Let’s Play Pretend

For Marian’s Prompt at Real Toads about coming out Gay along with a song from Boy Erased.

Let’s Play Pretend
“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”  Oscar Wilde

So this is a poem where we imagine coming out.
We imagine how we would feel.
We pretend we know what it is like.
But those of us who are born
with Straight Priviledge –
can never know.
We relate things about people we know –
Who are Lesbian, Homosexual, Transgender,
Transexual, Bisexual, Gay, Questioning…
We listen to music that is calculated to wring tears
from a stone.
My best friend and sister of my soul
Is A Lesbian.
I know all about her coming out,
Her use of drugs and alcohol.
Hell, I did a lot of those drugs with her myself
and got equally as drunk.
But do I know what it was like for her?
Did I feel the pain of her lover leaving her
and breaking her heart?
No I did not.
I am not going to pretend I do.
I will continue to love her
the sister of my soul
and pray the world treats her
as she deserves.
She is one of the finest people I know.
And we straight people
pretending we know,
pretending we understand,
well, we can keep on pretending.
It makes us appear cool.

Cherry Blossom Snow – sakura no yuki

For Anmol’s prompt over at dVerse – relationships and sensuality.  This is an “extreme” haibun being less that 65 words.  Actually, all haibun need to be short as in the original.  Haibun are true accountings ended with a seasonal haiku. Also posted on Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

Cherry Blossom Snow
“The heart was made to be broken.” Oscar Wilde

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, like an ancient Samurai. I fell in love at first sight. I was plain and short yet somehow, he fell in love with me. Long years of intense love and then, he returned to Japan. My heart broke.
cherry blossoms
fell like snow in the spring
caressing my skin goodbye

Garden of White Flowers

The Notes:  A triple Cherita. A cherita tells a story and is written thusly: one line, then two lines, then three lines for a total of six lines. There is no line length, no rhyme, no syllable requirement. This first Cherita is the beginning of a series of poems in my Garden of White Flower Series.  This first section is dedicated to the memory of my dear friend Jeff, a sweet and gentle soul. He committed suicide this past June 18, 2018.  I miss him dreadfully.  I seem to be on a roll here with poems about suicide. I am working on clearing my system of three deaths this past June: my mother and two friends by suicide, all within two weeks of each other.

Garden of White Flowers
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you, all of my life.” Oscar Wilde

I. Jeff
He loved white flowers in his garden especially bathed in moonlight.

He began his white garden when he interred the ashes of the love of his life,
His lover who died from AIDS thirty five years ago and cremated.

He dug the corner of his yard by hand putting in much sweat equity.
He planted a scented white rose that climbed and then iris bulbs,
Paperwhite narcissus, and wisteria, in the corner with the magnolia tree.

He watered the flowers with his tears and sweat.

Next into the garden he buried his precious Cocker, Duncan –
Rescued from a dog hoarder, abused and starved.

He sat out here often talking to Gabe and Duncan.
He planted more white flowers to breathe their life into him,
He whose loves had all died leaving him alone.

He was sitting in his white garden in the moonlight

When he decided there were enough white lowers, enough memories.
He stroked the petals of the white iris and the white rose

Then went into the house on that beautiful June night.
The next morning he took his cat to the vet to board her for a few days.
He returned home and hung himself, the scents of his garden wafting through the windows.

Haibun: Things I learned in the CIA

Posted for Mish’s prompt at dVerse Poets Pub – finding beauty in the ugly.

Haibun: Things I learned in the CIA
“Skills can be taught. Character you either have or you don’t have.” Anthony Bourdain
Many years ago, I attended and graduated from the CIA – The Culinary Institute of America that is. I was paired up with a tall lanky homely young man with curly hair and large deft hands. Unlike the rest of us, he always had a piece of rotting fruit or vegetable on his work station. Out of reach of the knives and other items, but always there. I remember once one of the instructors yelling at him to get rid of that damned piece of rotten fruit. He would but the next day, another one took its place. I think the others felt sorry for me because I was paired with him but I liked him a lot. He was dryly funny and open to everything. We became lovers after a fashion and finally I asked him the question: Why the rotting fruit? He smiled and said, “in its own way, it is so beautiful. And we all come to this you know.” I would sometimes see him lift a pear, an orange, a bell pepper and look at it from all angles before carefully replacing it on the table. After graduation and working under some excellent chefs, he went his way and I mine. I never forgot him. And no, it was not Tony Bourdain.
rotting fruit
in its season –
so must we all

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

You Don’t Know Me

I will be posting this on Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

You don’t know me
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

You don’t know me.
I have listened to men making crude comments
about women in the kitchens I have cooked.
I have been beaten, stabbed, raped and robbed.
I have lost people I love due to
Illness, murder, and suicide.
I have been in the depths of despair,
I have danced on rainbows of joy.
I have loved deeply and been loved in return.
I have eaten the food from a James Beard Award winner,
I have eaten beans and beans,
I have starved.
I watched my mother dying
and identified the body of a friend dead by suicide.
I walked out on being a chef after having won an award
and almost hung myself that same day
but was saved by my little needy cat.
A year later I watched that cat being stomped to death
after my home was invaded and she hissed at the invaders.
I have seen lonely days and nights
And I have been alone by choice
And I have chosen my few friends wisely.
I learned the languages of water, trees and stones
and the language of the French and Japanese kitchens,
the language of the heart,
the language of cicadas at night.
I have dwelt in darkness of spirit
and darkness of the sweet night.
I have scars on my body and soul.
I have wept and laughed.
You don’t know me.

copyright kanzensakura
Kanzen in the snow 1957

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.

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