a piece of the ocean

a piece of the ocean
“I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.” ― Dejan Stojanovic, The Shape

here is a piece of the ocean –
this bit of blue,
this bit of gold,
this bit of green.
I love you with the serene brutality
of the ocean –
but we are two different oceans
apart from each other
on different coasts –
loving eternally but never meeting
on the sands –
kissing and missing by inches.
always apart.
without the gulls the sky is empty.


Haibun: Gold Day

For Frank’s prompt on dVerse – heartbreak or frustration.  This is a rewriting and reworking of an original poem.  In Japan, Friday is often known as Gold Day.  this is about my lover who left to return to Japan so many years ago.

Gold Day
The afternoon you left was a golden roux of fading autumn sunlight, spicy oak leaves – bright yellow, still holding on to the tree, not yet ready to fall, and bitter salt tears – like the oak leaves – refusing to fall, refusing to join the earlier faded maple leaves on the lawn. Under the trees, quiet and still. I allow the knowledge of your leaving to permeate my being. I am still breathing. My heart is still beating. The sky is still ethereal blue with purest white autumn clouds wafting their way to the end of the horizon. Starlings lift from the telephone wires to follow the clouds. I realize, I will continue on my way – leaves will change color and fall, snow will cover the sepia winter landscape – cherry blossoms will bud, bloom, and fade. Trees will leaf in explosions of green, leaves will change color and fall. Seasons and things will pass. inside, my soul says “Oh!” I sit as the gold day ends.
early leaf burning –
its incense drifts to heaven –
autumn’s voice whispers.



dVerse Poets Pub – Meeting the Bar #2

Another entry for the wonderful Golden Shovel poetic form prompt De has given us to use for our poems.  Come and read!  I am linking to:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/05/05/dverse-meeting-the-bar-the-golden-shovel-form/  I seem to have a theme going here:  stars and the night.  I have taken my lines (two lines out of sequence but in order) from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s  Maud, an extract, section viii

Winter Stars at Night
In spite of the leaving of day and love my heart continues to beat
and to throb in rhythm with the watching stars and to
carry me onward through the night and the
coldness of snow as it falls – noiseless.
I remember the lights and the music
your arms around me and the warmth of
your kiss on my neck – tasting the pearls, the
salt of my skin. Before you left the Night
was bright with chandelier stars and warm and my heart beat
ast with the waltz and the oh so happy
music and the lift of the music and the smiling stars.
Now here in the lonely night the stars pulse, timing
their silent heartbeats with
lost and broken things
stumbling in the falling snow, here on the earth below

free non-commercial use image

free non-commercial use image

Monday Musings – The Remains

dried rose

There is always something leftover.
The snow and ice have melted
And soaked into the earth and run down into the creek.
But the azaleas are bent from their weight,
Some branches snapped from the tulip poplar
And lie discarded in the yard.

There is always something that remains.
Coffee cups with a slight residue
In the bottom or a ring marking
The undrunk coffee and left in
The sink overnight.

There is always something unwanted.
Chicken bones, a bit of salad,
A smear of egg on a plate,
The faded teeshirt from last summer –
Worn with so many smiles
And almost like a talisman – at the time.

There is something always that remains.
And though you’ve washed that pink set of sheets
A thousand times, when you make the bed with them,
Your eyes go to that spot,
The semen left behind to dry and crust
After he said he wanted to branch out
And find others more suited to his
Supreme wonderfulness.

There is always something discarded.
The dried rosebuds,
The handwritten notes,
That silly teeshirt he bought
And you wore, almost like a talisman
At the time.

There is always something unused.
Like that beautiful tie
You bought for him the day before he left.
There is always something wasted, unwanted
There is always something remaining,
There is always something discarded.
and this time, it is you.

The Walk – Part lll – Silent Walking

free public domain image

free public domain image

Ice covered the surface
of the small pond, leftover snow
rimmed its edges.
She was late and he
had worn a path
in the light snow
on the brown winter grass, pacing.
He turned in surprise to
find her a few steps away.
He laughed. “How can you walk so
quietly on this icy snow?”

She smiled. “Someone taught me
long ago how to walk softly
and not make a sound,
to not disturb the air around me.”
He frowned. “And was this some
mystic or mythical ninja?”

She shook her head.
“Only a man, an ordinary man.”
She looked at the ice
on the pond and sighed.
She had bread in a small
bag for her friend the heron
and for extra geese and ducks.
She threw it on the ice
anyway and on the bank of
the pond.

He said, “tell me
more about him.”
She said, “you know as much
as I have wished to say.
He came, we loved, he left.”
The man looked at the bread on the ice.
“It seems my friend,
your love was like that ice.
Freely given but not taken.”

She shrugged.
“How are the cherry buds
coming along?”
He shook his head. Resigned he said,
“They are tiny
but show a micron
of red.”
This time she smiled.
“Geese will see the bread
and eat.
The ice will melt.
The sky will be blue
and the cherry trees will bloom
Great clouds of pink and white.”
She turned and silently
on the icy snow,
walked away.

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