The Choice

The best of dancers ruined by a host

of other loves that to the heart may call.

Some choices must be made or not at all.

The dance too brief ; the song may end for most

and fly away from splendor of romance.

Crescendo reached and still the dance she owns.

Life is too short to settle, oh, for less.

Eshoo the heart; don’t make the dreadful choice!

Her soul now hovers.  Grief is like a plow

that pushes every goal to here and now.

 

(Was watching the Movie, “The Red Shoes” when I wrote this.  The agony of being forced to make a choice between two over-whelming loves can drive one mad.)

When Love is Gone

A world abandoned,  nature now attends.

She grows her roving vines; surrounds the door.

The sound of children’s play is heard no more.

Around the gnarled roots that grow and stray

she grabs at windows once held curtain’s sway.

No human voices echo through her halls

No more the roaming Jasmine odor calls.

What mystery escapes her stucco walls?

What place is this once held such loveliness?

Mad roots now rave and overrun her past.

They strangle unknown cause so long forgot.

When love is gone, then covered is the heart.

overgrown house

Remember Us

“Remember Us”

Like pictures on a screen in seconds, lost

or blips upon a monitor turn long

old memories are flown with deadly cost:

as quarks may separate eternal song.

The picture caught though words may flutter by

though hole is in my net and so I sigh.

A set of words surround my broken thought

say: “You and I” when, clearly, love is sought.

Before our memory may grab stale air

Before time takes the brain and makes a mush

Before the hurt that makes us want to share

Before the mind’s become a muddy lush;

inscribe upon some stone where century

from now our love survives for all to see.

Haiku for Lovers (photo by Robert Doisneau)

Echoes on Easter Island

 

“Echoes on Easter Island”

The silence as the clouds go rushing by
*across the treeless island’s bare terrain
where statues, mute, sit quiet in their clime
to worship, chant yet no one hears their claim.

Signs of their age show in their surface scowl
as muscles strain to move their burden forth.
Men grunt and stretch to transfer giant haul
with logs from trees that roll their statues north.

These silent icons speak of heaven’s hold.
Their antique voices echo from the past.
Harmonic crowds of angels have foretold
a tale of man’s redemption come at last.

They wail! These mighty icons pitch and lean
as mesmerized, they view their layered world;
their nights a holographic, starstruck scene.
What secret dreams has Rapa Nui hurled?

Now drop two stones in silent-surfaced pond
both circles formed may intermingle; die.
Below the surface, interference bonds
as spirit in the man has wings to fly.

That wisdom lies beneath the spreading wave;
encircles sound yet soul is not enslaved

*They say the islanders cut down all the trees on Easter Island so they could move their giant, carved heads to specific locations. They must have been waiting for rescue from another planet as the statues were placed strategically, on the island, as a kind of welcome sign for those coming from outer space to recognize their island as the place to land! The patterns set up on the island look like a kind of airport being readied for visitors from outer space. Reminds me of a modern-day movie,”Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”

 

“Starlight”

Van-Gogh.-Starry-Night-469x376

Starlight

Stars curl across the evening sky:
soulful, spinning out of sight.
So Van Gogh wants all to know
starry, vivid, glowing night.
Still, his canvas sings to us:
Shouts out to shining faithful
Swirling starlight with his brush.


Above called the “Pleiades” form.

Form invented in 1999 by Craig Tigerman, Sol Magazine’s Lead Editor. Only one word is allowed in title followed by a single seven-line stanza. The first word in each line begins with the same letter as the title. Hortensia Anderson, a popular haiku and tanka poet, added her own requirement of restricting the line length to six syllables. (I have restricted mine to 7 in honor of the seven sisters).

Background of the Pleiades: The Pleiades is a star cluster in the constellation Taurus. It is a cluster of stars identified by the ancients, mentioned by Homer in about 750 B.C and Hesiod in about 700 B.C. Six of the stars are readily visible to the naked eye.  Depending on visibility conditions,  between nine and twelve stars can be seen. Modern astronomers note that the cluster contains over 500 stars. The ancients named these stars the seven sisters: Alcyone, Asterope, Celaeno, Electra, Maia, Merope, and Tygeta; nearby are the clearly visible parents, Atlas and Pleione.

“Men in Orange Jumpsuits”

 

She wanted the attention and the wealth.
Bold disrespect she shows Memorial Day
for Christians dressed in orange to their death;
be-headings all the rage is Griffin’s way.

I weep for Man whose lost all sense of shame
I shudder for her stupid, bloody hands
I feel the filth just mentioning her name
A comedy of sorts lost to her fans.

Catastrophe to those who clap and grin.
There will be sorrow for the rest of us.
A lost humanity attuned to sin,
we’ll view our part , if any, with disgust.

The heart has withered once the head is lost
and so Man’s spirit where there is no trust.

“Two Sisters”

two sisters 001Lithograph: Miguel Martinez

But we are strangers, always. Two sisters, so close in age. Time separates like two wet leaves cling, dry, then snap away with the wind. What causes human partings? Does there need to be a cause?  Like sleepwalkers holding hands, we slowly wander off to opposite lives. No need to look back or try to fathom what happened. Nothing at all. Once, a call to share with me her medical. I listen with empathy; apparently unable to offer the sympathy she needs. Once I post a letter_ loaded with spousal problems. She responds with feelings of disgust for a sister that is nothing but a “poor me” cry baby. Neither of us able to give what the other needs or wants. Time forms a lost, hurtful relationship.  Strangers, we answer with numbness until the scab finally leaches off and leaves a clean, clear perfect skin beneath. But somewhere in that perfection, just beneath the skin;  a bloody, mysterious half-forgotten longing.

“Pause the Parsing”

“Pause the Parsing”

President’s dismay

at White House briefing parsing

gives me ample pause.

The Surfer


Oh, Jon:  he owns that blue green tunnel’s sway
before bold nature casts him from the sea.
He’s god and for a moment has his way.
What man resists such magic brevity?
The moment flows and swift the water flies.
Around such power one might turn away
but surfers are committed as they ride
momentum’s wave.  There is no turning back
from beauty of the sea’s bold shining glanceWarren Wave
a heavy hand that turns the mighty wave.
There’s climax and a mystery’s romance
for man who will forever be its slave.
Acceptance gives the surf its final spin
as glorious as when that dance begins.

“Sympathy”

<img src=”http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/26/gargle163.png”>

 

I am held in the comfort of your hands, softly, as the small,  broken wings of a bird.
No cooing is heard as token words cannot fill my breathless need.  Your caress
soothes murmurings of a grieving heart as leaf  brushes leaf.

MVC-005SPhoto by Jacqueline Casey.