Forget-me-not Sky

For Marian’s prompt over at Toads – a very fussy little form known as the tritina. I don’t know if it did it right but I did try.  The poems consists of three three line verses and one single line for a total of ten.  The lines end in a cofusing (to me) pattern of 123, 312, and 231 using all the ending words in the last line.  I don’t care for forms because they are too rigid.  But I tried.  Lord knows I tried.  Marian I am sorry if I got this wrong.

Forget-me-not-sky
The wild winds came and blew the summer away –
Turning the sky to the heartbreaking blue of forget-me-nots,
And putting a chill into the night air.

Smells of moldering leaves and dried grass perfume the air
and the hummingbirds have all gone away.
Dead are the summer’s forget-me-nots.

I planted years ago the sky hued forget-me-nots
breathing in the cold autumn air
and finally turning with sadness away.

The thin autumn sun warms the air while clouds sail in the forget-me-not sky.

the Japanese refer to this particular shade of blue sky in the autumn as aki no sora.

 

Fall Knocks Slowly

For Real Toads Tuesday Platform

Fall Knocks Slowly
Fall knocks slowly at summer’s door:
an old friend with shyness at returning and
maybe told to leave.
Leaves turn yellow and
slowly drop on green grass and
turn brown to be swept away
by chill winds.
Breezes once warm start
to be chill at evening
and daylight’s gold luster fades
to early evening.
Evening comes too soon for those of us who love the
sweet warm days and azure skies
but summer opens the door to fall and
the visitor glides in and
settles down to stay until
winter bids it go.
In the cold winter
might stars seem to burn brighter –
heaven’s nightlights to keep us safe
while we sleep and dream of spring.

copyright kanzensakura

Aokigahara – Sea of Trees

Aokigahara – Sea of Trees
“Life is complicated. It’s filled with nuance. It’s unsatisfying… If I believe in anything, it is doubt. The root cause of all life’s problems is looking for a simple fucking answer.” Anthony Bourdain

Beautiful dense at the base of Mt. Fuji –
Signs at path beginning warn
to stay on path lest you be lost.
In the beauty is a huge yuck factor:
Don’t follow the tapes –
Youmayfindabody.
It is the #1 place in Japan
to contemplate/commit
…suicide

 

WE CAN ALL HELP PREVENT SUICIDE.  The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals.
1-800-273-8255

 

 

 

 

 

The weight of Love

For Kerry’s Prompt on Real Toads – Camera Flash and a Flash 55

The Weight of Love
All those love locks fastened to all the bridges –
Each one telling of eternal love,
Each one making note of a love commemorated –
Each lock pulling the bridges to pieces,
Adding weight to their load.
Destroying the bridges,
We fasten love locks on people
Destroying them.
Pulling them down,
Such is the nature of love.

**Pont des Arts Bridge, Paris, France, Hohenzollern Bridge, Cologne, Germany, N Seoul Tower, Seoul, South Korea, **Vodootvodny Canal, Moscow, Russia, Mount Huang, China, **Most Ljubavi, Vrnjačka Banja, Serbia, **Malá Strana district, Prague, Czech Republic, Ponte Milvio Bridge, Rome, Italy, Butchers’ Bridge, Ljubljana, Slovenia , **Brooklyn Bridge, NYC, New York, United States

**these love locks are being removed from the bridges due to safety concerns and tearing apart the bridge

Smells of Home

For Gina’s prompt at dVerse:  Comfort smells of childhood.

Smells of Home
“As you move through this life and this world, you change things slightly; you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life–and travel–leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks–on your body or on your heart–are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.” Anthony Bourdain

Ivory soap – pure white and floating.
My mother scrubbing me clean and later
Mme scrubbing myself clean.
My father shaving off bits with his pocket knife
and putting into a bowl of water to melt
and then blowing soap bubbles.

Fresh laundry – the smell of sun
and later starch, ironed and fresh.
Diving onto the bed and rolling from one side
to the other – reveling in the clean crisp scent.

My grandmother’s lipstick and face powder,
my father’s Old Spice,
my mother’s clean fresh smell
as she came in from the outside.

Smells of cooking fresh green beans,
frying chicken, freshly baked bread,
freshly squeezed lemon juice into the
pitcher of sweet tea,
the fresh coconut cake, the scent
of tomatoes fresh from the vine.

Cedar and pine for Christmas,
oranges and cloves.
Carnations spicy and rich for Valentine’s day
and magnolias in a crystal punch bowl,
roses and honeysuckle and newly mown grass
In the summer.

Smells of childhood take me back to happy times.
Smells to remind me the dead are always with us.

The Swan

For qbit’s prompt over at dVerse this Haibun Monday. A haibun is a non-fictional short writing (one or two paragraphs) closed by a season haiku.  it is an ancient Japanese poetic form and was created by Basho.

The Swan
The lone swan sailed over the bits of water that was left unfrozen in the dead of winter. To this day I don’t know why she lighted down there, alone. Her flock had long since left her and so she swam in pitiful small circles, occasionally upending to feed on small fish and water lily roots. My mother and I remarked on her aloness and wondered why. I was afraid the hunters would do her in and my mother worried about coyotes and wild dogs dragging her to land and devouring her. But still she swam in her pitiful small circles. One day in not-quite-spring, we drove by the swamp area to find it white with swans. We pulled on the side of the road watching them and listening to their honking. As one, they rose to the sky and the swamp was empty. The swan had taken flight with her flock. I spoke to a game warden later who said the sawn may have been sick or injured. She was left behind to heal or die. My mother and I were both pleased she had healed and left behind the strange landscape of the swamp to be with her flock.
frozen water –
circles getting smaller
as a swan swims

Slice of Pie Glass of Milk

Yet another in my Dorian Gray series.  For Bjorn’s prompt over at dVerse, narrative poetry.

 

Slice of Pie Glass of Milk
“I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

The servant took his long black coat
dotted with shivering bits of rain.
The young man went into his library
and sat down in a green leather chair
after pouring himself some brandy.
He sat with his feet on the grate warming
his cold feet in their black John Lobb boots.
The servant hovered around him until he said tesity,
“Go away. Take yourself away for the rest of the evening.
I will get something from the larder if I am hungry.”
The servant left gratefully.
Clearly his master was in a foul mood.
The young man drank the brandy
in one pull and got up to pour himself another.
How dare she! How dare she go out with another man.
And laugh at him as she told him where she would be.
He stood outside the restaurant
looking at the two of them –
getting wet and cold,
the rain seeping through his coat.
She looked up and he could swear she saw him.
She turned to her companion and laughed.
He waited outside as the two of them went into the house
and he watched and waited until the bedroom light was darkened.
The rest of the house went silent and still.
He let himself into the house through the garden French doors and
quietly he tiptoed up to her bedroom.
It was but a moment’s work to slit both their throats
and then to go out the way he came.
The rain washed away the blood on his hands.
He felt hungry now and went to the larder.
The young man sliced himself a piece of game pie
and that wonderful cognac and apple pie his French chef had baked.
For good measure he poured himself a glass of milk.
He stuffed himself in front of the fire.
He smiled thinly.
Then he poured himself some more brandy.
Never would he gain weight.
Never would he show the effects of the most horrendous murder.
Warm and cozy now, Dorian Gray dozed in front of the fire,
all anger forgotten.

Reeve Carney as Dorian Gra

 

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