Cicada’s Farewell

Cicada’s Farewell
“I guess I felt attached to my weakness. My pain and suffering too. Summer light, the smell of a breeze, the sound of cicadas – if I like these things, why should I apologize?” ― Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase

cicada’s voice – last
song of summer loud across
the brown pasture –
he sings to the clear blue sky
with newfound joy

24/7

For the Midweek Motif at Poets United – Televised  The Perseid Meteor Shower peaked last night. In spite of the bright moon, those suckers really flew.

24/7
“Television has been the single greatest shaper of emptiness.” – Ravi Zacharias

we sit in our cocoons nursing some kind of drink
and stuffing some kind of snack down our throats.
long distance the news comes to us 24/7 –
we absorb it like sponges
on the back of the sink as they absorb the water’s slow
leak from the faucet and the accumulating bacteria.
Sure we get the cultural stuff –
but we prefer the news.
We act horrified but we continue to watch.
I’m going outside to stare at the Perseid
meteor shower – be amazed at how the tiny grains of sand
light up the night sky.
I watch the stars in their orbit –
cicadas rattle and thrum in the close summer night.
Peace descends like soft falling rain.

Perseid Meteor Show 2019 Space Photos

Haibun: My Mother’s Voice

For dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille Monday.  A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words using the assigned word.  Today De gives us the word “voice”.

 

Haibun: My Mother’s Voice
The death of a mother is the first sorrow wept without her. ― Anonymous

This morning I heard my mother’s voice. I had an omelet for breakfast with a fresh picked tomato on the side. The tomato was juicy and spread its juice all over the plate.
my mother’s voice
in a tomato –
tears and juices mingle

 

 

At the Beach

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse Blogspot

 

At the Beach
“The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach.” Henry Beston

We sat on beach towels on the sand
watching the waves and gulls,
cooled by the breeze.
I held the shell I had found on the beach
just an hour ago.
I held it up to my ear and said,
Mama, I can hear the ocean!
She grinned.
But of course you can!
She took a sip of her iced tea
from the thermos.
I sat in front of the ocean
and continued to listen to the ocean
through my shell.

Autumn Contemplation

Autumn Contemplation
“The upper reaches here and the lower of the river – the friend for the moon.” Matsuo Basho

Meigetsu,
the harvest moon is fading –
Bright gold coin in black sky
now dims and wanes to a partial dish of cream.
Hatsu arashi – the first storm of autumn
has washed clean the sky.
aki simu – autumn is clearing,
brilliant blue,
luminous white clouds drifting, silent. peaceful.
Autumn’s voice whispers –
breeze across dry leaves on the grass,
wind in the reeds at the creek,
The little priest – the tiny cicada delicately
moves his wings, a small voice
among the raucous pine and bell crickets,
an alto to the larger cicadas
and their metallic thrum.
Shinryoo – new coolness in the air.
The coming of autumn is somnolent today.
No rise or fall,
A steady tone of almost silence.
The morning glory twines
lovingly around my plum tree
and shows her blue face,
echoing her sister,
aki no sora – the autumn sky.
The small grey tabby across the way
sits beneath an oak
watching the occasional
slow falling leaf.
Her eyes stay upward
and she does not move for she wants to see
the leaves as they float and fall around her.
An early leaf burning –
smoke wanders and its incense drifts to heaven.
my wondering heart sit entranced
in the midst of the haiku
I wish I could write.

Haiku – 8/9/2019

For my prompt at Wednesday Muse, Sunday Muse BlogSpot – butterflies a haiku

Haiku – 8/9/201
9
“When nature moves, butterflies take flight.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

butterflies flitting –
self-propelled flowers –
floating blossoms

Will Autumn Never Come

Will Autumn Never Come>
“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” ― Sylvia Plath

it is still summer –
the trees are filled with cicadas
all sawing and cracking
as if they were all members of
the End Of Summer Band.
Leaves are starting to fall –
a few at the time,
gold and crisped at the edges
like sugar cookies fresh off the cookie sheet.
The blackberry canes are bare of berries
except for a few withered ones missed by the birds
and human pickers.
I wait for that autumnal nip in the air.
I wait for the dog days of summer
to go to sleep – to curl up
on the hearth.
will autumn never come?
the night stars still sing summer.
will autumn never come?

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