeing something she had never seen before, her best friend's ****, gaping open, a coke bottle almost disappearing inside it. "Look how far in she puts it! And see how big it is to go in her like that. How does she do it?" Lisa asked, amazed.

"Why don't you get a closer look," I suggested. "Ask her." Lisa crawled down to the foot of the bed and sat on the end, astounded, watching Julie *******.

Julie finally looked down, under heavy-lidded eyes and saw Lisa so close. "Why don't you do this for me?" Julie asked.

"How?" Lisa queried.

"Just do what I'm doing now," came Julie's reply. Lisa watched for a few seconds more, then pushed Julie's hand aside and grasped the slippery end of the bottle. "In and out, and twist it a little bit. Oh, yes-s-s, oh, yes-s-s. Do it good, oh, that's so good!" Julie purred.

My **** was hardening again at the sight of one female ******* another.

I had an idea. If Julie was as promiscuous as she seemed, she might not object to what I had in mind. While Lisa continued to work the bottle in Julie's stretched ****, I helped Julie out of the chair and down to the floor, her heaving **** on the floor, her *** up in the air. She stayed in the position, crooning wordlessly, **** juice dribbling down her thighs, Lisa still ******* her.

I picked up the tube of KY jelly that Julie had used, and liberally covered my ***** rod with it. Then I stood behind Julie, straddling Lisa.

"What are you going to do?" Lisa asked.

"Watch and see!" I responded. With that I grasped Julie's hips and aimed my **** at the delicate rosette of Julie's ***. Using my **** like a weapon, I suddenly shoved my tool in as far as I could. Julie let out a scream, tearing out fistfuls of carpet.

"Oh God, **** my ***! That hurts so good! **** me harder, give me all you've got! Make it hurt! Give me more of that bottle!"

"I'm ***-******* Julie!" I informed Lisa, who was now completely mind-blown.

I needed no invitation, and neither did Lisa. Both of us gave Julie all we could, Lisa with the bottle in Julie's ****, me with my **** far up Julie's clenching ***. Julie rocked back to take us both in, then forward, then back for more. I couldn't see

It all begins
With pronouns
I becomes the subject
Of my project
Adding you
And collectively we
I choose you and me
And I exclude the he and the she
Until I am certain of we

You and I pick verbs
actions

Inflect them to match
fit
begin narratives

Transitive verbs take objects

You touch
tickle
tease
taste
take skin
*******
lips
me with words

Words have become a clause
But still a simple construction
So, you tickle me where?

For this you need a preposition
To position your tickling ammunition
Do you touch
tickle
tease me ON my *******
*******
thighs
buttocks
****?

Do you feel me INSIDE my mouth
****
soul?
Positioning is envisioning.

Then you use adjectives
To modify descriptions of
Sensory inscriptions
So, gentle complements touch
Soft and passionate kiss
And you become superlative

And adverbs elaborate experience
expression
exploration

You fill me deeply
thoroughly
violently with all that is you

But adverbs can also mean time
Not sweet or cursed time
Or time denoting age
But timing is always important
And grammar dictates
That
Time adverbs are placed
As a beginning or an end
Like a lover's embrace

Thus,
This morning, you woke me with
A demanding "here and now! " and I will reciprocate this, tonight, I vow.

Conjunctions are sentence connectors
And sentences behave like detectors
Bodies balancing with and, but, or
Otherwise subordinate
And the scale tips towards
Conditioning hypotaxis
Making actions a complicated praxis

(before my mind can connect, you will have to pursuade it /pursue it)

But we coordinate conjunctions
Equally
I touch you
You touch me
Exploring
Exploding sensory functions

So, together we cry imperatives
Completing our ****** narratives

Moaning
Whimpering
Begging
Yelling: Please... bind me!
touch me!
bite me!
take me!
come!

Oh! Please, come!

I love the English language... ;)

the nice tommy carter



tommy carter was a kid who was a bubbly little cool kid, who used to hit people on the backs

and he had a very good imagination, which sometimes got the better of him, you see all his friends

played fun little games with tommy, saying you are weird tom, you are weird tom, you see tommy’s father

and mother were so nice to him, you see they will treat him like a little bubbly little cool kid, which got

tommy’s llittle bro ernie so jealous of him, you see ernice teased tommy a lot, he said, you are a little spas boy

tommy and tommy teased ernie by making ernie move around in circles, you see tommy was a tad different

in the fact that when people teased him, like saying, what’s that, your still getting teased, what’s that your still getting teased

and then tommy’s dad noticed that the teasing was really affecting tommy and decided to stop being the cool man

and he labelled himself a little quiet man, or a yepyoubigfuckheadyeahmanbop, which is a very together person who

doesn’t understand that tommy wanted to be a cool kid back then but he found it hard to understand why

was his dad changing his lifestyle, ya know changing his way of life, you see tommy liked going to the march

with his dad, so he as well as his dad can pay their res[ect to the fallen diggers, on anzac parade and tommy’s dad

played santa claus at the local mall, and tommy’s mum took tommy and ernie to see him as santa, and tommy’s dad

at easter time, used to lay all the easter eggs out  so tommy and ernie can go to church and then go hiome

and get ready to search for the easter egg hunt, and i know they lived in australia, but that didn’t stop tommy dressing

tommy and ernie into halloween clothes and go around door to door saying trick or treat, this made tommy happy

as he got the most treats and make ernie very jealous and then tommy and ernie helped their mother serve out meals for the homeless

and tommy learnt that the homeless are very interesting and nice people and tommy made a few mates as he was serving the

meals, and let me tell you, that the big annual christmas party was the best, tommy was forced to dress up as santa

to spread christmas cheer to all the poor people, and tommy wears his grandfather’s medals at anzac day ceremonies

and decided to post the anzac day march on youtube, and another thing too, ernie got tommy into playing footy in

the front yard and a few mates from tommy’s school gave tommy a serve thinking he was CRAZY, playing around loud outside

but tommy didn’t care, and started to commentate his loud voiceover to his footy game, and tommy’s dad can’t really cope with

loud children, tried to show his army discipline to calm his two sons tommy and ernie, and he said, my two sons are enjoying life

playing footy in the front yard, and because tommy and ernie’s vdad really liked quiet people decided to have a cat fight with tommy

he called tommy a fool and he called him a silly clot, and he also said, the reason why i do this cause i love you tommy and i love both

of my two sons, i am trying to settle you 2 down, so tommy’s dad went into tommy’s room and tickled him and gave him a round the room

piggy back, and as he tickled him, he said, tickle tickle tum tum tickle tickle too, tickle;tickle tum tum tickle my two sons yo hoo

and this made tommy very excited as he was feeling the very big boney fingers of his father, press into his stomach, and as his father

tickled ernie, ernie laughed as well, but when tommy met johnno, who said be like us, and johnno partied with tommy and spoke to ernie and

ernie said to johnno tommy poos his pants and he talks to himself and johnno laughed along with ernie and tommy said, you are a *******

a really big *******, i make the first mate who liked me for me, and you spoil it ernie and ernie said ha ha tommy is a loser, baby, you can’t change me

and tommy was upset so he crawled through the drainpipe and he portended he was kidnapped and thrown into a garbage hopper by some drinkers

in a near by pub, and tommy lied to johnno, saying he got mugged, just to have johnno walk home with him, because tommy was a tad scared

of what bad guys will do to him, and johnno said, don’t be shy, be one of us good guys, be one of us good guys buddy, and now he watched the

anzac day march, tommy wanted to pay his respects to the fallen diggers and every april 25, wild horses couldn’t get in the way of tommy going

to the march to pay his respects and he is ready to enjoy everything that his dad taught him, now tommy’s dad his dead. tommy still wants to be

a bubbly little cool kid, but he isn’t a kid

censored

Today I woke up and all I wanted with my entire being was for someone to be there next to me to tickle my back.

That's all just someone to tickle my back.

Most days I'm totally okay with being alone but it's moments like this when I crave the company of another.

To be able to call them in the morning and ask them to come over for the day.
                                                                    
And lay in bed all day watching Disney movies wrapped up in each other, exchanging light kisses and inside jokes.

Because there is nothing better than having your back tickled and nothing worse than there being no one to do it.

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our
fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was
gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

I don't seek your permission...
To write about the what, why and how.
It could be a haiku or come in the shape of a cow.

I don't need your approval...
When I don't sound the least bit poetic...
In my mismatched metaphors or ill-rhymed acrostic.

I'm not asking for your blessing...
When I pen down and put up what I think...
Be it in cloying cliches or in tear drenched ink.

I don't crave for your understanding...
When my 10 word poems weren't filtered through your poetic lens,
Or if my contributions in collaborations lack in sense.

I don't hope for your likes...
If my content does not tickle your fancy,
Or if my words just rubs you silly.

I mean no disrespect...
But don't be too quick to click on the 'comment' button.
Private messaging has been put there for a reason.

I don't mean to cramp your style...*
You're entitled to your own opinions of course...
But if you've got nothing good to say, please save it and shove it up yours.

A pair of lily white wings
   dangling in the dappled moonlight esprit;
hang entangled as silken spider web
   draped in the sweet Magnolia tree

From beneath there was no way of knowing
   why a pair of abandoned wings lodge mislaid
One could not help but wonder how high
   one might fly with cherub wings

But these callused feet tread far below the treetops
   too high up from roots to climb
No telltale tiptoe prints cavort to be the talebearer
   No feathered traces scattered all around

A hearken say, tickle-footed as a ladybug,
   hold forth in a breeze brushed ear
Not completely undoubtable heed spoken;
   a language bestow from another ether
softly breathe a whisper'd sigh:

"Behold the wings of a fallen angel;
   uplifted by love's amazing grace
Lost alone in a moonstruck blindness
   an angel flying too close
           to the ground

                      ~

                   Jesse

Ode to a Sunflower


            I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.

            I was walking alone in desolation when I encountered the blinding sight of my sunflower. There it was staring at me with its inviting eyes, eyes which seemed a little lost, a little troubled, a little like mine. My hand trembled as it wiped the disbelief from my vision. The seeds which I had planted in an attempt to dispel my restless woes had sprout up in a seemingly un-fertile place, a place where I could not fathom I would find my Sunflower. But there it was in all its beauty: eloquent, mysterious and enchanting. A vivid portrait of heavenly grace. all could witness , yet,  one could  possess.

  I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.

From the moment I found my sunflower I did my best to nurture it, watering its spirit from sunrise to sunset. The beauty for which it possessed was captivating; stirring my very being like no other flower has prior. I spent days, months and years analyzing this gem. I wondered why this sunflower was so singular in its splendor, why after so long in my possession was it still shining brighter than a summer star painted against a black night. My admiration and love for this sunflower matured uncontrollably, cultivating in a whirlwind of blissful sunshine.

  I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.
            
Though my sunflower possesses the strength of a thousand armies and the magnificence of a thousand smiles, I sense a feeling of weakness when the wicked birds of prey attempt to uproot it from its rightful plot. I caress its pedals and speak to it softly assuring that there is a purpose for the gloom, and that upon all of us the rain of opposition will fall. I clutch its head into mine as splendid pedals of fluorescent beauty tickle my face, making me blush with joy. I whisper to my sunflower as I drop my seed next to her stalk, and I tell it that no matter what storms may sing, there will be no challenge to our garden as long as we continue to grow together.

I look out from this little world
with all it's dancers dancing

Mighty trees tickle the sky
The birds in them romancing

If we but stop and listen
we'll hear the music playing

Stop a while and close your eyes
exhale the troubles weighing

Down around your shoulders
Thoughts that cloud your heart

We're only here but for a while
Before we drift apart

Like clouds across the silver moon
we're here and gone far too soon

Then pass into the inky night
Still around, yet out of sight

Some of our clouds stretch for miles
Others stacked in fragile piles

Some full and dark and hanging low
Filled with tears they can't let go

Some so wispy and so light
Their presence a mere oversight

Some whose wrath begets a name
Who form a mighty hurricane

Some who rumble in the night
Hurling lightening left and right

Some dark and brooding, filled with snow
Dumping ice on all below

Some that twist right to the ground
Violently they spin around

Some collide, some drift away
Some prefer night, some prefer day

So let us stop and gaze up high
To find ourselves within the sky

A deep breath—I fill my lungs and close the airway. Submerge my face in a pillow and resolve myself to wait until my lungs burn—I await the pain. My senses screaming, my lungs driving me to let them have the oxygen they so desire—I decline. Funny how I chose that which offers peace to the weary, an item that invites comfort to rob myself of that most archaic means of surviving. I find it interesting how calm I feel while denying myself that which I know I cannot live without. Isn’t it odd how we only become aware of the subtle currents of air that tickle our skin, raising chill bumps where it finds us bare when we deny ourselves its luxury? Luxury. That’s an interesting way to phrase it really—Breathing as a luxury. A gift of power, smug in our abuse and neglect we fail to see what we loose when we breathe. Lying here refusing to give myself life—for that’s what air is really, and breathing is living. I laugh. Oh yes, I find it funny. I catch myself readying to breathe again and I still that notion. Shove it down; subdue it until it is nothing but a stinging memory in my chest. It takes a lot of strength to deny yourself to breathe. But somehow that only drives me to test that strength.
I wonder if I will forget how? Could the muscle memory that pilots such a necessary involuntary act be forgotten? No, of course not. But perhaps the feeling of fresh air full of life could be. Could it? Perhaps not. For even as these words find themselves onto this page I find myself remembering what it feels like to expand my lungs, for the blood to cool as it gathers its fill with oxygen as it travels on its wending cyclical way. I laugh again. The burn begins to spread and I feel my muscles atrophy. Yet they tighten and tense as if under assault, screaming at the atrocity wrought upon them. Though still I refuse to breathe.
I roll away from the pillow, open my face to the still air and feel it tickle as it tries to find a weakness. Denying my lungs for so long I begin to feel my skin breathing. Absorbing oxygen as cellular mitosis continues in spite of my flirtatious dance. Maybe I am just dreaming. I feel the fire subside. As if my body accepts its doom. “No breath for you,” I say. “No easy outs.” And resolve continues.
Amazing how long a person can go without breathing, pushing ever closer to that most primal fear—that of not being able to breathe. But I can. I feel my chest involuntarily expand, demanding the very thing I strenuously withhold. I know by that alone that I can breathe, I can live. But still not once do I begin to inhale the sweetness that I need. I want it now, but the primal is so enticing. After all, it is when we fear that we truly know what it is to live. That’s when we feel life. As if it were a tangible being that we’ve strapped to ourselves so that it won’t escape. I’ve set mine free. I’ve let go. Maybe it will return to me. Maybe it will leave me in my vain attempts to deny myself to continue fickly on to another. But which do it want--Perhaps neither, perhaps something more. Beyond breathing, beyond mere muscle memory, beyond what I cling to. The Pain returns.
I want to breathe. I want to live. I want to feel the rush as all my body awakens and revels in new existence--Rebirth. Its odd how something so ordinary can redefine a person, how something so obviously taken for granted and ignored can make us anew—a Renaissance of living, giving new life to life, helping life live. That’s just funny to say. My chest chuckles--I can’t laugh. I can’t breathe so how could I anyway? I smile. Vanity is alluring. I am vain. I deny that which defines life just to feel alive. Vanity, Luxury, Rebirth, Pain—such is the nature of my breathing, the archaic nature of involuntarily driven muscle memory.
Would I even know how to breathe if it wasn’t burned into the most ancient quadrants of my brain? I don’t even know the part that drives the muscle memory. Perhaps when people die there are a few lingering moments where their lungs contract like the twitching mouth of a decapitated fish, gulping at air to fill dead lungs. Maybe breathing is so primal that it doesn’t end with the rest of the body.
The burn has come. I can feel the fire inside my chest. I welcome its warmth, rubbing my hands over the radiating inferno as if I just came from the dead winter cold without the weathering to block out the chill. The warmth permeates through me. Would breathing feel better than this? Could it? I doubt. Only at the razor edge of life while teetering upon the precipice stealing insecure glances to the other side on the off chance that we may glimpse a greener field do we know what living really is.  So aren’t I living now more so than ever before? Whilst denying myself a breath, aren’t I more aware of what it means to be alive? I laugh. Denying yourself air only leads to an end. No, the end--Death. Yet I appreciate life more so dying than living. I deserve to die. Taking for granted that which is stolen from innocents daily. Innocent? Now that’s a peculiar ideal. They are the same. I wonder if they are aware that they breathe. That’s absurd, of course they are. How could they not be? ******* life, ******* air, but do they know what it means?
I feel my lungs contract again—Pain. That’s all it is now, but why? I know I can breathe, yet I choose not to. Is it the act of forcing myself not to take a fresh breath, or the fact that I have yet to do so that hurts? Maybe it’s because I now know what I’ve been doing all these years. At the brink I realize what it means to live. Was I living before? Yes, but I wasn’t alive. Interesting that, to live without being alive—sounds as if I’m hooked to a load of machines keeping me from decay. That’s all they do really. Awareness, that’s living. Breathing is merely the means. The end is being aware, awakened to the fact that an action which you can’t control is the only thing keeping your head above ground. After all, even when drowning the body wants to breathe.
I open my mouth. I lie to my body. I still fill my lungs with nothing but stubborn desire, desire to delay my breathing. I imagine what it will feel like to take that first breath—a Renaissance of living. I can feel the blood in my veins bubble in anticipation. My body wants to be alive. My heart can’t beat fast enough. Striking a furious pace it pumps my blood through my body spreading life and oxygen to every limb making me light headed and delirious with its purity.
I’ve decided. I’m going to breathe again. I’m going to live. And what’s more, I’m going to be alive.
My mouth still open, my lungs still closed, still screaming, still burning, still tightening in their involuntary way—breathing air that isn’t there, air that they know is there, available to them at their whim. I open my lungs.
I exhale. Now that is interesting. I’ve denied myself the life of breath until my lungs begin to pump out of sheer memory and longing for that which gives them purpose. Denied that which defines life, that which I want—that I need. And I exhale?!? Further delaying what my instinct has told me to take? How is that logical?
Air rushes into my lungs. Funny, I scarce expanded them at all. I feel the life rushing to my fingertips, to my toes, to my ears and eyes—to my kidneys even. I am alive. It’s funny though. Part of me feels like I’ve just died, like I’ve ceased to live. I laugh long and hard, throaty and merry and so brim full of life. I began to live again, became alive at the very instant I ceased to exist. And it is so funny.

when you went away it was morning
(that is,big horses;light feeling up
streets;heels taking derbies (where?) a pup
hurriedly hunched over swill;one butting

trolley imposingly empty;snickering
shop doors unlocked by white-grub
faces) clothes in delicate hubbub

as you stood thinking of anything,

maybe the world….But i have wondered since
isn’t it odd of you really to lie
a sharp agreeable flower between my

amused legs
                kissing with little dints

of april,making the obscene shy
******* tickle,laughing when i wilt and wince

From a distance,
the incessant chant of monsoon from south west,
sounds like an old witch practising her craft,
she is all evil and dark, one would think,
the overcast sky her sinister cloak.

But intruder under my umbrella, she is playful,
I watch this coy maiden, I desired from afar,
now she walks with me step to matching step,
tries to entice me with her soft tunes,
tender cool fingers, rubbing my cheeks,
her lover's touch unmistakable, passionate, eager
I shiver, she wants me to get in to her arms, cuddle.

I throw away my umbrella,
in boyish rumbunctiousness,  run to her
her hands moving fast tickle me, pinch
then a sudden embrace, making me squirm
with deep pleasure I dreamt in wakeful nights.
The joy of life that  the water and receptive earth evoke,
loud green glee around,  in me creates goosebumps,
in my dreams she comes to me
and tells the secrets of
nights I long for my love and me alone.
Rain, the seductress, taught me
the passions of living and loving
she,  awakened the spirit that seeps deep in to the
core of my being.

**When I lay awake in monsoon nights,
across my window she tangoes
in fierce passion with the wind,
that keeps me excited till I get absorbed
in to a dream that has love as its theme.

happiness...is everything. Happiness isnt based on money and sometimes not even on what you're doing. Its about who your with.
its about living with no regrets
And realising that a bad thing will last a few months, so who cares if he doesnt ask you out? who cares what your parents catch doing with the one who does? and who cares what anyone says about you.
Happiness is taking a risk
and it pays off
and even if it doesnt
another oppurtunity presents itself.
happiness is staying up all night with your frends.
happiness is water fights on late summer evenings.
happiness is love....lust only gives moments of happiness to the fact you cant believe you have that person...love leaves you eternally in wonder of how you ended up feeling so right.
happiness is being with your friends and wearing crazy *** hats in public
happiness is seeing a familiar face in nevr ending sea of lies.
happiness is no homework
happiness is having tickle fights with the one you love
happiness is lying in the sun looking at the clouds
happiness is doing wat you want to do
happiness is helping one another
happiness if giving all of you no matter how much you recieve in return
happiness is being able to speak your mind
happiness is knowing you have earnt all the praise you get and being able to say thank you...not going red, studying your shoelaces and bringing yourself down
happiness is confidence
happiness is working hard for something
happiness is being wateva you want and not caring what anyone says...you only get to live once..you will nevr live it down if you're on your deathbed and you realise that you've spent your whole life being what everyone else wanted you to be. living a lie
happiness is finding out who you are
happiness is coming home and your parents ask you how your day was...evn if u jst grunt back
happiness is singing in the shower as loud as you can...i mean showers hav that magical power that means no-one else can hear you...rite?
happiness is not being afraid to say someone is hot...it makes u all giggly...saying someone is good looking doesnt neccessarily mean you want them
happiness is feeling safe
happiness is feeling wanted
happiness is feeling at peace with yourself
happiness is feeling that someone always has your back
happiness is when something isnt funny..but your so happy to see someone that u cant stop smiling
happiness is that one thing you can nevr really express to someone...its like a drug, it makes you do crazy things...its make you feel ontop of the world.
this made me happy knowing that peopl will read this and feel happy
it made me happy because i made a good attempt to describe something that can nevr be completely decribed.

happiness is the one thing that keeps you going when you're like the single flowers whose colours hav turned to shades of grey

i cant explain this happiness

Matsuo Basho Translations

There are my English translations of haiku by Matsuo Basho...

My Personal Favorites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

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



Basho's Butterflies

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

Will we remain parted forever?
Here at your grave:
two flowerlike butterflies!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Ballet in the air! ―
two butterflies, twice white,
meet, mate, unite.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A spring wind
stirs willow leaves
as a butterfly hovers unsteadily.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aki o hete / cho mo nameru ya / kiku no tsuyu

Come, butterfly,
it's late
and we've a long way to go!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Famous Frog Poem

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

An ancient pond sleeps...
untroubled by sound or movement...until...
suddenly a frog leaps!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Explosion!
The frog returns
to its lily pad.
—Michael R. Burch original haiku



Basho's Heron

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

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

A flash of lightning―
the night heron's shriek
splits the void
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Flowers

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

Like a heavy fragrance
snowflakes settle:
lilies on rocks
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

High-altitude rose petals
falling
falling
falling:
the melody of a waterfall.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Revered figure!
I bow low
to the rabbit-eared Iris.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Cold white azalea—
a lone nun
in her thatched straw hut.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

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

Disdaining grass,
the firefly nibbles nettles—
this is who I am.
—Takarai Kikaku translation by Michael R. Burch

A simple man,
content to breakfast with the morning glories—
this is who I am.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
This is Basho's response to the Takarai Kikaku haiku above
asagao ni / ware wa meshi kû / otoko kana

Ah me,
I waste my meager breakfast
morning glory gazing!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories blossom,
reinforcing the old fence gate.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories, alas,
also turned out
not to embrace me
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories bloom,
mending chinks
in the old fence
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories,
however poorly painted,
still engage us
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
asagao wa / heta no kaku sae / aware nari

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

Curious flower,
watching us approach:
meet Death, our famished donkey.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Poems about Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter

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

Spring!
A nameless hill
stands shrouded in mist.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The legs of the cranes
have been shortened
by the summer rains.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

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

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

Autumn darkness
descends
on this road I travel alone
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Taming the rage
of an unrelenting sun—
autumn breeze.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aka aka to / hi wa tsurenaku mo / aki no kaze

The sun sets,
relentlessly red,
yet autumn's in the wind.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aka aka to / hi wa tsurenaku mo / aki no kaze

As autumn draws near,
so too our hearts
in this small tea room.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
aki chikaki / kokoro no yoru ya / yo jo han

Late autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he continue?
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter in the air:
my neighbor,
how does he fare?
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter solitude:
a world awash in white,
the sound of the wind
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The year's first day...
thoughts come, and with them, loneliness;
dusk approaches.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's Temple Poems

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

The temple bells grow silent
but the blossoms provide their incense―
A perfect evening!
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

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

Like a glorious shrine—
on these green, budding leaves,
the sun's intense radiance.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara toto / aoba wakaba no / hi no hikar



Basho's Birds

A raven settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow has settled
on a naked branch—
autumn nightfall
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
autumn twilight
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
phantom autumn
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow roosts
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightmare
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

NOTE: There has been a debate about the meaning of aki-no kure, which may mean one of the following: autumn evening, autumn dusk, the end of autumn. Or it seems possible that Basho may have intentionally invoked the ideas of both the end of an autumn day and the end of the season as well. In my translations I have tried to create an image of solitary crow clinging to a branch that seems like a harbinger of approaching winter and death. In the first translation I went with the least light possible: autumn twilight. In the second translation, I attempted something more ghostly. Phrases I considered include: spectral autumn, skeletal autumn, autumnal skeleton, phantom autumn, autumn nocturne, autumn nightfall, autumn nightmare, dismal autumn. In the third and fourth translations I focused on the color of the bird and its resemblance to night falling. While literalists will no doubt object, my goal is to create an image and a feeling that convey in English what I take Basho to have been trying to convey in Japanese. Readers will have to decide whether they prefer my translations to the many others that exist, but mine are trying to convey the eeriness of the scene in English.

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

Swallow flitting in the dusk,
please spare my small friends
buzzing among the flowers!
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch




Basho's Insects

A bee emerging
from deep within the peony's hairy recesses
flies off heavily, sated
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

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

The cicada's cry
contains no hint
of how soon it must die.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing in the cicada's cry
hints that it knows
how soon it must die.
—Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The cicada's cry
contains no hint
of how soon it must die.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch




Basho's Moon and Stars

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

The moon: glorious its illumination!
Therefore, we give thanks.
Dark clouds cast their shadows on our necks.
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

The surging sea crests around Sado...
and above her?
An ocean of stars.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara umi ya / Sado ni yokotau / Ama-no-gawa



Basho's Companions

Fire levitating ashes:
my companion's shadow
animates the wall...
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Among the graffiti
one illuminated name:
Yours.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Scrawny tomcat!
Are you starving for fish and mice
or pining away for love?
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



Basho's End of Life and Death Poems

Nothing happened!
Yesterday simply vanished
like the blowfish soup.
—Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch
ara nantomo na ya / kino wa sugite / fukuto-jiru

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

Sick of its autumn migration
my spirit drifts
over wilted fields...
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

Sick of this autumn migration
in dreams I drift
over flowerless fields...
―Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch

NOTE: While literalists will no doubt object to "flowerless" in the translation above ― along with other word choices in my other translations ― this is my preferred version. I think Basho's meaning still comes through. But "wilted" is probably closer to what he meant. If only we could consult him, to ask whether he preferred strictly literal prose translations of his poems, or more poetic interpretations! My guess is that most poets would prefer for their poems to remain poetry in the second language. In my opinion the differences are minor and astute readers will grok both Basho's meaning and his emotion.

Too ill to travel,
now only my autumn dreams
survey these withering fields
― Matsuo Basho translation by Michael R. Burch



New Haiku Translations, Added 10/6/2020

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Denied transformation
into a butterfly,
autumn worsens for the worm
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** the road again,
Companion Butterfly!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Higher than a skylark,
resting on the breast of heaven:
mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Farewell,
my cloud-parting friend!
Wild goose migrating.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

A crow settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly,
by the light of the moon,
a worm bores into a chestnut.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

This strange flower
investigated by butterflies and birds:
the autumn sky
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Where’s the moon tonight?
Like the temple bell:
lost at sea.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Spring departs;
birds wail;
the pale eyes of fish moisten.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon still appears,
though far from home:
summer vagrant.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Cooling the pitiless sun’s
bright red flames:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Saying farewell to others
while being told farewell:
departing autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  
Traveling this road alone:
autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Thin from its journey
and not yet recovered:
late harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Occasional clouds
bless tired eyes with rest
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The farmboy
rests from husking rice
to reach for the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon aside,
no one here
has such a lovely face.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon having set,
all that remains
are the four corners of his desk.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon so bright
a wandering monk carries it
lightly on his shoulder.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls
is obscured
by smoke from the crematory.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls!
Smoke from the crematory?
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Family reunion:
those with white hair and canes
visiting graves.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

One who is no more
left embroidered clothes
for a summer airing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

What am I doing,
writing haiku on the threshold of death?
Hush, a bird’s song!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Fallen ill on a final tour,
in dreams I go roving
earth’s flowerless moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a senseless tour,
still in dreams I go roving
earth’s withered moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a journey,
in dreams I go wandering
withered moors.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch


New Haiku Translations, Added 10/6/2020

Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Denied transformation
into a butterfly,
autumn worsens for the worm
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dusk-gliding swallow,
please spare my small friends
flitting among the flowers!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright!
Let’***** the road again,
Companion Butterfly!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Higher than a skylark,
resting on the breast of heaven:
mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Farewell,
my cloud-parting friend!
Wild goose migrating.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

A crow settles
on a leafless branch:
autumn nightfall.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An exciting struggle
with such a sad ending:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly,
by the light of the moon,
a worm bores into a chestnut.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

This strange flower
investigated by butterflies and birds:
the autumn sky
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Where’s the moon tonight?
Like the temple bell:
lost at sea.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Spring departs;
birds wail;
the pale eyes of fish moisten.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon still appears,
though far from home:
summer vagrant.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Cooling the pitiless sun’s
bright red flames:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Saying farewell to others
while being told farewell:
departing autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  
Traveling this road alone:
autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Thin from its journey
and not yet recovered:
late harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Occasional clouds
bless tired eyes with rest
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The farmboy
rests from husking rice
to reach for the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon aside,
no one here
has such a lovely face.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon having set,
all that remains
are the four corners of his desk.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The moon so bright
a wandering monk carries it
lightly on his shoulder.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls
is obscured
by smoke from the crematory.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

The Festival of Souls!
Smoke from the crematory?
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Family reunion:
those with white hair and canes
visiting graves.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

One who is no more
left embroidered clothes
for a summer airing.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

What am I doing,
writing haiku on the threshold of death?
Hush, a bird’s song!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

Fallen ill on a final tour,
in dreams I go roving
earth’s flowerless moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Striken ill on a senseless tour,
still in dreams I go roving
earth’s withered moor.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Stricken ill on a journey,
in dreams I go wandering
withered moors.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch




NEW BASHO TRANSLATIONS 06-19-2025

SPRING

Blame the rainy season
for my absence,
old friend Moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For yet a little while,
the pale moon
floating among blossoms...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Moon past full:
darkness
increasing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring rains
so heavy
they overflow the waterfall.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ll catch up
about cascading waterfall blossoms
when I drink with Li Bai.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fluttering rose petals
fall
into the river’s gurgling waters.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring rains
overwhelming the falls,
overflowing...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rainy season downpour
sours even the ears
of ripening plums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flood!
Stars will soon sleep
atop a rock.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ll dare drenching
my paper robes
to nab a sprig of spring blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where is that handsome man
no long with us:
the rain-hidden moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So much harsher
than other mouths,
the wind devours newborn blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So taken by their beauty,
I long to take
the maiden flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Trembling, feeble,
heavy with dew:
the maiden flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Other flowers bloom,
the camellias
remain indifferent.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An orchid’s
lingering fragrance
veils the bedchamber.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The boy’s bangs
retain the scent
of youthful grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spring winds
tickle the flowers
till they burst out in laughter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Falling to the ground,
returning to its roots,
the flower’s farewell.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So many things
recur in memory:
spring blossoms reopen.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing them naked
almost makes me caress
the ******* flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As temple bells fade
flowers strike their fragrance
into the silence.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bat also emerges
into the birds’
world of flowers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When planting,
please handle the infant cherry tree tenderly,
gently, like a baby.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can one fret
during cherry blossom time?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How I envy them,
growing high above our transient world,
the mountain cherries.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Curiosity:
a butterfly alights
on nectarless grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary butterfly
hovers over
its own shadow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A solitary butterfly
flutters above
its own shadow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since spring showers insist,
the eggplant seeds
commence sprouting.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Never belittle
the tiniest seeds:
the spunky pepper reddens.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once green,
behold!
The red pepper.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After spring rains
mugwort shoots up
in grassy lanes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Higher than the larks,
resting amid the blue,
this mountain pass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The blossom-filled day
makes the tree’s sadness
seem all the darker.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Goodbye, old friend:
no longer beckoning
miscanthus plumes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spying plum blossoms
the infatuated ox
bellows, “Yes!”
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The day-lily,
dripping water
into the grasses’ forgetfulness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Scooped up by my hands,
the springwater
shocks my teeth with its iciness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cats’ noisy mating subsides;
now into our bedroom
creeps the quiet moonlight.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here at Wakanoura
I’m finally in step
with fleeting and fleeing spring.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A bell-less village?
Who will ring in
the end of spring?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bell unheeded?
Unheard?
Still, spring is fleeting.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sun’s about to set:
the spring’s last shimmering heat ray.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

SUMMER

Such coolness
when shouldered:
the summer’s first melon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A wicker basket
shields the coolness
of the first melon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Morning dew:
the muddy melon
exudes coolness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Early summer rain:
the green spikemoss,
how long to remain?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Timidly the willow
refrains from touching
deutzia blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An oiled paper umbrella
attempts to push aside
unobliging willows.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The ancient river
ogles
the slender willow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So like life:
this small patch of shade
beneath a wicker hat.

Still alive
despite the slightness of my hat,
I cherish its shade.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This summer world
floats in the lake’s
silver waves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A weary horse
collapsing in barley:
traveler’s rest.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the distant plain
the deer’s voice
seems an inch tall.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How sad, the bellowing of bucks,
The bleatings of does,
at night.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even woodpeckers
hold this old hut sacred,
still standing in the summer grove.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Toppling from the topmost bough,
emptiness aloft:
the cicada’s husk.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hollyhock
leans sunward
in the summer rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ah, the splendid resplendence
of sunlight
on tender evergreen leaves!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fragrance of oranges...
In whose farmyard
is the cuckoo calling?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Temple bells reverberate:
cicadas singing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shouldering hay bales,
someone left enough straw
to mark our way.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fireflies
turn our trees
into well-lit lodges.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A noontime firefly,
dim by daylight,
hides behind a pillar.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Firefly watching,
the tipsy boatman
rocks the boat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rising above fields of rice and barley,
the cry of the summer cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tedious life!
Plowing the rice field
back and forth...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lying in the summer grass,
discarded like a king’s robe,
the snakeskin.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The shrubby bush-clover?
How impudent
her appearance!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glistening dew
sways without spilling
from the bush-clover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I bow low
to the venerable
rabbit-eared Iris.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rabbit-eared Iris,
pausing to chit-chat,
one joy of my journey.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rabbit-eared iris
inspires
another hokku.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rabbit-eared Iris,
admiring your reflection?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inside Uchiyama,
unknown to outsiders,
blossoms full-bloom.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Uchiyama was a temple little-known to the outside world. In fact, uchi means “inside.”

AUTUMN

First of autumn:
the sea and the rice fields
the same green hue.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The autumn wind
like a ventriloquist
projects its piercing voice.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Voices in the reeds?
Ventriloquism
of the autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

East and West
united by the autumn wind
into a single melancholy.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing a friend off,
his hunched back
lonely in the autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminating
sawn-off tree trunks:
the harvest moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

After pausing
for harvest moon viewing,
we must be on our way.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our moon-viewing interrupted
on Asamutsu Bridge,
dark yields to dawn.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Consider lonesomeness
surpassing even Suma’s:
this deserted autumn beach.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The temple bell
drowned in the sea,
and where is the moon?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My humble take on the world?
Withered leaves
at autumn’s end.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Withering flowers:
out of such sadness
seeds emerge.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Red on red on red,
the sun relentless,
yet autumn’s unimpressed.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This lusciously cool autumn day
we peel
aubergine melons.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cling to your leaves,
peach trees!
Autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This whiteness,
whiter than mountain quartz:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shocking the grave,
my grief-filled cry:
autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Spider,
to whom do you cry?
Autumn wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How to reach safe haven?
An insect adrift
on a leaf.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reverential tears:
the falling leaves
bid their trees goodbye.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plates and bowls
gleaming dimly in the darkness:
evening coolness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Twice the pity:
beneath the headless helmet,
a chirping cricket.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Secretly
by moonlight
weevils bore chestnuts.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes on stilts
surveying the rice paddies:
autumn village.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Thankfulness:
someone else harvests rice
for me.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How touching
to survive the storm,
chrysanthemum.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Slender again,
somehow the chrysanthemum
will yet again bud.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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

His loosened jacket collar
invites the cool breeze.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Butterfly wings:
how many times have they soared
over human roofs?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mosquitos drone
with dusky voices
deep within the cattle shed.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho leaves shred in the gale;
the basin collects raindrips;
all night I listen, alone in my hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dew drips, drop-by-drop...
I’d rinse this world clean,
if I could.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fire’s banked ashes
extinguish
your tears’ hisses.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Turn to face me,
for I am also lonesome
this autumn evening.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plucking white hairs
while beneath my pillow
a cricket creaks.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Everything that blossoms
dies in the end:
wilted pampas grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn departs,
shivering
I scrunch under too-small bedding.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It seems, to dullard me,
that hell must be like this:
late autumn.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

WINTER

The year’s first snowfall;
such happiness to be
at home in my hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fire-making friend,
let me show you something grand:
a huge snowball!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Written for Basho’s dear friend Sora, who visited Basho’s hut to feed the fire, cook, break ice and make tea.

Come, children,
let’s frolic in the snowstorm,
dodge the hail.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Farewell for now,
we’re off to find snow
until we tumble into it.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let’s get up
until we fall into
the snow we seek.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesteryear’s snows,
have they fallen anew?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter drizzle;
irate, I await
snow adorning the pines.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Practicing bowing,
the bamboo
anticipates snow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bowing low,
the upside-down world
of snow-laden bamboo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melancholic flowers
shrivel
in the frost.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hailstones
stitching
the silken snow.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oars slapping waves,
the stomach a-shiver,
these nighttime tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Icefish
shoaling through seaweed
swim into my hands.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sunrise:
one-inch sliver
of the whitefish’s iciness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alive
but congealed into one:
the frozen sea cucumbers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Somehow alive
yet congealed into a single solid mass:
the frozen sea cucumbers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water so cold,
rocks so hard,
where will the seagull sleep?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plovers depart
as evening deepens
windward toward Hiei.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Crying in the darkness,
unable to locate its nest,
the homeless plover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The plovers cry:
“Be watchful of the darkness
at Star Cape!”
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mushroom-gathering,
rushing to beat
cold evening rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ceremonious
hailstones
assail my hinoki hat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Caught hatless
in a winter shower?
So it goes.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How many frosts
have tested
this pine’s mettle?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A winter drizzle
obscures
the field’s freshcut stubble.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The drinkers’ faces
paler than the snow:
a flash of lightning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The polished mirror
clear as snowflake petals.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The relentless wind
sharpens rocks and stones,
topples cedars.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cold fear
desolate as a deserted
frost-crusted shack.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How marvelous,
the winter snow
will return as rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Children come running,
dodging jewels:
hailstones.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At least the world has left,
unblemished and unbegrimed,
a single wooden bowl.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bowl in question had been left by Rotsu in Osaka, and was returned undamaged seven years later. Rotsu was a Basho disciple.

The mud snail’s closed lid:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inside my hut,
watching my own breath:
winter confinement.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So weary of Kyoto,
of the withering wind
and winter life.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will soon be included
among the fortunate ones:
beyond winter.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

VARIOUS

As clouds drift apart,
so we two separate:
wild geese departing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The old nest deserted,
how empty now
my next-door neighbor’s hut.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday?
Departed,
like the blowfish soup.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Exciting,
but with a sad conclusion:
cormorant fishing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The one who died:
her delicate kimono
hung out to dry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Behind the veiling curtain,
the wife in her bedchamber:
plum blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See her slim figure:
the ingenue moon
not yet ripened.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clouds now and then
offer intermissions
from moon-viewing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Drinking
alone with the moon,
my shadow makes three.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon and the blossoms
lack only a man
drinking sake, alone.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unbar the door,
allow moonlight
to enter Ukimido.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ukimido was a temple Basho visited in 1691.

Drinking morning tea,
the monks
silent amid chrysanthemums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Its fragrance whiter
than the peach blossoms’ whiteness:
the narcissus.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The narcissus
reflects the whiteness
of a paper screen.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hibiscus flowers
garland
an otherwise naked child.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The overproud
pink begonia
thinks it’s a watermelon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Echo my lonesomeness,
mountain cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cuckoo’s lone voice
lingers
over the inlet.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Solitary hawk,
a heavenly vision
over Cape Irago.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At Cape Irago
the incomparable cry
of the hawk.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Better than any dream,
the thrilling reality
of a hawk’s cry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hawk’s eye narrows
at the quail’s call.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Naptime!
But my drowsiness is nixed
by busybody warblers.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Carolers:
the sparrows smile
at their warbling.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Giving thanks to the flowers
for brightening my visit:
farewell.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Melancholy nub!
The bamboo bud’s
sad end.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This lightning flash
the hand receives in darkness:
a candle.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Carrying a candle
into the dark outhouse:
the moonflowers’ whiteness.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seeing a moonflower,
I poke my sake-addled face
through a hole in the window.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nighttime folly:
grabbing a thorn,
expecting a firefly.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

More nighttime weirdness:
a fox stalking
a melon?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s better to become a beggar
than a critic.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No rest:
the carpenter
hangs his own shelf.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Blowing away
the volcano’s molars:
the typhoon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What decays
have you endured,
watchful tomb ferns?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A disgusting smell
slimed on waterweeds:
pale chub entrails.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A country boy
shucking husks
gazes at the moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The poet’s heart?
Will we ever really understand
ume blossoms?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For at least today
let all the poets be
melodious as winter rains.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I believe the haiku above was written during a gathering of poets.

What tree blossoms here?
I do not know
its mysterious aroma.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will lodge here
until the tender goosefoot
matures into a walking stick.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’d compare a flower
to a delicate child
but the field is barren.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho wrote the poem above for a friend, Rakugo, who had lost a child.

Even a poorly-painted
morning glory
pleases.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories
ignore our drinking,
drunk on themselves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Slender glistener!
Each dewdrop a burden
for the maiden flower.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon absent,
treetops cling
to the nighttime rain.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May you tumble safely
onto sand or snow,
sake-addled horse rider.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I miss my mother and father
so much:
the kiji’s cry.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The kiji is a green pheasant but also a metaphor for the love of one’s family and kiji is also a homophone for “orphaned child.”

I pause from my journey
to observe the fleeting world
going about its housecleaning.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No simile!
Nothing compares
to the crescent moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The overstaying moon
and I
linger in Sarawhina.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her ascent easy
and yet still hesitant,
the cloud-veiled moon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A cuckoo flying,
cawing, crying and cajoling:
busybody.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What’s all the ado
about this busybody crow?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Art begins
with ancient rice-planting chants
drifting on the wind.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Today’s words
vanish tomorrow:
evaporating dew.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Basho may have proved himself wrong with the poem above, since so many of his poems are still being read, studied and translated.

Unregarded by the high-minded
the lowly chestnut
blossoms by the eaves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clinging for dear life
to the bridge,
these winding vines.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This swinging bridge:
hard to imagine
horses crossing.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even in Kyoto,
a longing for Kyoto,
the cuckoo calling.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cuckoo symbolizes nostalgia. Here Basho seems to be in Kyoto but longing for the Kyoto of his past.

Rock azaleas
dyed red
by the cuckoo’s tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In Japan the cuckoo is said to shed tears of blood.

I would wipe away the tears
brimming in your eyes
with these tender leaves.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reincarnation?
The fawn’s first dawn
falls on Buddha’s birthday.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Forbidden to speak
of holy Yudono,
my sleeves wet with tears.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let us learn
from the travails
of these ancient pilgrims.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The samurai’s
overlong discourse:
the tang of bitter daikon.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tender-horned snail,
point those tiny tips
toward distant mountains!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A dragonfly
clings tentatively to the air,
hovering above waving grasses.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tiny river crab
creeping up my leg?
Back to the water!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The windblown butterfly
is unable to settle
in the waving grass.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even the wild boar
is blown about
by buffeting winds.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The boat
comes to rest
on a beach of peach blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lightning
does not enlighten,
of what value?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A banked fire,
the shadow
of a guest.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Remember:
the thicket
guards plum blossoms.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t chortle with glee:
through the leaves of the silk tree
stars wink at me.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Kiyotaki’s unblemished waves
gently dispersing
still-green pine needles.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is said to have been Basho’s last haiku. Kiyotaki means “clear” and is the name of a river.

Immaculate white chrysanthemums:
no matter how closely investigated,
without a blemish.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I suspect the two poems above are related because the first poem in one version had “without a blemish” or “nary a blemish.”

Faint
in a trace of water:
floating chrysanthemums.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

OTHER POETS

Observe:
see how the wild violets bloom
within the forbidden fences!
—Shida Yaba (1663-1740), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When no wind at all
ruffles the Kiri tree
leaves fall of their own free will.
—Nozawa Boncho (1640-1714), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Keywords/Tags: Basho, haiku, translation, Japan, Japanese, Oriental, Orient Occident, nature, season, seasons, waka, tanka, life and death, compassion, empathy, mrbhaiku, mrbbasho

When my body used to ache at night
Feeling like bruises were beneath the skin
You'd tell me it was the tickle monster
I'd ask if you were friends with him
And you would nod your head
And I'd say
'could you give him a message for me?'
And you'd say
'well, i can try, but he doesn't like to listen'
I'd ask you to ask him if he could let up at least for one night
Take away all the pain I feel inside my body
And you would put your hand over my eyes
And say 'he'll receive your question'
You'd kiss my lips and tug me closer
Then the next night I'd sleep better
You took your ability when you packed
And left me to deal with a tickle monster
It's funny how we pretend that things exist
To make the pain a little duller
And now my skin aches again as if I've been hit
By a million crashing waves and bodies
And I lay awake and whisper
'Please, receive my message, I don't have a messenger'
'But I'm begging you, I need you now more than ever'
'Your friend has gone, and he left me alone too'
'I guess it's just me & you'
Me & the tickle monster.

Sometimes, looking at you in the light of the kitchen  I want
to run a finger
Down the length of your nose but
I know you'd wrinkle it, and shake your head citing a tickle, but kiss behind my shoulder as soon
As I turn away

When my feet make ice pools in the bed
Toes accidentally brushing your ankle and you **** abruptly, but upon hearing
My sigh, trap them back with your ankles til, martyr that you are, I'm engulfed in
Warmth at your
Expense.

Sometimes the last trickle of milk is mine, for the coffee,
Silent with your eyes smiling fondly, you look on as I sip, resolutely stirring powdered
Dead baby souls into mug as substitute.

Even damp smelly socks
Greasy hair
Neurotic tears and
Intellectual rambling epiphanies

Even childish blunders, fudging the
Budget or burning the toast

You still call me fond Things.

And love Me.
The most.

I love waking up to you like this, with the sheet pulled up to our waists, my arm around you, your hair all tangled in my face. A dusting of light squeezes through the gaps in the window curtains, gracing your cheek on the pillow beside mine. It plays in your hair, caresses your neck, and flutters down the length of your bare side. The feeling I get when you move against me is indescribable. Your skin. Your scent. Electrifying and calming all at once.

You never wake up before I do, leaving me time to admire your beauty. I have heard people say that they could watch the ocean forever, getting lost in the infinity of the waves and horizon. I feel that way about you. Forever I could listen to your gentle breath and watch the ceiling fan move the little wisp of hair near your ear.

Alas, you always wake, usually first with a slight stir of your legs. Then you take my arm, the one wrapped around you, and pull yourself closer to me until your back is against my chest and your feet tickle mine. I pull you closer to me still, kissing your neck just below the ear. This kiss never fails to finish waking you up, pulling you from whatever remnants were left of the dream you might've been in.

You roll over to face me, your chest against mine, our legs overlapping. Your hand comes up to stoke my hair as you kiss me, my hand on your hip. Morning begins as soon as you open your eyes. Those deep hazel eyes that I lose myself in. The eyes that I can find myself in. I kiss you once more before throwing off the covers and rolling out of bed.

Like clockwork, that is our morning routine. I love it. But this isn’t about our usual routine. This is about the mornings that start with more than a kiss.

This is about the mornings when you first stir and pull me close, pressing your hips against me. This is about the mornings when instead of just taking my arm, you take my hand beneath yours and direct my fingers down your neck, across your chest, to your waist. This is about the mornings when instead of a brief kiss on your neck, I place my kisses all over your body.

You slowly roll over to face me, the sunlight rolling across the incredible slopes of your bare body. My hand is in your messy, wonderful hair as we kiss. Your legs and mine are entangled, our toes warm under the sheet. Awe is the word that comes to mind as you, this beautiful person, climb on top of me, the lucky man. I love the way hair hangs messy in your face, tickling mine when you lean in for another deep kiss, body tingling as you guide me in.

It doesn’t feel hurried or hasty. It is slow and calm, a comfortable warmth only alluding to heat. This isn’t the fiery passion of the night before, both desperate to pleasure the other. It isn’t the reckless abandon of two lovers lost to the night. There will be no sore muscles or exhausted bodies when we are done. Instead, this feels like comfort, understanding. It feels like love.

You used to worry about how you looked when you woke up. You worried that you didn’t look **** without makeup, with messy hair, and the remnants of sleep in your face. But the truth is that I don’t mind if your hair is a mess, if sleep still dusts your eyes, or that lines from the pillow are imprinted on the side of your cheek. To me this is the epitome of comfort, the clearest way I can say that I want you. That I want you now, that I want you at any time, and that I always will. This is the time that I will think on as I go about my day, waiting to get back to you.

I love waking up to you like this.

Not a poem,;

A Repost:
Stay healthy beloved readers. I send you all my healing love:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Use apple cider vinegar or any vinagar asap even if you feel no tickle add sea salt gargle gargle gargle every hour if possible before and after eating! Or blend garlic and add vinagar gargle it!
men please do it! Go bathroom kitchen sink and look up at the ceilling open mouth wide gargle deep it shall burn a bit spit it out  do it sgain many times until it hurts no more.
Acid gets virus hiding in throat to come out and avoid getting the bicho nano bug into your lungs!?

A healthy immune system begins in the gut with a healthy balance of beneficial bacteria.

For far too many Americans, Candida overgrowth compromises the immune system, as it is constantly fighting the battle to keep Candida in control
If you do become ill, DO NOT feed the virus or the Candida with sugar. Yes, you need to drink a lot of fluids, but don’t drink sodas and sugary juices at this time. Cranberry unsweetened read lable cocktail has sugar get unsweetened one or grandberries fresh into blender or lemonade with stevia is a good choice. Try it warm or cold.

Gargle. Gargle. Gargle. Gargling lowers the viral load, leaving your throat body with fewer invaders to replicate.

So sip on this Mother Earth Organic Root Cider warm. Cold’s and flu often start in the throat or the nasal cavities.
At the first sign of a sore throat or sinus infection, sip on the root cider! If you don’t have it, use apple cider vinegar
Also flush your nose deep each side lean over sink to right and left sides flush nose for God's sakes alternate sea salt baking soda or use vinagar to nose too!? Rubb garlic on your nails eye bows.

Also, remember that a fever is one of nature’s means to fight infection.
Of course, you don’t want it to get too high (higher than 102) and drink plenty of fluids to prevent dehydration.
Filtered apple juice has boron brings down fever fast 4 to 6 onz every hour or if too sweet delute it half water half juice!
Vitamin A, vitamin D, vitamin E, and vitamin C are all vital nutrients for the immune system.
If you have any lip mouth sores you need to ballance minerals too much vitamin requires minerals fulvic humic

If you take high doses of vitamin C to fight a virus, remember that you should not abruptly stop taking vitamin C.
You should titrate down.
Vitamin C is needed by the immune system to make interferon, which the immune system produces to protect healthy cells from viral invasion.!!!

Zinc has been proven to be effective against the common cold and to be effective as a topical treatment for ****** sores.
ZINC It is believed to be effective due to preventing replication of the virus.
The immune system needs selenium to work properly and to build up the white blood cell count.
Berberine is an alkaloid compound found in several different plants, including European barberry, goldenseal, goldthread, Oregon grape, Phellodendron, and Coptis chinensis.

It has antibacterial, anti-inflammatory, antiviral, anti-parasitic, and immune-enhancing properties.
It’s been proven effective against a vast array of bacteria, protozoa, and fungi.
It can be used topically on cuts and other wounds, and it’s perhaps most commonly used to treat gastrointestinal issues.
Probiotics are always helpful in maintaining gut health, especially when the body is under a viral attack that involves the digestive system.
Probiotic foods and drinks without added sugar can help maintain a healthy balance of bacteria.

Garlic is anti-viral, anti-fungal, and antibacterial.
You can take garlic in a tonic or if you can handle it, chew raw garlic.
It not only will help fight the virus, it will help **** any secondary infections trying to take root.

Echinacea not only supports the immune system, it also has been proven to reduce the severity and duration of viral infections.

Colloidal silver is believed to interfere with the enzymes that allow viruses (bacteria and fungi as well) to utilize oxygen
A double-blind trail showed elderberry extract’s ability to reduce symptoms of influenza and speed recovery.

It also showed elderberry’s ability to enhance immune response with higher levels of antibodies in the blood.
It is believed to inhibit a virus’s ability to penetrate healthy cells and protect cells with powerful antioxidant S. Elderberry has also been shown to inhibit replication in four strains of ****** viruses and reduce infectivity of *** strains.

The flavonoids in green tea are believed to fight viral infections by preventing the virus from entering host cells and by inhibiting replication.

Though double-blind clinical trials are needed, olive leaf extract has been shown to inhibit replication of viruses. In one study, 115 of 119 patients had a full and rapid recovery from respiratory tract infections while 120 of 172 had a full and rapid recovery from viral skin infections such as ******.

Pau d’arco has been used in indigenous medicine for generations. One of its compounds, lapachol, has proven effective against various viruses, including influenza, ****** simplex types I and II and poliovirus. It is believed to inhibit replication.

Studies have shown that glycyrrhizin, a compound found in licorice root was more effective in fighting samples of coronavirus from SARS patients than four antiviral drugs. It reduces viral replication, cell absorption, and the virus’s ability to penetrate cells. It is also being used to treat ***.

St. John’s Wort has been proven effective against influenza, ****** simplex, and ***.

If you’re prone to viral infections or are dealing with a chronic infection like ***, as mentioned above, the first step is to get your gut in shape. This is absolutely imperative. The best article to do that with is Best Supplements To **** Candida and Everything Else You Ever Wanted To Know About Fungal Infections & Gut Health. Everyone who is chronically ill has an abundance of Candida. Yes, everyone.

Provided your gut is healthy, or if you just feel the need to skip that part, here are the supplements to take in order to make sure your immune system is able to fight off viruses:

While there are most supplements listed above, the combination of these listed here is more than enough to balance out the body and ward off viral infection.
~~~~~~~
A Repost By Karijinbba.

The pathway to the hidden falls,
greenest trees and ivy walls,
Humid day and rain a threat,
Forest living, thick and wet.

Pebbles on this path to be,
Never ending, fast to me.
Flip flops make an obstacle,
For me to keep the pace we go.

The peach in hand is almost eaten,
When roaring waters reveal this Eden,
The water falls so quick approaching
seems to stick my memory's poaching.

We climb the uphill train of rocks,
more like boulders, need for socks,
Majesty miracle's tickle my senses,
Like watching babe ruth swing for the fences.

Something here is overpowering
behind the force field something is flowering,
Wet smooth rocks lay geometric,
something alive and something electric.

Native American premonitions,
Thoughts of the beginning of all of this swishin',
Waterfall dreams sparkle like diamonds,
Foam and water, slippery minded.

Brain chemical explosion.
Somethings been bound.
Something is gone
something I found
Burned in my imagination
is this place that I visited
on my vacation.

Scene One



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...
*



Urgo: I am attendant 1. Often known as Urgo.



Burgo: I am attendant 2. Always known as Burgo.



Urgo:  You see this creature seated here
            in the wheelchair? 
Can you believe it?

            This creature once wrote poems
            
and its poems still inhabit cyberspace.


Burgo: Oh, this creature did that?


Urgo: Yes, this.


Burgo: I think I’ve read some.

             Not that I can remember any.
             
Not a word, not a title.
 But must have been pretty good, ha?
             
To write all those words, in verse...


Urgo: I don’t know about that.
           
It’s the girls who write. And sissies.
           
And for all that, you know
           
there’s just one word this creature can say.


Burgo: Really? Just one word?


Urgo: Yes.
All right, watch this.
           Come on, Raj-i.

           Hey baby...Burgo here wants to hear you.
           
Just one poem in your one word.
           
Come on, baby - or no soup for you tonight.



Raj: Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa



(Burgo and Urgo clap)



Urgo: Baan-derful, Raj...
Now Burgo,
           let’s wheel the creature back in

           and dump him in
           his corner.



(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)





Scene Two



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...






Urgo: Today, Burgo, is Exercise Your Vocal Chords Day.



Burgo: No problem - Ahhhhhhhhrrrrgggggooooaaaaa.....



Urgo: Not your vocal cords, Burgo.
           
It is Exercise Your vocal Cords Day
            
for our distinguished guest currently
            
on this wheelchair.



Burgo: Ahhh...I see...



Urgo: All right, Raj-i baby...
Exercise your vocal chords 

            and entertain us with your delightful voice...



Raj: Baa, baa, baa
        
Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa
        
Baa, baa, baa



(Burgo claps)*



Urgo: OK - that’s enough exercise for the day!
           Let’s go






(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)






Scene Three

...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...


Urgo: Burgo!

Burgo: Sire!

Urgo: Sire? Where in the world
           did you get such a word?

Burgo: Sorry - I thought I was in a *****
             Shakespeare play.

Urgo: Have your head examined, Burgo.
            We’ll never make it there.
            All we have is this 3rd-rate one-act play.

Burgo: I understand. I’m just a little ambitious.

Urgo: Be realistic. Don’t be ambitious.

Burgo: That’s wise, Sire - I mean, Urgo.

Urgo: Well, this creature in the wheelchair,
            for example...It was ambitious...
            and it had a great fall...
            it never knew how to be realistic...
            But more of that, later - first, what Day is it today?

Burgo: It is We Tickle Your Foot Day, today.

Urgo: You learn fast, Burgo.

Burgo: Thank you, Urgo.

(Silence)

Urgo: Well?

Burgo: I’m very well, thank you.

Urgo: You idiot! I mean if you know it is
           We Tickle Your Foot Day, today -
           then what should you do next, you knave!?

Burgo: Oh. Ok.

(Burgo kneels before Raj, takes off Raj’s shoes and with a feather tickles Raj’s feet.)

Raj (laughing): Baa, baa, baa
                              Baa, baa, baa
                              Baa, baa, baa
                             Baa, baa, baa


(Burgo puts Raj’s shoes on again, and his feather back in his pocket and stands up.)



Burgo: You mentioned ambition
              and this creature that sits on the wheelchair.

Urgo: Yes, it is time to exercise my vocal chords.
           This creature forgot, like all creatures,
           we come alone, and we go alone.

Burgo: Ah, at last! - hints of a Shakespearean play
             albeit we’ll never make it into one.
            With ambition, loneliness and all the Lear madness.
            Will we have the lewd parts too
            and rich imagery of body parts?

Urgo: Perhaps...perhaps...but let us stick to the ordinary ...
           This creature was born in 1derLand
           but was washed ashore to foreign shores.


Burgo: Good, good...like Paris, son of Priam and Hecuba?
             O Paris, washed ashore to Sparta
             O so well-loved and nursed by Helen.

Urgo: Yes, except this creature is more akin to the Wanderer
            like Oedipus, or just the indistinct Mendicant,
            the Samurai with no master, a ronin,
             all cursed to wander the face of the earth...

Burgo: Oh - are we in Shakespeare yet?

Urgo: We are in deep ****! That’s where we are!
           We all are.
           Burgo - let us stick to the banal like hamburgers.
          This creature forgot that
          and dreamt of things like poetry, ideals -
          and therein is the moral of the story for you:
          we come alone
          and alone we go
          one at a time we come
          and each we own, and each faculty
          one at a time they go.

Burgo: So let us stick with the banal
             eat our burgers
             and pick our teeth after.
             Do they supply toothpicks at takeaways
             in your country, Urgo?

Urgo: No, we recycle them, Burgo.
           We just pick up discarded ones from the ground.
           Like some nations pick up cigarette butts
           from the bins.
           Waste not; want not.


Burgo: Oh, if this scene goes on any longer
             it might become Shakespearean, Urgo.

Urgo: Ergo - we must go.
          But let us allow Raj to have the last word,
           since this play is entitled
          “ Raj Arumugam, (a one-act tragicomedy)”.
          Idiot of a son! What kind of fool-writer will have a play
          with his own name as the title of his play?!

Burgo: So, Raj-i, you egocentric ******:
             You have the last word in this scene...
             You really put words into my mouth, you ****!

Raj: Baa, baa, ba
        Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa


Urgo: All right, Let’s go, Burgo.
           Bring him in -
           Let’s drop him in bed
           and may he drop dead!



(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)




Scene Four



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...



*


Urgo: Burgo!


Burgo: Urgo!


Urgo: How long has it been since
           you started work here?


Burgo: 3 months, Urgo. Why?


Urgo: Well, show me a game...I’m bored...a new game...


Burgo: Well, have you played wheelie bin?


Urgo: No.
But Oh I love to delve into world culture.

           Show me.


Burgo: Well, let me show you.

             A wheelie bin is a bin with wheels
             and you put ******* in it
             
and you leave it outside on the kerb
             
and the garbage guy in his truck collects your *******.
             
So this is the game.



(Burgo pushes wheelchair round the stage and sings.)



          This is the way we 
wheel out our wheelie bins
           
this is the way we 
wheel out our bins
           
early every Thursday morning


           This is the way we 
leave our bins,
            our wheelie bins

            this is the way we leave our bins
            
out on the sunny kerb

            every Thursday morning



(leaves wheelchair on kerb)



           This is the way we empty our bins

           this is the way we empty our bins
           this is the way empty our bins
           every Thursday morning



(empties the wheelchair; Raj Arumugam  drops onstage)




Urgo(joining in):
 This is the way we 
pick up our *******

                                  pick up our *******
                                  
this is the way we do it

                                  this is the way 
always we do it

                                  early Thursday morning!



(Urgo picks up Raj Arumugam and drops him in the wheelchair)



(Urgo and Burgo clap, applauding each other.)



Burgo:
And now, Urgo - for the ritual
             of 
Raj Arumugam’s final words in the scene...
Is that right?



(Urgo nods...)



Burgo:
  Sing, you Sir in the Wheelchair.



Raj: Baa, baa, baa
       
Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa




Burgo: Oh, you spoil the fun! Let’s go.






(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)




Scene Five

...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...


Urgo:
          Let's leave him here tonight;
         some fresh air might do him good

(Urgo and Burgo leave, leaving Raj on his wheelchair.)

(Long silence.)


Raj: Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
      Baa, baa, baa



(Raj has a thought. His thought is broadcast as a message on the rectangular neon light display: “Hey guys, come back...Another word is coming back to me.”)

(Long silence)


Raj:
**** **** ****
**** **** ****
**** **** ****

(Raj has another thought. His thought is broadcast as a message on the rectangular neon light display: “Another one’s coming back...maybe my mind is coming back.”)


Raj:
**** **** ****
**** **** ****
**** **** ****

(Long silence. Lights fade. Darkness. Curtain...)