The Rain

For the Tuesday Platform over at Toads.

The Rain
Listen to me the way you listen
to the rain – with your head cocked
to one side and your eyes half closed,
a faint smile on your lips.
Touch me the way you touch the rain –
your fingertips extended and your hand cupped
feeling it with all your self.
Dance with me the way you
dance in the rain –
with total abandon
with joy and knowledge of the fleeting
nature of the rain,
holding your face up to take the kiss
of the rain fully and deeply,
your arms extended like the
wings of an owl,
ready to lift off into the sky.

Red is the color of peace

For Paul’s prompt at Real Toads about Peace.  This is an old poem previously posted but reworked and tightened up a bit.  I truly believe that we carry peace around with us, that it must be found within and shared out like excess red tomatoes from my garden.

copyright kanzensakura

 

Red is the color of peace
Peace comes in many colors – like the rainbow,
like us humans or animals or flowers.
You may not think so, but red is the color of peace –
the tomato plucked from the bounty of my backyard garden
and handed over the short fence to the neighbor next door –
red of holly berries nestled among dark green clusters
of leaves hidden deep in the forest, with white snow
softly falling or the cardinal perched on the branch –
The red of maple leaves preparing for winter sleep
or the red of the rose given to a beloved.
Long blondeblackbrownred braids tied at the ends
with perky red bows.
Red is the color of peace – of units of blood donated
for someone about to undergo life saving surgery
for the child with cancer
or the service  person needing
emergency treatment.
The wild apples are red and hang down far enough
a herd of deer can satisfy their hunger.
Red are the azaleas planted by my father years ago
that continue to bloom after all this time.
Strawberries from my garden are rich and red and sweet.
Red is also the color in the jars of preserves
I make and give out as gifts to anyone.
Red is my generations old flowering quince
blooming in a freezing snow.
The heart your child drew and the words “I Love You”
hangs with pride on your refrigerator door
photographed and posted on Facebook so everyone would know
– drawn with a bright red crayon.
Peace is what we make it and it is colored by our souls,
our hearts our words and actions.
If our words and actions do not speak of peace and hope
how can we be peace and hope to a world
sadly in need of both?
You may not think so, but red is the color of peace.

copyright kanzensakura

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The Southern Wind

In Honor of Walt Whitman’s birthday and his poem The Song of Myself – a song of myself for Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

 

Eno River – public doman

The Southern Wind
I am a southern woman born and bred.
Compared to my Yankee cousin I move….
Like a sloth. Which is cool by me.
I like to dawdle behind and look at the overlooked things –
The tiny flowers hidden in the grass
or the acorn still attached to the branch
wrenched by the wind from the oak
or the small yellow butterfly
drinking from the honeysuckle.
But I am also the dragon tea set –
two of the cups cracked and mended with gold.
I am the Smokie Mountains covered in mist
And I am also Fuji covered in clouds.
Peaches warmed by the sun are my skin.
One day my ashes will be scattered
into the South Wind –
Minamikaze –
Blown across the red dirt fields –
Blown across the slow moving Eno River
Blown into the ocean, The Crystal Coast
Blown back home

Public Domain, Crystal Coast NC

Minamikaze

Day Six of Nano-nano. or whatever it is. At Real Toads, doing the prompt thing with them.  Today the prompt is “speaking with another’s voice”.

Minamikaze
We became one the first time you held me.
I reflected your face in my surface –
We became one the first time I felt your tears.
We became one the first time I tasted your blood.
I remember that first day you pulled me from my sheath.
You wept at my beauty and then you pulled me
Against your hand and I felt your pain and tasted your blood.
I felt your wonder as you swung me through
The air and your heart beating through my handle.
I felt your love for me as you named me:
Minamikaze – South Wind
I am the gentle wind from the south,
The white dragon – the one who flies above the clouds.
I am yours as you are mine.

Battle

For Bjorn’s prompt on Real Toads – Entropy and Thermodynamics. We’ll see how I did. This is unusually long for me. It is a true story from my past and interest in all things Japanese, including a long gone lover. I’ve included a bit from The Last Samurai with the ho-hum Tom Cruise and the ever dynamic and sexy actor (and martial artist) Hiroyuki Sanada. I will also be posting this on Poets United Poetry Pantry.  Now imagine this battle with swords instead of bokken…yeppers

Battle
“Even after it all, would you dance with me again in the eye of the storm?” Dianna Hardy, Reign Of The Wolf

August…
hot stuffy steamy icky August
I am in the backyard practicing my kata…
and dripping, nay, running rivers of sweat.
“You’ll never finish if you keep stopping
to drink water and to wipe off”
I restrain myself from throwing my katana at him.
A light breeze and the strong whiff of
petrichor –
I smile…storm is coming.
A frisson of cool air brushes my skin.
I sheath my sword and run up the steps
to the back porch.
My lover puts his hand on my chest and stops me.
He was calm, I was building like the storm.
I tell him it is hot as fuckos, I was through practicing
And I.Was.Going.Inside.For.A.Shower.
He blinks slowly.
With the quickness of lightning
he pulls his sword and with a few strokes
drives me out into the now
Monsooning rain.
I pull my sword and begin fighting back,
being pushed back to the fence.
He slips on the slick fieldstones –
I put in a hard slash…And stop…horrified.
He puts his hand up to his ear,
blood running onto his white tee shirt
and dripping through his fingers.
Sonofabitch. You cut off my earlobe.
nervously I begin to laugh.
He frowns and then grabs me, begins kissing me.
There we stand in the rain
swords in our hands,
clothing and hair drenched, clinched.
The bomb has exploded –
now the rain is washing away
the sweat the blood the anger.
We sink down onto the gravel…
we don’t forget to sheath our swords.

Haibun: Valentine’s Day

Haibun: Valentine’s Day

We met online – a true romance of the 1990’s. He answered an online ad I had placed along with 20,000 other folk who responded. But his stood out, mainly because he was a local and he didn’t try to wow me. Just introduced himself, some of his interests, and where he worked. Quiet. Simple. I responded. We emailed a couple of weeks and then I called him. His voice was melodious and educated and he had a dry wit. After telephoning for a week, we decided to meet at a local restaurant for lunch. He said he had taekwondo and would meet me afterwards. I had been told about his physical appearance – medium tall, medium build, balding. I had shared my physical appearance – short and round like a beach ball. We liked each other at first sight and began dating. At first cautious and then throwing the wildness into the wind.

He took me to his parent’s home on Valentine’s Day. They were staying at Myrtle Beach for the winter and he was taking care of their home. He showed me around and then very quietly, he asked me to sit on the couch. My heart went cold. “He is breaking up with me” I thought. He went over to the piano and began to chord and to talk-sing, “Never gonna give you up” chord chord chord “Never gonna let you down” chord chord chord – all the way through the Rick Astley song that spoke to us both. He then left the piano and came over to the couch and kneeled on one knee. “I love you. Will you marry me?” I threw myself on him hugging him for all I was worth. “Yes! Oh yes!”

snow falling outside –
fire on the hearth roses in a vase –
love blooming within

Leaf Hagaki

Today is Quadrille Monday at dVerse.  What is a Quadrille?  It is a form unique to dVerse Poets pub consisting of exactly 44 words (excluding the title) and the chosen word.  Today Victoria is in charge of the Pub and has given us the word “poem” or variants of the word.  Come join us for these lovely short poems.

public domain image

Leaf Hagaki*
I carefully prick one word poems
on fallen leaves, letting the wind
take them where it will –
Postcards of joy, love, tolerance, hope.
I don’t expect a reply
but I let them loose anyway.
The silence between the falling of the leaves
is deafening.

* hagaki – Japanese for fragments of writing or postcards

 

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